I got one of those calls. A young kid said “Sir, if you are unwilling to pay the amount owed, you’ll have to talk to Mr. James.”
“Listen to me for a second, kid. You work for Mr. James, and he drives a Porsche, and you want to park your Toyota Tacoma next to his Porsche, and you’re an office boy with aspirations, and you believe that this is how it works. I don’t think you understand.
“I have worked at an establishment similar to yours. I was a skip tracer, you probably know the phrase. A skip tracer is an alcoholic murderer who has done hard time, and learned hard things during the hard time. Someone who really does not give a shit. I think you understand.
“And I will find you, because that is what skip tracers do, and I will be waiting in the parking lot with a baseball bat to smash the windows out of your fucking Toyota Tacoma and then smash your fucking skull in and smash Mr. James’ face in as well, if you ever fucking call me again. I think you understand.”
There were no more calls.
Mirrored from A Shout Out To My Pepys.