by Paul Slaybaugh | Feb 10, 2011 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
Feb 9, 2013 09:45 AM
Disassociative Press
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SCOTTSDALE (DP) – A four year federal wildlife program to rehabilitate the sagging numbers of a local animal population has proven to be a rousing success, according to Dr. Slade Winders of the Herpetological Society of North America. Non-indigenous to the Sonoran Desert, Realtus Serpentes is believed to have first been introduced to Arizona shortly after the Gadsden Purchase in 1853 by a traveling circus based out of Toledo, OH. An aggressive reptilian known commonly as “REALTOR,” Realtus Serpentes wasted little time overrunning the desert terrain, specifically the densely populated metro areas, earning the apex predator a fast reputation as a nuisance species.
“Times were you couldn’t turn around without bumping into six of the f&%$*rs,” according to sixty year Scottsdale resident Eli Jessop.
Such anecdotal reports were backed up by hard data. By the year 2000, there were more REALTORs in Scottsdale than all other species combined.
“We hadn’t seen this level of infestation since Menudo, possibly The Bay City Rollers,” said Early Cousins of the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, GA when reached for comment.
The unbridled population surge was derailed with the bursting of the housing bubble in 2007, however. While omnivorous, the REALTOR’s primary food sources are the Homeownerus Equitablis and Buyerus Solventus. Suddenly deprived of both during the period Real Estate naturalists refer to as the “The Lost Years,” REALTORs that once had their choice of bloated, single-family prey were left to scavenge the picked over bones of short sale carcasses and chase down stray tenants for section 8 tenement housing. The results were devastating. According to Dr. Winders, the population of REALTORs plummeted from a high water mark of approximately seventeen trillion in the second quarter of 2006 to twenty eight within ten months.
“Classic overpopulation model,” Winders noted. “This species was so successful in dominating its environment that it outpaced its food source. The resulting attrition to the Realtus Serpentes‘ ranks brought it to the brink of extinction. That’s when we stepped in.”
In addition to losing numbers to starvation, neighboring markets and social media, the REALTOR has been a frequent target of poaching. Long coveted by boot makers for its leathery pelt, REALTOR pot-shotting spiked sharply from 2007-2009 in tandem with home value degradation and mortgage defaults.
“I got one a’ the sumbiches on the wall in my den,” Jessop boasted. “Probably weren’t the same one that sold me this dump for five hunnered grand, but what do I care? All look the same anyway.”
Placed on the endangered species list in late 2009 after a comprehensive federal wildlife study determined through geo-tagging and tracking that the Scottsdale REALTOR population was down to four REO agents, two short sale specialists and a silverback who had occupied the same bullpen cubicle since the Truman administration, the surviving animals were originally housed in the venomous reptile enclosure of the Phoenix Zoo until a new wing with WIFI and Hannibal Lecter restraints could be erected. Much to visitors’ delight, a microfiche machine and Sanka dispensary were provided to ease the transition of the one zoo staffers would come to affectionately dub “Mongo.”
In the ensuing months, new financing options emerged, interest rates remained low and prices began to stabilize, coaxing Buyerus Solventus to return to its natural grazing areas. Perhaps even more encouraging, members of the sub-species Investorus Gigantus migrated from the plains of the Midwest and the frozen reaches of Canada to take advantage of the unprecedented value bounty before all of the good grass was gone. Before long, the prey numbers had grown so large that the REALTORs began returning as well.
“First one I seen in the wild since 2008 was last March. Thought it was just another chupacabra until I saw the scales,” said Jessop.
Soon enough, Arizona Real Estate schools were operating at full capacity and license renewals picked up as quickly as they had dropped off. An aggressive public awareness campaign helped to alter the image of the REALTOR from mindless equity killer to vital member of the housing ecosystem. Through the Adopt-An-Agent program, thousands of Scottsdale residents learned to live side by side with the misunderstood tetrapod, grudgingly accepting the occasional blood sacrifice in return for the symbiotic culling of the Bankus Properitus, or “bank owned property” herds. The cumulative effect proved so successful that the REALTOR was officially removed from the endangered list in May of 2012. According to Arizona Game and Fish estimates, there are now nearly fifty billion REALTORs in the metro Phoenix area today. The success of the repopulation effort has taken even its most optimistic supporters by surprise.
