by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 30, 2011 | This & That
Willy was a liar.
Not a teller of tall tales, not a stretcher of the truth, but a pathological liar. Whether swearing that his Uncle Doug played cowbell on Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ or assuring an unsuspecting child that one plus one equals purple, weaving extravagant falsehoods came as naturally to the forty six year old Nobel laureate/nuclear physicist/bratwurst-eating champion as breathing.
So it was that Willy found himself speaking with a Real Estate agent one late autumn morning, outlining his very specific criteria for the home he intended to purchase.
“The community must be horse-friendly,” Willy informed the agent. “Did I tell you Starchaser showed at Belmont last year? Would have won if he didn’t come up lame half a length from the tape.”
Harris Burfect struggled to keep up, scribbling in the margins of a notepad already overwhelmed with his chicken-scratch. A cynic by nature, Harris had taken the appointment on the off chance that the Danny DeVito look-alike was legit. He’d learned his lesson about prematurely blowing off prospects as flakes the hard way.
“And no wells,” Willy continued. “Arsenic poisoning claimed his sire at the ranch I used to own in Montana.”
“We’ll certainly have the property inspected for hazar-”
“Wasn’t the well itself that did him in,” Willy insisted, waving off the agent’s placation. “It was old man Monticore. He was always jealous of my stallions, as he was right to be. He couldn’t raise a barn in Amish country, let alone a thoroughbred.”
“Autopsy was ruled inconclusive,” he continued, making air quotes with his sausage fingers. “But he had everyone from the coroner to the constable in his hip pocket. Those thieves had been trying to run me out of that two-bit town ever since I struck oil in the summer of two thousand and two. Greedy pigs would stop at nothing to get me off that claim.”
Harris shook out the cramp in his hand and turned to a new page. Words such as ‘ranch’ and ‘oil’ had dollar bills dancing in his mind’s eye despite his swirling doubts.
“Okay, no wells,” he yielded, eager to steer the conversation back on course. “You okay with septic systems? Most horse properties pre-date the sewer, and not too many ranchers around here have bothered to take on the expense of linking up to it.”
“Well that simply won’t do,” Willy replied. “Septic systems are a biological nightmare. Did you know that the leech field of a typical alternative waste disposal system contains more radioactive residue than a centrifuge that has processed atomic material within the past twenty four hours?”
“I’m not familiar with-”
“It’s true,” Willy assured him. “Over the years, I’ve seen far more extra fingers and missing teeth in remote villages where such waste systems are used than I did during my humanitarian mission to Chernobyl back in ninety eight.”
“Fascinating,” Harris admitted, gawking at the vaguely unhealthy-looking man across the table from him. “How long were you there?”
“Only about six months,” Willy responded. “I wanted to stay, but the intel I’d gathered was deemed too urgent by the powers that be. In hindsight, it was for the best that they pulled me out when they did. Started noticing these … growths.”
Willy rubbed a stooped shoulder as he stared off into the infinity through glassy, brown eyes.
“Powers that be,” Harris wondered. “You mean like CIA?”
Willy pulled back from wherever he’d gone and looked straight at the agent, winking.
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
“Got it, moving on,” Harris allowed. “Have you spoken with a lender about your financing options yet?”
He turned his head to follow the scent of rosemary that passed by on a tray, instantly regretting his own order. He found a dismissive smile on his client’s ruddy face when he turned back.
“I’ll be paying cash,” Willy informed Harris, signalling the agent closer.
Harris leaned across the table to steal a glance at the clipped wad of cash Willy produced from the front pocket of his one size too small, navy blue coat.
“Not that I keep all of my money in greenbacks,” Willy assured him, fiddling with the gold chain around his neck. “If you don’t think ten million will get it done, I’ll prep my assistant to move some bullion. Or maybe a couple of the Rembradts.”
“Very good,” Harris gulped, picturing a humorless courier walking into the title company with an attache case handcuffed to his wrist. His internal crazy alarm had moved to DEFCON-3, but he was willing to play out the string. He’d already invested this much time.
“So when do you want to start looking?”
“Straight away,” Willy answered, checking his watch as he stood. “As soon as I get back from the Maldives.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have a B-2 Spirit to catch.”
Harris made a move for his wallet.
“Please,” Willy said, staying the agent’s arm with his hand. “You insult me.”
He peeled a few bills from his roll and dropped them on the table.
“Have a productive trip, Mr. Stiffu,” Harris said as he extended his hand.
