Being stinko rich allows a man to devise the most outlandish operations to attain his goals. Like revenge.
I hang out with a bunch of venture capitalists. We all made it big before the dot-com balloon burst, and most of us have our hands in all the big developments, like AI to run the world, nanotechnology for medical miracles, and genetic engineering to make kale taste good—that one’s going to skyrocket, I promise you. We’ve got money to burn, and we’re changing the world, baby.
We were all pranksters, and there was no limit to what we would do. Lawrence Hester once paid to move Paulie Mathis’s house to the opposite side of the street while he was on vacation. I thought he was going to lose his mind when he got back. I’ve been yanking their chain for years telling them my best prospect is a shrink ray that can reduce a man to the size of a termite.
Myron Costello joined our club late after going big with an app that said “You are swank-alicious!” at random times. He was a loud-mouthed know-it-all, who believed he was the smartest venture capitalist of them all. His investment in fruit-flavored, edible DVDs spoke otherwise. He was a turd, and I hated him.
“You’re a turd,” I said. He’d moved in on a deal with a hat company specializing in turtle-shell beanies. The kids were gonna love ‘em.
Myron laughed. “Am not, Georgie. I just got there first.”
If that didn’t anger me enough, the gummi bears filling my Ferrari sure did. He had to go down.
“I’m going to squash you like a bug, Myron,” I said.
I have a buddy who sets up fantastic audio-visual systems for mega mansions. With his help and the help of Bobby Chase, my construction contractor, I had the perfect revenge.
I assembled a team, and after some preparation, I sent in Jimmy Bradford to slip Myron some knockout drops and bring him to one of my warehouses.
Picture this. My guys built a perfect replica of a Dockers shoebox, sixty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, the walls about fifteen feet high. At one corner, giant books were stacked up on the outside, and for a finishing touch, I had them set a Paul Bunyan sized coffee cup on top, along with a mister that sent up the occasional wisp of steam. But that wasn’t the best part. The real thing of beauty was the gigantic monitor affixed to the ceiling and covering it from end to end. It was custom made with the densest and most advanced form of pixilation available. From inside the shoebox, you couldn’t see the edges.
You’ve probably figured it out by now—we lay him inside, and waited for him to wake up.
In the control room overlooking the warehouse floor, I sat next to the camera that fed into the giant monitor. It pointed straight up to a white ceiling, low enough that I could bend over and look into it. Monitors in front of me fed the views from the hidden cameras. When Myron stirred, I couldn’t help letting out a chuckle. The microphone picked it up and amplified it to about ten times as loud in the warehouse.
Myron sat up and looked around, then fixated on the books. “Naw,” he said. He stood up and shook his head, turned around a few times. “Naw.”
I wanted to let him absorb his situation for a few minutes. He spent some time unsuccessfully trying to find purchase on the wall to climb out. When he gave up, I started the show.
Into the microphone I said, “Dude. I told you I was going to squash you. Today’s the day.”
That’s when I saw the payoff coming. His face blanched, and he had this priceless look of disbelief. Now for the kicker.
I eased my head over the camera. My giant face appeared on the giant monitor and peered down into the box. Myron yelled and fell back to the floor. “Naw!”
I chuckled. “Yaw,” I said. “Don’t feel so big now, do you?”
He pushed himself up on a wall and flipped me off. I shit you not, that SOB flipped me off when he thought he was small enough to fit in my nostril. I couldn’t believe it, the jerk.
“Just for that, you’re done, asshat.” I lifted my foot and brought it down over the camera, expecting him to cringe and scream.
Myron dodged to the side, and leaped up like he was going to grab my pant leg. Since that failed to defeat him, I took a different approach. I pulled my foot away, then put my face all the way down to the camera, snarling and roaring. Myron balled his fist and took a swing at my image, bouncing back and forth to go in for a second jab.
Suddenly the equipment turned off, the monitor on the ceiling went black, and the walls of the box fell out. Bobby walked out to Myron and shook his hand.
Bobby turned and looked up at me. “Sorry, boss. But he’s the man.”