One of my longest-running work relationships is with my attorney, Max. We met when he was doing pro bono representation for a dangerous asshole that jumped a Baja Bug into a shopping mall fountain, and I was wearing handcuffs and prison jumpers. He managed to get my sentence reduced to community service, which I gladly spent repairing the elementary school bus fleet - you wouldn’t believe how much horsepower the factory leaves on the table with those fuckers - and a beautiful partnership was born.
Years later, I regularly drop in to his office whenever I’m downtown. Not just to get updates on my many ongoing legal troubles, but also to just see how my old buddy is doing. I caught him on a bad day that time. He wanted me to issue the following disclaimer before I continue the story: none of this story should be represented as an admission of negligence or even truth, and that legal action cannot be brought against me because I am legally a foreign national of a seafaring principality incorporated on an abandoned World War II gunnery platform that doesn’t have to pay taxes.
My magazine, Bad Cars Monthly, had gone a little bit over its budget, and pissed off the landlord because we hadn’t paid him a single red cent for like two years while doing burnouts in his parking lot. The other tenants finally had enough and decided that their “sleep clinic” couldn’t tolerate a little “nonstop nitrous doughnuts from 9:30 to about 2:30 every day.” In response, the landlord was bringing a suit against us, and so as part of discovery, Max wanted me to drop by the office with all those boxes of financial records I had lying around. Bills of sale, insurance claims, unpaid property tax notices, that kind of thing.
As Max was feeding my life’s paperwork into the shredder, there came a door knock at his office. I’d recognize it anywhere, and so did Max: the Federales. It seemed my landlord had some favours owed to him after bribing immigration authorities for decades, and wanted to make sure we didn’t do anything incredibly illegal like destroy evidence. Max told me to figure out how to “shred faster” while he tried to stall them for time.
Now, a normal man would be troubled by this request. After all, the average citizen in today’s opulent first-world society is so soft, so ruined by our failing culture that they don’t even think to carry around a small two-stroke engine with them at all times. Not I - not only did I have a little clone Honda in my suitcase, but I had even brought a tiny squirt bottle of nitromethane with me in case I ran out of starter fluid in any of the review cars. This would be cake itself to hook up to the shredder.
Well, I sure did destroy those records, but Max ended up having to run his practice out of the back of his Lincoln Town Car for a few months until his landlord was able to replace all the burned-out drywall and studs. A real freak accident, we explained, could have happened to anyone.
I wish there was an entire book like this
Ginger, she/her
Soykaf drinker, RMS fangirl, and SUPER GAY
don't follow me if your name is James
SourPls
Follow on Tumblr
© 2011–2019 Powered by Tumblr