:: You're in great peril. ::

Monday, July 07, 2003

That guy sitting on the beach doesn't like you.

You don't know it yet - hell, you've never met, seen, or even heard of him before, and right now he's beyond even your peripheral field of vision, so there's no chance to see the mordant glare or other myriad body language cues that scream out h-a-t-e like one of those ol'skool Speak n' Spells, even to the most oblivious of social creatures - but you're private enemy #1 in his book, and he's going to stop at very little (which luckily includes but is not limited to: murder, arson, and kidnapping - he loathes you, but he's got a family to think about and that's some pretty heinous stuff) to ruin your reputation. He wants to put the hurt on bad, and right now, by lounging around, slamming back mai-tais and cuddling with that boy-who-is-most-definately-not-your-wife-and-looks-suspiciously-like-your-housekeeper's-underage-son-and-whoops-he's-completely-nude you're giving him all the ammunition he needs to mount a devastating smear campaign. All he needs to do is sweet-talk the clerk at the resort's front desk out of a little 411 (what room? under what name is he registered? does he like movies with gladiators in them?), snap a few photos of you and your cherubic little companion in some compromising position (of which, as you well know, there has been no shortage - you came here to party hard and that's just what you've done) and your career as Scranton's premier nü-German minimalist techno DJ is permanently kaput.

What options do you have? The following is a simple, 7-step plan I've outlined to extricate you from this mess. Don't thank me, I still owe you big from back in Uruguay, just hop to it.

1) Bribe like you've never bribed before. Remember that $12,000 you hid away from Mrs. Scranton's-premier-nü-German-minimalist-techno-DJ so you could hit the tables hard when you went to Vegas for Rutger's bachelor party? It's history. You made the riskiest bet of your life in bringing Julio down here and you lost big. Time to pay up. The devaluation of the bhat over the past few months has been astounding; some of the great economic thinkers of our generation are currently debating as to the precise confluence of factors that precipitated what's amounted to nothing less than a full-fledged fiscal crisis for Shinawatra and his administration. That this monetary debacle will likely unhinge the region's already precarious financial straits, destabilizing this erstwhile "Asian Tiger" (a xenophobically-colored euphemism if there ever was one), as well as the fact that the subsequent IMF bailout could make or break the careers of countless bureaucrats and politicians worldwide are of no consequence to you. All you need be concerned about is that, given the extremely favorable exchange rate, the 12 grand you have saved up you could almost buy you this hotel outright (but it's kind of hard to deny ever visiting a resort when you own it, so forget that idea). Drop every cent buying the staff's silence. Tell them you're coming back in six months, and if they keep quiet you'll give them the same sum when you return. Don't worry about reneging on the deal - every bit of information you gave them is fake, from the forged passport to the hilariously phony pseudonym (Lionel McWigginson, IV). You just need to keep them quiet until Mr. Wears-his-vendetta-on-his-sleeve skips town.

2) 86 Julio. Don't insult me, or yourself for that matter, by pulling that true love shtick. You go through a sexual conquest fortnightly; they're like cheap Bic razor blades (another subject on which you're an expert, eh?) to you: dull and disposable. Most of the time, you keep it (relatively) clean: the meter maid, the pharmacist, and the John Stamos affairs would end your marriage, but you'd bounce back. This fling with J-love is suicide. Even if you manage to get back to the states without being seen together, this kid is a ticking time bomb. He's already proven about as tight-lipped as a drunk gossip columnist: on the outbound flight he was spilling his guts, unprompted, about his mom's drinking and kleptomania (no wonder you've noticed missing bullion from the smelting plant lately - she's fired). If you let him live, he's going to be found by you-know-who, he's going to be questioned, and he's going to tell everything. So it's settled. I don't care how you do it, just do it. I can attest that you're experienced in this regard so I'll leave it in your hands. The less I know the better.

3) Cement your alibi. You told her you were in Guangzhou, you even went so far as to book a hotel there and have your calls forwarded. That was a smart move, but while it may fool your wife (let's be honest, she's a warm, caring spouse and one of the best amateur skeet shooters in the country, but she's no Columbo) it's not going to hold water with the feds if they come knocking on your door looking for a certain missing person last seen with you at the county fair. You need something airtight. When you've taken care of the first two steps, make sure you aren't being followed, charter a plane and high-tail it out of there. I've arranged a gig at "Yin" tomorrow night - don't thank me, it was easy: it seems your fame precedes you. Make sure to give a few interviews and sign some autographs. The more publicity the better.

4) Erase the remaining evidence. Suffice it to say this is where it gets a bit tricky. You only got those "Julio 4ever" tattoos to get him in the sack, all the while thinking you'd have them removed during the layover in Guam, but now that's not an option. You are a fully trained and licensed cosmetic surgeon, right? Good - one less person to get involved. I've arranged for a makeshift...

Oh, sorry, got a little carried away there. What I meant to say was, "Monday nights are boring".

Posted by morland @ 09:32 PM

- Post a comment -

« Just say blow | Main | Mob #4 »