Predatory Loans — Tweeted Mystery “The Golden Parachute” Continues

Here are Week 99 @Twitstery tweets of The Golden Parachute, the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance!

Shorter doesn’t help. Maybe slower. “With Farley ded, you’re heir to BP R U. Sing here.” The Concierhe hands me a docment. “What’s this?”

Maybe even slower. “I don’t want you to record this.” “I’m not. I’m tweeting for Arkaby.” “Oh, Tweeting. That’s OK. Nobody reads tweets.”

He notices I’m favoring my left arm. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“You bumped the arm Farley shot.” “Oh. Sorry. Can you sign your name?”

“Sure. Why?” “Good. Sign here.””What is this?” “This invoice authorizes my activity and covers expenses.”

I scan the document the Concierge hands me. “You want me to authorize the destruction of Uncle Farley’s Safe Room?”

“Yes.” “There’s no dollar amount on this invoice.” “We don’t know what it will cost.”

“I see you’re charging me $100 for printing this invoice.” “We know what that costs.” “$100?” “Materials, time and labor. Yes.”

I hand the invoice back to the Concierge. “I’m not signing. I don’t want you to do anything to this room until we find my uncle’s killer.”

“Leave Farley’s remains plastered all over the walls, floor and ceiling?” “Of course not. Clean him out. Put what you can gather in an urn.”

“Preserve Uncle Farley’s Safe Room as is. When I come back, I want to see all the financial records of Body Parts R Us.” “You’re the boss.”

I turn to Dot. “Dr. Dot. I want to see any report of your findings before you share them with this cop.” “You’re the boss.” “Yes I am.”

So there it is. As sole heir I now lead what’s left of Dad’s empire: This Body Parts R Us clinic and the dregs of Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly.

I don’t know why Dad thought it was a good idea to combine a perfume concern, a blue coal mine and two pickle factories, but there you go.

There’s not much of LBDD left. Dad’s conglomerate was a victm of the 2008 economic crash and an ill-fated investment in senior scentology.

They drained dry the perfume concern. They depleted the blue coal mine. Both pickle factories went sour. All that’s left is debt and regret.

Beside bailing out Arkaby, finding my uncle’s killer and preventing this paradise switch, I have to decide what to do with Body Parts R Us.

I’ll think about that tomorrow. Right now I’ve got to get downtown. I say to the Concierge “I need a cab. Can you lend me twenty dollars?”

He just stares. “Hello? Can you?” His eyes focus. “I’m sorry. It sounded like you just asked me for money. It was a new experience for me.”

“I’m asking you to LEND it to me.” “Ah, lend. That’s different.” He pulls papers from his coat pocket. I’ll just need a few signatures.”

“You want me to sign a promissory note for $20?” “No.” “That’s a relief.” “I’m asking you to sign a note for $1000.” “1000? I only need 20!”

“Standard Hospital Procedure. I can’t make any money lending only twenty dollars.” “This says you’re charging me 14% interest!” “Again SHP.”

“I inherited this place. Aren’t I the owner now?” “Do you want me to break the rules just for you?” “I guess not.” “Sign here and here.”

Rixey comes over “Christ’s sake! Here’s $20. Don’t sign this joker’s note.” “No thanks. I’d rather go into debt than accept your charity.”

Dot hands me a $20. “Take mine.” A hazmat-suited cop also passes me money. Suddenly I’m surrounded by cops and technicians offering me cash.

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)


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