True Story© The Big Payoff pt VIII


     I could be making better use of my time and abilities here…
In the months since I unsuccessfully robbed Santa Claus, I have exhibited the skills of a man who could sell commodities to market and internationally, courier goods across state lines, negotiate hostage situations and most importantly make a TON of fucking money.
It’s August now.  I been at this for 8 months, one client paying enough for all year every three months and I will see them in a couple of weeks.  His buddy has ramped up his ticket sales to the point where he needs me every three as well instead of the original six.  Between those, I am clearing $575k every 12 weeks.  I am pulling another $25k every month.  Throw in the as-negotiated HUGE money deal I am taking from that little European country that I cannot name at this point and I am looking at about $5mil cash on hand, even after paying off my house and revolving credit.


At this point, my lady still refuses to retire despite my attempts to get her to go ahead and do it.  We don’t spend any of her money and our lifestyle is still yet so modest that we’re barely touching any of mine other than the damned steel mill money.
I’ve been a good boy this year, I think I deserve a new car!
I logged into the Audi USA Website and pieced together my RS 7 and put in all my information to be contacted by a dealer.





36 hours later, my phone rang…

Me: “Hello…”
Dealer: “Hi, may I please speak with ‘Mr [redacted]?”
Me: “Sorry, he’s deceased.”
Dealer: “Oh wow, I’m so sorry, I was--…”
Me: “HAHAHAHA, chill out man.  Mr. [redacted] was my granddaddy.  My name is Phillip, call me Phlip if you want.”

[Phlip note: See what I did there?]

Dealer: “Oh, uhh…  Wow, haha.  Okay Mr. Phillip/Phlip, um…  I’m calling from your local Audi dealer and we’re following up on your inquiry on our website about the RS.”
Me: “Yep!”
Dealer: “I-I’m sorry?”
Me: “You selling me a car or not, homie?”
Dealer: “Well…  You have a pretty extensive build list here.”
Me: “Can you allocate me a car, or how long do I have to wait?”
Dealer: “Well…  We can get one with all your requested options within the week except for your requested matte paint.”
Me: “Yes you can.  And I ain't want that color anyway.”
Dealer: “I can what?”
Me: “You got a body shop?”
Dealer: “Of course we do.”
Me: “Cool, then have them hook it up for me.  I wanted the darker blue one anyway”
Dealer: “…”
Me: “Something wrong?”
Dealer: “No, this is just such an odd and immediate request.”
Me: “Then get your best man on top of it, go to the PPG shop and get the matte clearcoat and paint my car.”
Dealer: “But--…”
Me: “Hmm?”
Dealer: “A full color change?”
Me: “Yep”
Dealer: “I don’t think that can be rolled into the financing of the car?”
Me: “Who finances a $155 thousand dollar car?”
Dealer: *audibly swallows* “Are you saying that you will pay in--…”
Me: “In. Full…  On delivery.”
Dealer: “Well, what about--…”
Me: “I’ll be by in an hour with 20% so your sales manager doesn’t shit his pants.”
Dealer: “This is easily the strangest thing I have encountered since I’ve been here.”
Me: “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be difficult with you, I just didn’t need you to ‘salesperson’ me.”

     An hour later, I had finally bothered myself with putting pants on and leaving the house.  I drove over to the dealership with 31 neatly-wrapped $1000 bands, walked in and asked for my salesman.  He was a bit intimidated – and lord knows why since I am only 5’8” – by the situation in total.  I had to sign some sale paperwork and provide my license information.  No credit app was necessary, but the necessary ink-spillage for the US PATRIOT act is still in play.  Whatever, I will be fine.
Ever the cheap ass, I leaned on the salesman to lean on his sales manager, to lean on the MAINTENANCE manager to include the color change at no additional cost.  It was less of a headache than I expected it would be, but when you spend that kind of dough on a car, the world apparently becomes your own personal orgy.
The messed up thing about orgies, though, is that someone is GUARANTEED to get fucked.

     I dropped the deposit on my car on Tuesday.  It was at the dealership on Thursday (commendable turnaround, no?), painted and ready for me on the following Monday.
I picked it up after I dropped Ava off at school and wowed ALL of her little friends when I picked her up in “Ava’s daddy’s cool racecar” as they so lovingly called it.
Since I was in a giant space rocket, my next stop was my lady’s school, where the middle schoolers and high schoolers next door fawned over it as well.

Mimi: “Just had to, huh?”
Me: “What?”
Mimi: “Had to have it.”
Me: “I told you I was getting this when we won the lottery.”
Mimi: “We didn’t win the lottery”
Me: “We kinda did though.”
Mimi: “Jackass”
Me: “Love you too.  What color you want?”
Mimi: “I don’t.”
Me: “We’ll talk when you get home.”

     Two more Mondays passed.  I was living my best life, driving a car I SWORE I would own as soon as I had the capital means to do so and loving every second of it.
Did you know that when you spend a certain amount of cash that automatically triggers the feds and the IRS and when they cannot immediately – basically automatically – jibe it with your income and known assets, they have questions?
At this point, I don’t know what that exact amount is, but I am betting that it is either $31,000, $124,000 or $155,000.
“How do YOU know?” you ask?
The swat team tumbling across my front yard, combined with these burly motherfuckers beating on my front door while Bruiser went nuts is all the indication I might need.

This orgy ain't fun no more.




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