“Can’t shake,” Willy lamented, tossing him a flippant two-finger salute instead. “My attorneys advise it could potentially void the insurance policy.”
“We’ll be in touch. Be ready.”
With that, the squat, little enigma of a man turned on his heel and strolled out of the cafe, stopping once to tell an older couple studying a menu that the eggs benedict were excellent today.
A bemused grin spread across the agent’s face. He was still smiling when the waitress came by to clear the two plates of half-eaten pancakes and settle the check. Who knew? If even a fraction of what he’d been told was true, there might be a sale somewhere in the middle of it yet. Stranger things had happened.
“Sir?”
Harris didn’t hear her as he polished off the last lukewarm swallow of coffee. He was preoccupied with the ornate insignia stamped across the saucer upon which the dainty cup had been resting.
“Sir?”
Monticore Fine China.
“Son of a bitch,” Harris breathed.
“Sir,” the waitress said again, louder.
Harris looked up at the fresh-faced server.
“What am I supposed to do with this,” she asked, waving a stack of Monopoly money hidden beneath a one dollar bill. “Buy Park Place?”
“Sucker’s play,” Harris sighed, reaching for his wallet for the second time in five minutes. “Nobody lands on Boardwalk.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 21, 2011 | This & That
Paradise Valley, AZ – Citing a lack of viable leads, local Real Estate giant, Kraken Realty has announced the cancellation of its annual ‘Strike Out Gout!’ charity event. A Valley institution since 1992, the popular fundraiser has been a bright spot in the fight against advanced podiatric disease for nearly two decades.
“It’s with great regret that I inform the residents of our great community that ‘Strike Out Gout’ has bowled its last frame,” Kraken marketing director Judd GiMente told reporters. “We thank everyone who has joined us in standing up to foot disease these past nineteen years, but all good publicity stunts must come to an end.”
Pressed for further explanation, GiMente acknowledged that underwhelming lead generation numbers factored heavily into the decision to abandon an event which raises tens of dollars each year.
“Look,” GiMente stated candidly. “At the end of the day, we are in the sales business, not the ‘let’s go blow a Saturday at the bowling alley’ business. If we can’t turn a little goodwill into some cold, hard dollars and cents, someone else can pick up the anti-microbial torch in the fight against fungus.”
Having expanded the event’s focus in recent years to include those burdened with bunions and corns resembling b-list celebrities, the news comes as a crushing blow to many suffering from embarrassing foot maladies.
“Medicare won’t cover my experimental treatment,” Scottsdale resident Dorothy Swellen lamented, tormented by a growth on her big toe that looks like Bea Arthur. “Without the help of ‘SOG,’ I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the cryogenic chamber or the bunsen burners.”
While sympathetic to the plight of those who have come to rely on the proceeds from the event, GiMente was quick to point out that it takes two to tango.
“In an ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’ relationship, it doesn’t work when only one party is doing the scratching,” he claimed.
GiMente did admit that the choice in charitable cause may have had something to do with the disappointing lead conversion numbers.
“People with foot problems don’t like to move,” he said. “And the ones that do won’t even look at a two-story.”
Though there may be a void in the Valley’s collective conscience today, GiMente wouldn’t close the door on the possibility of future pseudo philanthropy.
“We’d like to get involved with a more ambulatory demographic at some point,” he added. “Maybe boredom?”
Whatever affliction the company dives into next, GiMente made it clear that it must be early stage.
“Can’t rightly have all of our leads dying in the middle of a transaction, now can we?”
———————————————————————————————————————————
– Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News
This parody would be in violation of approximately 87 federal fair housing provisions if it weren’t complete and utter nonsense. Don’t tase me, bro!
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 18, 2011 | This & That
The wind whipped up and down Oak Street, depositing stray leaves at the feet of the group loitering in front of the last house at the top of the hill. The late October chill worked its way inside loose seams and under plastic masks as the motley assemblage of superheroes and ghouls faced each other in the pale glow of a streetlamp.
“I h-h-heard one kid snuck in the window and n-n-never came back out,” Peter said through chattering teeth.
Batman for the third year in a row, the caped crusader clung to the handle of a hollow, plastic pumpkin that held the evening’s haul. Despite nearly three hours of relentless trick or treating, it remained alarmingly light.
“Yeah, the P-P-Perkins kid,” Tommy gulped, makeshift Frankenstein bolts jutting out of his grey neck. “All t-they found was his b-bike.”
