Wednesday, March 12, 2008

The Italian Job

I am proud to report that on Tuesday my best friend G-money and I went on a little adventure of sorts. It had been a while since our last. His bachelor party to be exact.

So, G-money used to date this girl who we shall call . . . . . . . The Whore. They met in college, sparks flew, [Insert finger in mouth now] and blah blah blah. Well, six years went by, they were engaged, and things were seemingly pleasant and tranquil, but unbeknownst to my boy G, The Whore had been mischievously devising the most evil and sinister plan known to mankind. [insert villainous laugh] She claimed to be taking on baby sitting gigs for friends, as a front for her prostitution ring. Over time, however, G-money became suspicious of his partner’s irregularly late hours, lack of deposits, and general disdain for children. The Whore was getting sloppy and G-money’s curiosity began to get the better of him.

One stormy night, G-money decided to go to the house where The Whore claimed to be looking after little snot-faced life suckers, and guess what he saw?. . . . . . . . . . . .Nothing! That’s right, he found nothing. No cars, no kids, not even a damn light on in the house. No baked cookies, no toys on the lawn, and no fingerprints anywhere. (G-money is very thorough) Thinking perhaps that The Whore may have taken the children out for ice cream, or to the nearest overpass, he decided to come back later, but not before driving around to the houses of known accomplices. Long story short, he found the Ho-bag’s car at some dude’s house, while she was inside giving him the red light special. He later confronted her, only to find out that she didn’t care that he knew about her infidelity. She continued her slut dealings, quite openly mind you, until their lease had ended. When the time came, I helped him move into his new bachelor pad, and for months he ate pizza and slept on his couch with a PlayStation controller tightly in his grasp.

G-money went on to become very successful at his job, eventually found the woman of his dreams, and recently married her. I was the best man at his wedding, but I’ll have to tell you about that some other time. For now, you should know that My buddy cosigned on a car purchase with The Whore, that she kept after their separation, but conveniently stopped making payments on. He found this out when bad people contacted him about his credit, wanting over 6 months worth of payments. The Whore had disappeared, moving her operations north and was exploiting the fact that G-money was a co-signer. He not only had to bring the car current, but was also forced to continue making payments for the next two years. That is correct, this bitch drove HIS shit around for two years, without so much as sending a thank you card, or a mint.

Eventually, the current wife had seen enough and encouraged forced her man to hire a detective to find his free loading ho-face ex girlfriend. The first one came up with nada, but the second, a former CIA and FBI operative, finally discovered the Tramp’s whereabouts. That brings us to a phone call I received three days ago:

“Brown, I need you to take off tomorrow . . . . . . I found her”, he said excitedly.

“What? Shut the fuck up! Dude, I need more notice than that, but I’ll see what I can do. What am I taking off for?” I asked.

“Well, my Private Investigator found out where The Whore works and I’m driving there to get my shit. I need you for protection . . . . . . . . and to drive it back. She’s a little over two hours away”

“Say no more, I’ll meet you at your place tomorrow morning. Have some snacks ready . . . . .She’ll never know what hit her! Wait, do I need to bring camouflage and face paint?”

“Ha, ha . . . that would be funny, but no. Your browness should do just fine.”

“Word, just checking”

This brings us to Tuesday. I met G-money at his mansion and after my short briefing on our stealth mission, dubbed “Operation: I’m Taking My Shit Back Bitch”, we began our long drive through Maryland to Delaware to meet the Detective and the gun-toting tow truck guy. After meeting The Detective at the most ghetto Dunkin Donuts in North America, we slipped him an envelope with unmarked bills, and planned the reconnaissance phase of our plan. We were then escorted to the insertion point (The Whore's work) to get a visual on our objective. There she was. The Jeep Grand Cherokee was snugly parked between two cars on the far end of a private parking lot. No hostiles were in sight, but the position of the jeep had me concerned as to whether or not it could even be retrieved. Like ninjas in the night, we doubled back to the ghetto Dunkin Donuts and waited for Jimmy, our no-nonsense, Hell's Angel, towing guru. When Jimmy and his tattoos arrived, we briefed him on the situation and he assured us that after 30 years as a repot man, he could tow anything from anywhere. I was inclined to believe him and not just because he had a bald head and a white goatee, but because of the twinkle in his one real eye.

Jimmy followed us, and when we arrived, we let him loose like you would a pair of angry Rottweilers on a burglar. The crazy bastard was right, with a surgeon's preciseness he worked his car ganking skills like a seasoned vet. It was a pleasure watching him work. Within minutes he had secured our objective, but his inconspicuous vehicle had alerted the enemy to his presence. The owner of the company to where the Whore worked, had come out to question the activities that were taking place on his "private property". Because this was no ordinary repot, Jimmy didn't have legal documents justifying the repossession, so he gave us the signal (we chose a double earlobe tug and flip of his eye patch) and G-money and I sprung from our hideout, running across the lot with documents in hand. After a few questions were answered, we were given the green light to continue our mission. We could see The Whore from the glass doors of the lobby, where she hid, refusing to come out, or to sign the power of attorney. No matter, having seen how fat she had become and having seen the expression on her face when she saw us, we'd gotten everything we'd come for.

Shortly after the anti-climactic event, we had the car taken to the nearest Jeep dealership, where G-money was financially raped for a new key to be made. To calm him down, I told him I was positive that the key had to be crafted by a Russian engineer using remnants of a NASA satellite. Once the key making phase had been completed, we had to disinfect the car, which The Whore left in disgusting conditions, and meet his over-priced lawyer on the way out of the projects back to the lovely suburbs of D.C. A few hours later, our operation was finally complete. We debriefed over dinner and a few beers, laughing about the day's events and imagining when our next adventure would arise.

4 comments:

Ginormous Boobs said...

That is an awesome story. Next time you go chasin down whores, give me a ring so I can go with you.

Mr. Poopie said...

Boobs - you'll be the first one I call girl!

Mike said...

Ah yes, ex's, cosigns, they don't pay, we get fucked. Happy to hear someone finally stuck it to them.

G Money said...

You are the Man, I am glad that you could be part of that adventure. What a day....forever remembered as The Italian Job