“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be standing here today, four short years later, saying that we are ready to release the original Scottsdale Seven back into the wild,” Winders admitted. “Now our children don’t just have to read about these magnificent creatures in textbooks or visit them at our zoos, but will actually get to see them in their natural habitat for generations to come. This is a victory for us all.”
“Horses&$t,” added Jessop.
-Paul Slaybaugh, Staff Writer
© 2013 The Disassociative Press. All rights reserved.
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Update: At 6:32 AM on Feb 10, 2013, the so-called “Scottsdale Seven” REALTORs were released behind a vacant, bank-owned tri-level near McDonald and Granite Reef in central Scottsdale. Two were shot within four hours and one took a job selling mobile phones, but four have been successfully re-assimilated into their packs. When reached for comment, Dr. Winders said he was proud of his team’s achievements and that he was returning to his previous work performing blindfolded root canals on rabid king cobras with overbites.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 23, 2011 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
The clandestine meeting took place at twelve thirty on a Thursday. Two men armed with black briefcases approached each other in the darkness, flanked by muscle-bound henchmen who busied themselves looking tough. The second-hand light refused to fully illuminate either faction.
“You were to come alone,” Drago admonished his older rival.
“As were you,” Arvloski retorted.
A mirthless chuckle escaped Drago’s thin lips, his face a collaboration of sharp angles and shadows.
“You know me too well, Niko,” he confessed. “As I know you.”
“Is that it,” Arvloski asked, pointing at the case with his dimpled chin.
“Niko, my old friend. What is your hurry,” Drago responded. “You seem nervous.”
“Not nervous, Comrade. What is the word … eager?”
“I have never known you not to ask of Katerina,” Drago pressed.
Arvloski swallowed hard before responding. His sallow pallor was made all the more evident by the pronounced puffiness beneath his sleepless blue eyes.
“And what of my dotchka?”
“She grows large with child,” Drago informed him, pausing before twisting the knife. “We think to call him Nicholas.”
Arvloski blanched, his jaundiced skin verging on translucence. He took half a step towards his smirking adversary with balled fists before catching himself. He didn’t feel his jagged fingernails digging into the meaty palms of his giant paws.
“There will be time enough for hugs later, Niko,” Drago taunted. “Let us first do this business that has you so … eager.”
“Open the case and hand it to Sergei,” Arvloski instructed, nodding at the behemoth in the black t-shirt that was no fewer than four sizes too small.
“Niet. You will open your case and hand it to Petr,” Drago countered. “Then I give you mine.”
The two men stared at each other, refusing to blink, before the distant warbling of a car alarm pierced the tense silence.
“We open cases at the same time,” Arvloski suggested, losing the battle of wills. “On count of three.”
Drago withdrew the gold cross he wore around his neck and rubbed it between a calloused thumb and finger as he considered the proposal. Coming to a decision, he tucked the well-worn charm back into the unruly thatch of chest hair that struggled against an overmatched v-neck sweater.
“Da, count of three,” he agreed.
“Adeen,” Arvloski led, unlatching the spring-loaded clasp on his case with a satisfying snap.
“Dva,” Drago followed, unlatching his case as well.
“It had better be in there, Comrade,” Arvloski warned.
“That is going for the both of us, Niko,” Drago replied.
The men nodded and finished the count in unison as their goons tensed for battle.
“Tri.”
As the lids on both cases swung open, revealing the contents within, the group was suddenly bathed in blinding, white light.
“Politsii! Politsii,” Sergei bellowed.
The cases fell to the ground as panic-stricken men fumbled over one another in their haste to flee. A new voice called out above the ruckus, but Arvloski was too focused on the item lying on the ground next to one of the upended cases to notice. Blinking the sight back into his eyes, he reached for it.
“Arlen, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Hearing his name jolted the loss mitigation specialist back to his senses. He looked across the break room at the disapproving female face staring down at him from the bank of switches that controlled the overhead lights.
“Is that my ahi,” Shelby from internal auditing demanded, pointing at the saran wrapped mass lying on the floor. She took in the melting ice that lined the open briefcase sitting next to it with a heavy sigh.
“Not the black market organ syndicate thing again? What is wrong with you people? And who smells like dijon,” she asked.
