True Story©... The Big payoff pt VI

     You know what, Phlip?  This is what the fuck you deserve.  You had three customers set to make you a million and a half dollars every six months, but you had to break all kinds of international laws and shit being greedy.

     Oh wait!  I’m home, I’m safe and I have one month to figure out how to get my fucking bag back from those crazy-fuck European governmental gangster types.  I’m home, I am safe and I am sitting on enough cash on hand to not EVER have to work again in my life, considering that the only bills I have are “consumption” ones; utilities/food/etc…

     But I am also fucking stupid…
So here I am, in the FBI Field office trying to explain how I was robbed for a bag of coal by the government thugs of some small eastern European country that I could not name because I was not able to see out of the van I was riding in.

Agent: “Okay, so help me understand the damages these people have done to you.  You say they took WHAT from you?”
Me: “A bag of coal.”
Agent: “I—I’m sorry.  You said coal?”
Me: “Yes, like the shit you burn in your fireplace back in the days”
Agent: “Do you have a fireplace”
Me: “No--…  Never mind if I have a fireplace, what about what they stole from me?!!?”
Agent: “And where did you get the coal from?”
Me: “I got it from Santa Claus.”

I see now this wasn’t going to go quite the way I thought it would go.  He goes to the door of his office and brings in two other guys in the agency, he wants THEM to hear this as I was explaining it.

Agent: “Okay, I need you to explain this to us again.”
Me: “They contacted me about my coal, offered to send me a private jet to fly me out to them.  Once they got me there, they waited until I was asleep to get me away from the bag, then got me FAR away from it and put rifles in my face telling me to go the fuck home or be killed.”
Agent: “Now back to this Santa Claus thing.  Normally he brings kids a lump of coal if they’ve been bad.  What the hell could have done to get a whole BAG of coal?”
Me: “I was trying to rob him.”
Agents (all three): *boisterous laughter*
Me: “Look, this shit ain’t funny man, can y’all help me or not?”
Agent: “Well…  No.”
Me: “Why not?”
Agent: “Well first of all, Santa Claus is not real.  Second, you apparently got this bag in the commission of a felony and lastly, you can’t properly identify who it is that has your property – which by the way you cannot prove ownership of – so no…  we can’t help you.  Are we done here or do you want to incriminate yourself any further?”
I understood precisely what he was getting at and used that as my cue to take this one as a loss.
Me: “No sir, I will go now”
Agent: “Good day, sir.  Stay off that naughty list this year.”

I gave the three of them the finger as I walked up the hall to the exit and back to my car.   

     Once in the car, I realized that my phone had 63 missed calls from that international number that got me into this shit and some voicemails one would only infer came from them as well.  Well I don’t check voicemail until I get tired of looking at the notification because everyone knows to text me for fastest responses.  I was still stewing about the apparent loss of my new livelihood and the helplessness that I was facing without the FBI even willing to try to help.  Then I realized how dumb it was to even ask them considering what I was doing anyway.

     I’m on I-85 driving home, cruise control set to 73mph in a 70 zone.  Tags clean, radio was up loud but no one cares about that on the highway anyway.  Still, a silver Dodge Charger storms up on me and blue lights me anyway.
Son. Of. A. BITCH!
Can this day get any worse?  I grab my license and registration to have them ready when the trooper gets to my window.  I put the window down and my hands on the wheel because I don’t want to become a hashtag or have anyone kneeling during the national anthem over me or anything.  This motherfucker sure is taking a long-ass time to come to the car.  I wish he would hurry up because I gotta shit.  Finally he arrives…

Trooper: “Step out of the car please, sir.”
Me: “I have my license and registration here, sir.  Why do I need to get out of the--…”
Trooper: “GET OUT OF THE CAR.”
Me: “You don’t sound like you’re from North Carol--…  Shit!”

Right, it was the fucking goons who helped jux me for my coal bag.  It was if “can this day get any worse?” was a challenge to the powers that be.  Pistol to my kidneys, I was escorted to the back seat of my own damn ride these two smelly gentlemen got in the front seats and drove off, leaving the State Trooper’s car running and lights blaring and all.
Once on the highway, my phone rings again.  It was in the front seat with the goons, though.  It was the energy minister…

Minister: “We had a deal.”
Me: “We actually had two deals, you broke one of them.”
Minister: “You know what I mean!”
Me: “Yeah, and then we had a deal for me to get on a plane and come the fuck home or I would die.”
Minister: “You were supposed to give me coal!”
Me: “No, I was supposed to sell you coal, that was the first deal we had.”
Me: “Shit, I don’t know!  I don’t even know where it is!”
Minister: “It is right where you left it.”
Me: “See, ‘left it’ is totally subjective and dependent on how you see it.”
Minister: “I see it as this my bag now, but somehow as soon as you were gone the bag went empty and would not refill.”
Me: (under my breath) “Mother Fucking Santa…”
Minister: “What?”
Me: “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”
Minister: “Well you’re coming back here.”
Me: “But I don’t wanna die!”
Minister: “You’ll live as long as this bag makes coal again.”
Me: “But--…”
Minister: “BUT WHAT?!!?”
Me: “I NEED to come home, man.  You don’t want it with my lady and I surer than fuck don’t either.”
Minister: “Well…  You work for us now.”
Me: “What the fuck?”
Minister: “You come to us every month and stay until our supplies are replenished and then you go home to your terrorist wife.”
Me: “Watch your fucking language you sweaty bastard.”
Minister: “You go home to your wife and come back to us and we refuel.”
Me: “How much you paying?”
Minister: “You live.”
Me: “Nope, I need to speak to my union representative.”
Minister: “What?”
Me: “Bitch, you paying my rates or I ain’t for it.”
Minister: “We could still kill you.”
Me: “And then sit there with a forever empty bag?  Psssht.”
Minister: “grrr…”
Me: “Ball’s in your court homie.  You bring me in, pay me my asking price and let me go home WITH the bag every time, or--…”
Me: “Or, you can kill me and nobody gets the coal.”
Minister: “You drive a very hard bargain.”
Me: “’fuck I look like, I ain’t about to let you motherfuckers Jesse Pinkman me and hold me as your slave to cook meth and shit with my only payment being you letting me live.”
Minister: “What?”
Me: “See, it this show called Breaking Bad.  What you’re trying to do here made me think that you’d CLEARLY heard of and watched--…”
Minister: “SHUT UP!!!”
Me: “Relax, dude…  Maybe you need to partake of some of those fine-ass women I couldn’t touch when I was over there.”
Minister: “I would kill you if I didn’t need you.”

That was probably the worst thing he could have told me…

     Yes, I am in a shitty spot because I don’t wanna die.  I am also in the space of knowing that I need to play along if I want to be allowed to continue to make money, especially knowing that this man won’t kill me.  Whoever said Black hostages make bad bargaining chips could not have seen THIS shit coming.

     I don’t have to be in this spot.  Robbing Santa Claus was bad.  Monetizing what should have been a punishment for robbing Santa Claus was a double down.  Buttfucking international trade rules was probably the worst of the three.

I’m in too damn deep to back out of it now.


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