“And he was a sixth g-grader,” Cameron added. He carved a reverent six into the night sky with his green lightsaber.
Conversation ceased as all eyes focused on the overgrown Victorian. Rumored to have been the scene of untold horrors years ago, it sat vacant for as long as they could remember. Though none of the boys was eager to venture any closer, they were desperate. Striking out at nearly every other house on the block, the old Gribsby house was one of only two with an illuminated front porch on this All Hallow’s Eve.
But who turned on the lights?
“You go,” Peter directed Tommy, nudging him with an artificially-muscled arm.
“Me,” Tommy squealed. “Why d-don’t you go?”
“Because I’ve been up there before,” Peter countered.
“Fibber,” Timmy accused. “When?”
“A couple years ago,” Peter lied, his face warming beneath his mask. “With some b-big kids. But if you’re too chicken, Cameron will do it.”
“Uh uh,” Cameron refused, his prosthetic ears flapping crazily as he shook his head.
“Wrong, you are,” he said in his best Yoda voice. “Another Skywalker, you s-seek.”
I’ll go,” little Emily Sue said.
Engrossed in negotiation, the three older boys didn’t hear her.
The gang had been unhappy to learn that their first unchaperoned Halloween came with the burden of babysitting Peter’s kid sister, and they had tried to ditch the Powerpuff Girl at every opportunity. Unable to shake their unwanted pink shadow, they had moved on to ignoring her.
“Rock, scissors, paper for it,” Peter suggested, knowing full well that his friends always threw rock.
Emily Sue broke from the pack and approached the house, her bright attire standing out in stark contrast to the dreary backdrop.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” Peter commanded, flattening his hand on the last word.
Neither of his friends flinched.
“Uh, Peter,” Tommy said, raising an arm inside his soiled, hand-me-down sportcoat to point. “Look.”
Peter followed Tommy’s extended finger to see his sister passing through the open courtyard gate.
“Em, no,” he whisper-shouted. “Come back!”
But she didn’t listen. The floor boards groaned as Emily Sue took a hesitant step onto the decrepit porch.
“Em!”
A dense tapestry of cobwebs clung to the gabled eaves and shimmered in the flickering light. She shuffled forward.
One step.
Then another.
Each footfall scared more dust from its hiding place, stinging her eyes and tickling her nose.
She soon found herself standing before a monolithic oak door; its heavy, iron knocker well beyond her reach. Protected from the swirling wind beyond the porch, all sound disappeared save for her own shallow breathing. A glowing doorbell beckoned.
As she stretched towards it, the carriage light winked out, casting the house and Emily Sue into darkness.
… To Be Continued
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 12, 2011 | This & That
“Friedster, what the hell are you doing with that chicken?”
Startled, Ned Friedgen looked up to find his moon-faced boss hovering in the doorway.
“Oh. Hi, sir,” the design engineer acknowledged. “Just fiddling with the ‘Nequity’ algorithm again.”
Squawk!
“What’s with the blindfold,” Baron Schlumpf pressed as he eyed the fowl.
Ned’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he gnawed on a piece of vending machine jerky.
“What blindfold?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Schlumpf responded, pulling up a lime green, ergonomic bean-bag chair and plopping down uninvited.
“I understand that this is your first week here,” he said over the chair’s protesting contents. “It’s only natural that you want to ease into things, feel your way around a bit before sticking your neck out.”
He chuckled at his own pun.
“I just don’t understand why-” Ned began.
“We didn’t bring you on board to play it safe,” Mr. Schlumpf continued over him. “If there is one thing we here at Umilleau.com are all about, it’s taking risks. We want you to be bold. We want you to be outlandish. We want you to be the guy that we hand-picked out of the World of Warcraft chat room for this position. We don’t want Ned Friedgen. We want the Friedster.”
Ned hung his head; a palpable air of defeat overpowering his liberally-applied Axe Body Wash as the chicken pecked at his vintage Converse All Stars.
Squawk!
“Ah, don’t take it so hard,” Mr. Schlumpf consoled. “You’ll get the hang of it. The most important thing to remember is that we don’t think outside the box, because there is no box. Take your wildest idea, and make it even wilder. That’s the Umilleau way.”
“There is no spoon,” Ned intoned, affecting his best Keanu Reeves impersonation before biting off another succulent hunk of jerky. He thought it might be bison, but that didn’t seem quite right.
