I’ve I told you how the Universe, God, still at times wants me to use my scamming skills, but now it’s to go after bad guys, not to make me rich. I thought your disciples would like to read an example of such a scam. So, here it comes:

 

Dear Beergirl and Beerboy Disciples,

I’m two weeks into plotting this con and thought it appropriate to update you. I’d run across this guy with an incredible collection of antique fishing flies. I had heard about him through a friend in the insurance business. My friend had helped write his insurance policy. She had helped me get my cheese collection insured. I had never told her what I really do for a living, but she knew I was crazy about old fishing gear.

Then, one day out of the blue she phoned me. She was very excited, even for an insurance agent. She had phoned to tell me about some guys’ antique fly fishing collection. She said the collection was like something from a museum. Maybe he’d let me take a look.

Yes, that old urge to steal for myself, be a predator, started itching. I immediately shut the door on those urges, and told my insurance friend, thanks, but I was busy. What I didn’t tell her was that I didn’t want to get myself in a situation were the temptation to be a predatory con might overwhelm me.

Then she sighed, and said, well, maybe it was good I didn’t want to see the collection. The owner was a real, real jerk, she said. In fact he was such a jerk he didn’t deserve to have the collection, she said. Maybe it would even be good if he lost the collection, she said.

Well, fellow disciples, you know my reaction to words like that. “Maybe he deserved to lose the collection”? Was the Universe sending me a message? If he needed to lose such stuff why not to me?

I needed advice on this, though. I didn’t want to trust my own contaminated and biased instincts. So, I slipped my right hand into my pocket, and slid my fingers inside my wallet. I felt my lucky fish hook—and guess what? It was glowing warm—meaning it was alright for me to take this jerks fishing gear. I had a job to do!

I told my friend she had changed my mind. I got the address and went over to introduce myself to the jerk.

The jerk lived in a nice 1950’s style mini-mansion. I buzzed the doorbell, even though a sign above the buzzer said I shouldn’t.

He opened the door quickly, looked at me and glared.

“I don’t know you, what do you want, make it quick.”

Yes, definitely a ‘jerk’.

“You’re James, right?”

“Of course.”

“I heard from the clerk over at Joe’s Shop (I wasn’t going to get my insurance friend involved) that you’ve got a great fly collection. Care to talk shop with another collector, and show me your flies?” I had done some snooping into his phone records and found phone calls to Joe’s.

He looked like I had just said the most stupid thing he’d ever heard.

“No, I certainly will not! Those flies are an investment. I’m not going to let your greasy hands ruin them!”

Was he a jerk—yes, definitely. But, he was also sounding very much like something even worse–he was sounding like a predator.

“Yeah, maybe another day. We can swap fishing stories” I said.

As much as I had irritated him with what I had first said, now he was even angrier.

“I do NOT fish! I will NOT stand here and be insulted by you! Fishing is a waste of time! I don’t waste time! The flies are an investment! Money; that’s what I make, that’s what I am! Good bye!”

Then he slammed the door.

Really, I thought as I walked away. What a jerk, what a predator. My friend had said the collection was awesome. I knew the accumulated luck in those flies would be powerful. That luck was helping a predator be successful at business. That wasn’t right. No wonder the Universe wanted me to take him down. I was going to have to liberate those flies, and get them in the proper hands: my hands.

Where to start, you’re asking? Think of the Credo on this site. As much as those tools can help a con, they can also be turned against him. That’s what I was going to do, turn those flies against him. I needed to turn all that goodwill luck in the flies against him.

Back at my place I did some computer searching, using software and passwords I’d “borrowed” from federal agents. I won’t say here which agency. I quickly found what I’d hoped I would. This guy ordered delivery pizza. That would be his downfall.

James had been ordering from a place not far from his mini-mansion, Pete’s Pizza Paradise. The exterior décor of the restaurant was Italian. It was a small place, about the size of a two-bedroom apartment. My plan? I wanted the next pizza James got from Pete’s to one of my creation.

