The Big Payoff pt XII


“You do NOT want to hear the punchline to that joke…”
I TRIED to warn that asshole.


     Standing in the former parking lot of a months-ago-razed factory/former department store.
Watching a group of crazy non-agent SWAT team run off with my coal bag, willfully unaware that it won’t produce without me.
The federal agents selected to bail me OUT of this shit in their car and leaving me to my own.
I am pretty much standing here holding my dick.

How did they pull this shit off at 4:23 in the afternoon?  No time for that, I need to get in my car and cry like a little bitch with a skinned knee figure out my next moves.  I know I am PROBABLY going to receive two phonecalls behind this shit.  Or one phonecall and a visit.  Or no phonecalls and two visits.  Or the SWAT team is coming to my house next.
FUCK!!!  Coming to my house?  I don’t need that.  I called Mimi and sent her some money via cashapp and told her to get a room until I tell her home is safe to return to.


All the way home, I expected that my phone would ring from the Euros first, since I was busy missing their appointment time while I was getting robbed setting them up to be arrested and crucified before a UN council.  Eerily, the phone did not ring the whole time home.
Wait, I was closer to the house, the drive was only 9 minutes.
I was home packing my stuff and getting Bruiser to my mom’s, since I didn’t know how long I might be away from home .  Running out of the house with my duffel over one shoulder and him under the other arm, we BOTH get snatched and tossed into a van.

Euro: “Holiday time?”
Me: “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, so I guess there is that--…”
Euro: “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!!?”
Me: “Uhh…”
Euro: “We had an appointment.  You’re late.”
Me: “I also used to have a magic bag of coal.  Anything else past-tense you wanna talk about right now?”
Euro: “We don’t have time for this!”
Me: “No time for Right Guard either.”
Euro: “What?!”
Me: “Nothing.”
Euro: “Where is our bag?”
Me: “First off, it’s MY bag and I don’t know.”
Euro: “What do you mean you don’t know?”
Me: “Now we’re asking the questions that matter, and stop yelling, you’re scaring my buddy here.”
Euro: “Buddy?”
Me: “Bruiser…  My dog, he is my little buddy.”
Euro: “Whatever, where is the coal?”
Me: “Those weren’t YOUR guys?”
Euro: “What guys?”
Me: “Ooooohhh…  I see now, I know exactly where the bag is now.”


We were still not far from the house, I instructed him to turn right onto I-85 and go through back to I-40W and be prepared for a long ride to Arkansas if he wanted to talk about that bag.

     A hair over three hours into the trip, approaching the Tennessee border, my phone rings…

Me: “Hello--…”
Caller: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!!?”
Me: “Good afternoon and I love you too!”
Caller: “No time for your bullshit, what is this bag?”
Me: “You’re my eyes on this, you’d be a better judge of what is in YOUR hands than I, considering the nature of how a phone call works.”
Caller: “I am not going to ask you again, why won’t the GOT damn bag work?!”
Me: “I told you about that, didn’t I?”
Caller: “No, you said that I don’t want to hear the punchline of a joke or some shit like that.”
Me: “Metaphors…”
Caller: “Getting REAL impatient with you.  If my wife and I don’t fuck at least three models on Wednesday, you and I are--…”
Me: “What did I tell you about that?”
Caller: “Eat my ass!”
Me: “Don’t you and your wife hire someone for that?”
Caller: “Fuck you, pal!”
Me: “So the ‘punchline’ is that the bag don’t work without me.”
Caller: “So make it work.”
Me: “I can’t from here.”
Caller: “Well I suggest you GET here, or discuss it with my SWAT team.”
Me: “You have a team of LARP players who wanted to say they did Call of Duty in real life.  You need me.”
Caller: “I DON’T need you.”
Me: “Well apparently you can’t bust a nut without your left knee in a bear trap while a Russian hooker licks the left fold of your batty crease and a third pees on your wife.”
Caller: “Where do you come up with this shit?”
Me: “The Steele Dossier?”
Caller: “Haha--…  WAIT!”
Me: “Nah, homie, we were just having a good laugh.  Let’s stay on that!”
Caller: “Not until you get here and get me some coal!”
Me: “Fine, I will see you in about 5 hours.”
Caller: “Good boy, I thought so.”

He is going to regret that “good boy” shit soon enough.

     The time I bought with him on the phone gave me enough time to formulate a plan.  The Euros were worth more money to me and had more firepower than a team of fat blokes who happened to be able to afford a Bushmaster XM rifle and live out their daddy’s dream of tumbling around in camouflage making things go “pew pew!”  I would simply play both sides against each other and let shit fall where it would.

     Seemed harmless enough, right?

RIGHT?!!?

     Nope™!  I get to Arkansas, the Euros got thirsty and rushed in to secure the bag with no semblance of a plan.  These motherfuckers are shooting it out like they were back in Bosnia vs Herzgovina and shit.  I’m watching, me and Bruiser, from the safety of the back of the van.  Since everyone I THINK I should be concerned with is slugging shit out in front of me over a bag I am PRAYING gets riddled with holes in the crossfire, I hadn’t noticed someone from a THIRD faction having made off with the van while the other assholes fought over a bag that would ASSUREDLY need my input sooner than later.
I turned to the front of the van to investigate what was going on, asking “Hey, where the fuck are you tak--…” just in time to be interrupted by getting knocked the ENTIRE fuck out cold.

     I sat up in a cold room, no clue where I was or how long I was out.  Groggy like I had been sedated AFTER being knocked out cold.  Something ain’t right here.
“Yo… what day is it, where am I?” I asked.

     The only response I got was the sound of the slide of every semi in the room pulled back, the hammer of every revolver cocking and the racking of at LEAST seven shotguns, all in this odd concert.
Fearful not only for my life, but for how painful the loss of it would be, I shit my pants just before I fainted again.

When I came to--…
WAIT!
I can illustrate this better with a flashback…

     Y’all remember in spring 2017, I told y'all about how I ravaged two consecutive international Supervillain conventions?
[Phlip note: Hi Liza!]
Well apparently dopeman Santa was none too pleased with the fact that I had exposed his offseason dealings AND had the nuts to catch him slipping in the drive thru last Christmas.

     When I came to, I was in a cold-ass arena, still on a gurney and not even in any kind of comfortable bedding or anything.  Still wearing the same shit I had on when I arrived to work for the Europeans two days earlier.

I sat up.  Santa was sitting on a throne not dissimilar from what you see Mall Santas sitting on, surrounded by the administrators and organizers of the convention last year.
The whole crowd rose to their feet and cheered, a video played on the screen to my left.  On it was a compilation of EVERY bad thing that had happened to me as a result of this fucking coal bag.  The kidnappings, the beatdowns, the robberies, the abuse by federal officials, the sniveling for my life, up to and including a slow-motion of me shitting my pants and falling out.  The screen fades to black and comes back up with a familiar old image:


("be good for goodness sake")

Fuck you, Santa...  Fuck you indeed.
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