“Take your chicken here,” Mr. Schlumpf continued. “Teasing the plumage into a rockabilly pompadour was a fine start, you just need to dial it up a notch to really take it to the next level.”
“Next level,” Ned asked.
The bird tugged at a red shoelace. Ned decided to call him Elvis.
“We don’t just want a chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “We want a blindfolded chicken.”
“Is that even legal?”
“We don’t just want a blindfolded chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf pressed on, his loose jowls threatening to consume his skinny, black tie as his excitement grew. “We want a blindfolded chicken that navigates an electrified hopscotch grid with randomly assigned corresponding numbers.”
“Oh my God!”
“Most importantly,” Mr. Schlumpf concluded. “We want it by Friday.”
“You want me to completely redesign the home evaluation metric by Friday,” Ned squealed in horror.
His boss nodded.
“We’ve had a good run with the blind donkey we have been using to select property values from a top hat,” Mr. Schlumpf confided, shifting gears.
“Are you serious,” Ned questioned. “I looked my house up on the site last night, and the value was off by a hundred thousand!”
“An all too familiar refrain,” Mr. Schlumpf admitted. “Alas, Blinky had to die.”
Ned’s hazel eyes bulged out of his head in near perfect imitation of the image of John Belushi under the word College on his grey t-shirt.
“You killed a donkey because he picked the wrong values out of a hat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Schlumpf retorted. “I’m not an ogre. We didn’t send him off to the great barn in the sky because of the ninety two percent margin of error.”
“Then why,” Ned asked, perplexed.
“Money,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “The damn thing wanted more money.”
“So what, um … what did you do with him?”
A gleam rose in Mr. Schlumpf’s eye.
“How’s the jerky,” he asked with a wicked grin.
Horrified, Ned spat the last few strands onto the bamboo floor.
“Jesus!”
Mr. Schlumpf bowed his mostly bald head and made the sign of the cross in mock reverence.
“Couldn’t you just ship him off to the circus or something,” Ned asked, trying to wipe the oily taste from his tongue.
“And set an example for the chicken that contract holdouts are rewarded,” Mr. Schlumpf demanded. “I think not!”
Mr. Schlumpf’s eyes narrowed as he wagged a bloated finger at his underling.
“Don’t you go getting too close to the talent, kid,” Mr. Schlumpf warned. “Your predecessor made that mistake. Couldn’t handle the inevitable eventuality. That’s why it falls to you to get a new fortune-telling beast trained up before the East coast FSBO market starts crawling our site this weekend.”
“Can I ask a stupid question.” Ned ventured.
“There are no stupid questions,” Mr. Schlumpf assured him with a conspiratorial wink. “Just stupid people eager to be manipulated.”
“Why don’t we just implement a reliable analysis of a home’s true worth?”
Mr. Schlumpf erupted in wet laughter, ending in a coughing fit.
“Sure,” he croaked between spasms. “While we’re at it, we can call ourselves ‘appraisers,’ or ‘Realtors!’ Maybe catch a plane to look at each individual property we evaluate from two thousand miles away?”
“Look,” he lectured the newbie. “We are creating our own niche here. To survive online in this day and age, you can offer something reliable, or you can offer something revolutionary. We offer revolutionary.”
“Even if it doesn’t work?”
“Especially if it doesn’t work,” Mr. Schlumpf stressed. “Consumers want ‘right now’ more than they want ‘right,’ so they’ll keep coming back as long as the lie is too brazen to doubt.”
“Seems like a business model with a limited shelf life,” Ned argued, deciding he wouldn’t list this career detour when he updated his resume for Monster.
Mr. Schlumpf grudgingly nodded.
“Once the novelty wears off and the public starts looking at your service critically, investor capital dries up faster than a Danny Bonaduce comeback.”
“So you need a shiny, new gimmick,” Ned intuited. “Or a feathery one, as it were.”
They both looked at the quizzical chicken, which was now pecking at its reflection in the funhouse mirror on the exterior wall where a window should have been. Mr. Schlumpf was right. Elvis didn’t strike Ned as particularly captivating.
“How about a card-counting baboon with a purple ass,” Ned suggested at last.
Squawk!
“Now you’re getting it.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 5, 2011 | This & That
Three Real Estate agents sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar of a local watering hole, sipping happy hour cocktails like they did every Friday. One made his bones in the current market as a bank owned property (REO) specialist. Another had carved out a niche in the short sale arena. The third had migrated to property management after the bubble burst.