Remember in the Credo, the part about pizza bringing good luck? Well, I neglected to tell you something there. Don’t worry; you weren’t in any danger. Good pizza chefs instinctively use ingredients that bring good luck. A guy like me, though, knows how to create pizza that when eaten dissipates the eaters luck. James would be getting my creations from now on.

Inside Pete’s were five tables against the far wall and a counter with chairs against the window by the sidewalk. I stood back by the tables and motioned for the manager, a young woman, to come talk with me. The young woman was already looking at me, so she responded fast.

“Yes, sir, are you here to pick up a pizza?” Her name-tag stated “Jan”.

“Are you the manager, Jan?” I already knew she was the manager, but I wanted her to feel important. Giving her a chance to hear herself would reinforce this in her.

“Yes, I’m the weekday daytime manager.”

“Glad to meet you. I’m with FBI”.

Sometimes it works best to string out the information, make your target get hungry for what you’ve got to say. So, I just stated who I ‘worked’ for, but didn’t say what I wanted.

Jan pointed to a sign that proudly proclaimed Pete’s did deliver.

“Oh, yes, do you want to order pizza for an office party? We deliver!”

“Actually, I’m interested in one of your regular delivery customers.”

I had hidden out near James’ house, waited until he drove out of his driveway and snapped a photo. The photo was slightly blurred, and he looked very serious. This kind of photo makes anyone look guilty. It’s like those police surveillance photos we’ve all seen on TV.

Jan’s eyes got big.

“Oh, yes I know him. He’s always grumpy, but does tip okay.”

“You’d be grumpy if you were him.”

“Oh, no I wouldn’t. I’m just sure I wouldn’t. Oh, please, please, you don’t really think I’d ever be grumpy, do you really?”

Good, she had entered my world.

“That was just a test. I had to be sure you weren’t working with him.”

“No! I’ve never done anything that would make me turn up being photographed by the FBI.”

“I know. I’ve seen your file.”

“I’ve got a file?”

“Everyone in the pizza delivery pizza has an FBI file. Now that I’ve met you, I can tell that you’re innocent.”

Jan put a hand on her chest and sighed in relief.

“Yes, I wouldn’t know how to be guilty if I tried. Not that I’ve ever wanted to try, or even tried to try.”

“And I know you never will try. So, you’re willing to help me?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Good. James usually calls in every Tuesday.”

“And today is Tuesday.”

“You’re sharp. Yes, he always wants a double pepperoni with extra cheese. Tonight you’re going to give him a double pepperoni with extra cheese that I’ve made.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s in my car. After he calls I’ll bring it in and you cook it.”

“And?”

“Then you deliver the pizza to him–you personally.”

“I’d be proud to help you.”

“Good. He usually calls at 6 PM, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and it’s almost 6.”

“I’ll wait at that table until he calls.”

The day before I had made that special pizza that sat in the backseat of my car. This one was created to draw out good luck from the eater instead of bringing good luck. James liked to eat pizza three times a week. After a month of eating my special pizza he’d be so unlucky a baby could steal candy from him.

Remember how in school they taught you that the first nomads to settle down had done so to raise grain for bread making? Well, your teachers lied. Those nomads settled down to raise grain to make beer. Think about it, would you stop roaming just to make bread? No. Beer–of course. And what goes best with beer—pizza. So, those nomads who got down off their camels to grow grain to make beer, what would be their number two use of that grain? Making bread? Close, but no cigar—pizza dough.

And those nomads also understood making ‘cursed pizza’ as weapons against enemies. Those ancients were the first to make ‘cursed pizza’. How do I know this? Well, that’s another story for another time. For right now let’s just say that the ‘pizza cursing’ techniques I’m going to discuss here weren’t first discovered by me. These techniques were discovered, and forgotten by almost all of the world, a long time ago.

