You- Drummed out of the Navy, taking residence in the nearest bottle. Apparently 'misplacing' a submarine falls under dereliction of duty nowadays. Not that sleeping with the wife of a superior officer didn't help to grease the rails any.
Me- On my third identity in as many years. On the run from several prominent families in the 'import/export business'. As it turned out, there's a limit to how creative they like their accounting. You can't fault their fairness though: Double what was 'misplaced' or find out firsthand the current state of concrete technology.
Place- Somewhere in the Keys on a collection of balsa-wood scraps, chewing gum and tinfoil masquerading as a pleasure boat for unsuspecting tourists.
It's a special occasion, noted by the fact you're only two sheets to the wind. The score we've been waiting for. The one that'll make me square with The Families and net you enough cash to start over.
Seems some Trump starter kit caught the Robert Evans bug and wants to get into the movie business, complete with a doe-eyed B-Movie starlet. (To be fair, she looked more like a D or small C, but I digress.)
Problem is, it's hard to roll out the casting couch when the wife is always nearby, especially in a Community Property state.
So when the Waring Hudsucker lookalike suggests that an 'accident' befall the little woman, well...we're not exactly enthusiastic, but the number of zeroes he offers does a good job of easing our minds.
So we get started. A few coats of paint and a generous amount of Febreze hide the most obvious flaws. To sell the story that the cruise is legit, we reel in some other suckers. Some corn-fed ditz fresh off the truck and a teaching aide from the local community college decide to come along. Oh yeah, Miss B-Movie is along for the ride. "To avoid suspicion", the old man says. I don't know, I'm not in the habit of plotting a murder.
The plan is simple, so he says. We set out, and after a hour and a half, we feign engine trouble [no problem]. While everyone looks below deck to offer their expert opinion, the old man pretends to be seasick and heads for the stern, wife in tow.
Shove-Shove, Splash-Splash, Ka-Ching Ka-Ching.
We never count on the engine actually breaking down, or the freak tropical storm that nearly drowns all of us, or the postage stamp sized clod of dirt and coconut trees that is our current address.
I'd laugh if it wasn't so formulaic.
Post a Comment