“So, Stanley,” Wayne, the REO agent, began as he adjusted his considerable girth from one cheek to the other on an overmatched bar stool. “How go things in the land of non-successful closings?”
The perpetually nervous short sale agent jumped at the accompanying nudge from his ham hocked companion. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were undisturbed, but he adjusted them anyway.
“Going just fine, thank you very much,” he replied; his clipped, aristocratic voice accompanied by an explosion of slender fingers. “These banks are finally getting the idea that it’s better to offload losing assets before they hit their books. Better systems, better staffing, better closing rates … I’d say your aorta isn’t the only thing that’s gonna need a stent soon, my ample friend.”
He made an “O” with his thumb and fingertips, closing one eye and peering at his obnoxious companion through the opening with the other before slowly collapsing his knuckles into a fist.
“How’s that pipeline of yours looking these days?”
Wayne guffawed; a deep, throaty chortle. He fiddled with the gargantuan turquoise ring on his left pinkie.
“Please,” he dismissed. “I’m carrying fourteen listings right now, and have six BPOs lined up for this weekend. As long as your deals keep blowing up at the zero hour, I’ll have a job.”
He tossed a handful of pistachios into his reddening maw.
“Just listen to you two,” the property manager said as she set down her scotch and soda with a loud thunk. “Having a pissing contest in your own clients’ graveyard.”
Stanley and Wayne rolled their eyes as they braced for the perfunctory scolding.
“These are real people losing their homes, and all you buffoons can do is laugh about it as you take your blood money?”
“Lighten up, Agnes,” Wayne answered. “I don’t like these banks anymore than you do, but someone has to list their properties. Would you rather they just sit there and collect weeds? Maybe you don’t mind living with vacant crack houses in your neighborhood, but I’d rather sell them to nice families who will fix them up and actually add value to the community. ”
“He’s right, your Highness,” Stanley confirmed. “Besides, how can you accuse me of anything but heroism? While you’ve been hiding out in property management limbo and shirking your obligations, I’m helping bail my old clients out of their dire circumstances. You hit the eject button, and left me and Wayne here to clean up the mess. If anything, we deserve medals.”
“Ejected? Ejected?!”
Agnes shook with rage, her weathered face going beet red beneath a salt and pepper crew cut.
“I moved into an arena where I could actually help my clients hold onto their homes instead of killing their dreams of home ownership for the next two to five years,” she railed. “What do you tell your underwater clients who are forced to move by a job relocation or a family crisis? Sorry, but let’s crash your credit so I can get paid? Good luck buying or leasing a home wherever you are heading?”
“Quit being so melodramatic, Agnes,” Wayne chastised. “You’re going to give Stanley another stroke.”
Both looked at Stanley, who, true to form, appeared to be vacillating somewhere between diabetic shock and epileptic fit. A scent reminiscent of Lysol and cough drops emanated from the beads of clammy sweat that rose on his forehead.
“Breathe, little buddy, breathe,” Wayne coached as Agnes signaled the bartender to hit her again.
The waif of a man closed his eyes and focused on his happy place, 2005, until the episode passed.
“Let’s just agree that we are all contributing in our own way,” Stanley squeaked through clenched teeth.
“Agreed,” Agnes mumbled into her drink.
“Agreed,” Wayne declared with gusto, holding his pint aloft. “We are Real Estate knights, come forth to slay the marauding dragons!”
“Pardon me,” a new voice interrupted.
The trio swiveled on their stools to take in the interloper before responding in unison.
“Jerry?”
The newcomer raised the pistol in his right hand and shot each agent in the face. The bar erupted in chaos as the remaining patrons fled.
“What,” the gunman demanded in response to the bartender’s frozen stare.
“That one said he’d stop the foreclosure,” he explained, gesturing at Stanley’s rigid body with his chin.
“This fat bastard had the locks changed and all my stuff thrown out on the street,” he said, his foot swallowed by Wayne’s ample abdomen as he kicked the REO agent in the ribs.
“And Miss Congeniality here denied my application for not one, but two rental properties on account of my ruined credit. I’ve been living behind the Luby’s on 12th the last two weeks.”
The bartender gulped, his tired eyes widening in recognition.
“Heard the guy that sold me the place back in oh six left the business entirely,” Jerry confided.
The bartender turned to run.
“Can’t miss neighborhood, eh, Ted,” Jerry asked as he leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger a fourth and final time.