Can I make an appetizing pizza? It’s a special secret of mine. For James’ pizza I used shredded special aged Cheddar from Idaho, pepperoni from Italy, my special blend of spices heavy with spaghetti spices and lots of rosemary. There was more cheese and pepperoni on this pie than James will have seen on a pizza before. This would bring him bad luck? I wasn’t done. I would implement the techniques used by the ancient beer makers.

I’m now going to discuss a con tool to only be used by my advanced disciples. You know who you are so you can read the rest of the story. You less advanced disciples please stop reading this account now…

Alright, so now it’s just me and you advanced disciples. So, I’ll continue.

In my basement I’ve got a refrigerated lead-lined chamber. This was the design created by the ancient beer makers. Stacked inside the chamber lay 10,000 now empty craft-brew beer bottles. Remember the empty beer bottle curse mentioned in the Credo? A full beer bottle contains an explosive amount of kinetic good luck. The act of emptying the beer causes good luck to flow from the bottle. The bottle gets desperate to be filled again with good luck. Unless it is refilled with beer, the bottle will never be completely at rest.

This doesn’t stop a bottle in my lead-lined chamber from trying to get filled again. The result? An empty beer bottle in the chamber sucks (‘sucks’ is the proper term to use here, from that branch of science called physics, as in ‘black holes suck’) hard to fill the vacuum in it created by the absence of “beer good luck”. The lead walls prevent the bottle from extracting good luck from anywhere outside the chamber.

And you get 10,000 empty craft-brewed beer bottles doing this all at the same time? It kills brain cells just trying to imagine the effect.

In the center of the chamber is a metal oven grill rack. You place a pizza in there and let it lie there for 12 hours? The voracious beer bottles will suck so much luck from the pizza that the pizza itself will begin to act like a black hole, sucking up luck from anyone who eats it.

Keeping the pizza refrigerated before cooking will keep the pizza fresh. It will look and taste scrumptious. But, as far as good luck goes–it will be deadly.

The day before, in the basement I stood near the closed door to the chamber. I looked in awe at the device. As I looked at it I realized I could identify with the Los Alamos WW II nuclear scientists as they looked at the A-bombs they’d created. My chamber and those bombs were mechanical wonders. But, in the wrong hands what damage they could both unleash.

Getting a pizza into the chamber without getting anti-luck radiation was tricky. When the oven door was opened the bottles would hungrily draw luck from wherever they could. Even from me. I could replenish the luck by eating a pizza myself. But, I didn’t want to be so drained for even a few minutes. I needed to be shielded from the beer bottles. And there was a way.

Beer has such good luck that it can shield from the pull of an empty beer bottle. I had built a shower in the basement. Leaving James’ still lucky pizza on a table I went in to the basement bathroom.

I’d already placed a keg of craft-brewed beer on the bathroom counter. Now I took off my shoes, and stepped otherwise fully clothed into the shower.

I took hold of the long hose attachment to the tap and poured the beer on my clothes and head. Soon I was drenched. A waste of good beer? Not this time. The beer would shield me from the empty beer bottles.

Dripping with protection I went back and picked up the pizza pan. I took a deep breath, took hold of the handle, opened it fast, and quickly, but carefully, slid in the pizza, and then closed the door.

A minimum of 12 hours in the chamber would be needed to complete the deed. I’m picky about details, though. I wanted to make sure the pizza would not begin to regain luck before James ate it. So, I lined a Pete’s Pizza Paradise box with specially made lead-foil. The next day I placed the pizza in the box and headed to Pete’s.

So now let’s get back to the time of the opening of this story. There I was, in Pete’s waiting for the phone to ring. James didn’t disappoint me. The phone rang exactly at 6 PM. Soon Jan had my pizza baking in her oven, and then she was out the door. I followed her in my car. I watched as James opened the door. He opened the pizza box to check the pizza before he gave her money. I could see that he was very impressed.

Yes, one month of eating my pizza specialty 3 times a week, and I’d have him wrapped around my finger. He’d give me the fly collection for free. And have done an honest cons work, for once in my life. And the ancient beer makers will have scored another victory for God.

 

Yours in the faith,

David

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