Arlen dabbed at the yellow streaks on his cheeks with one hand while fingering the spent packet of fancy mustard in his pocket.
“Nice touch. Let me guess, you’re a terminal liver patient this time,” Shelby posited. “Can’t you freaks at least use your own lunch?”
“Oh, relax, Shelby,” Drake said from off to Arlen’s left. He was fishing change out of his pocket as he surveyed the vending machine options. The second case lay open at his feet, a stock approval letter template resting within its felt lining. “Just having some fun. We didn’t hurt your precious tuna.”
“If you two paid as much attention to the poor excuses for files that end up on my desk as you do to these little diversions, maybe we wouldn’t have a six month logjam,” she countered, hands on hips, tapping the blood red nail of her index finger with each of the last four syllables.
“Get back to work,” she ordered the hulking security guards who were doing their best to blend in with the faux wood paneling on the walls.
“Yes, ma’am,” a neckless crew-cut answered, shooing his charges past the skeletal exec.
“The eight hundred line is fielding ten bomb threats an hour, and you morons are in here playing Cloak and Dagger,” she hissed.
“Won’t happen again, ma’am,” Crew-cut promised as he slunk out of the room.
“What’s it matter anyway,” Arlen wondered as he climbed to his feet. “I have seven hundred open files on my desk, for crissakes. Seven hundred.”
“Oh, cry me a river, Evita,” Drake retorted. “I’m sitting on nine fifty, easy. We’re pissing in the jet wash here, Shell. Where are our reinforcements?”
“Upper management is talking about bringing on new staff,” she answered.
Arlen guffawed.
“Yeah, they’ve been talking about that for the last fourteen months. Shoot, when I took this gig, I figured there was a putt putt in the conference room.”
“No kidding, right,” Drake echoed. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out we didn’t have video poker on our PCs. Couldn’t think of any other reason it would take eight months to process a file.”
“I know, I know,” Shelby admitted. “I thought we got off for company scuba trips to the Caymans between approvals.”
“Look,” she relented. “We’re all under a lot of pressure, but you can’t keep doing this stuff. The prank phone calls to non-delinquent account holders, the BPO dead pools, the contests to see which one of you can collect the most four letter words or longest hold times from Real Estate agents … ”
Arlen and Drake did their best not to smile as they shared a furtive glance.
“Yes, I know about all of it,” Shelby assured them. “There are real people out there depending on us to resolve these short sales, no matter how futile it may seem. It’s time you started taking your jobs seriously.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Arlen acknowledged.
“Straight and narrow from here on out,” Drake promised. “Scout’s honor.”
“Good,” Shelby replied. “Now clean up this mess and get back to your phones, would you?”
She turned on her three inch heel and strode towards the door, dousing the confined space in the oddly medicinal scent of hers that had long reminded Arlen of Vicks VapoRub.
“Let’s play pin the tail on the lien release tomorrow,” Drake whispered as he sidled up next to Arlen.
Arlen nodded and the conspirators bumped fists, splaying their fingers upon contact to mimic an explosion.
“Shell,” Arlen called after the retreating auditor.
“Yes,” she responded, turning back to face the grinning pair as she reached the hall.
“Don’t forget your fish.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 15, 2011 | Scottsdale Real Estate, This & That
Damon’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he stepped out of the stately house and into the warmth of late April in Scottsdale, Arizona. Checking the display, he recognized the number from the four previous calls he’d let roll to voicemail. Whoever it was, his mystery caller was pretty keen on speaking with him right now. He sighed as the door closed behind him, deciding to break his personal rule about taking calls while showing property.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Damon said to the young couple waiting on the porch, pointing to the phone.
“No problem,” the wife answered, running a hand over the lone straggler in her otherwise perfectly coiffed, auburn hair. “We’ll go ahead and get Maddux in his seat.”
Nodding, Damon pressed the “receive” button and put the phone to his ear.
“This is Damon,” he informed the caller in a slightly quizzical tone. Not for the first time, he wondered if he sounded helpful or confused.
“Yes, um, hi, this is Peggy Dragic. You showed my listing on Oak? Just curious what the buyers thought.”
The vein over Damon’s right eye throbbed with aggravation as his cobalt blue eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“You’re kidding, right,” he demanded, the sing-songy eagerness in his voice replaced with an icy baritone. “You’ve called five times in the past ten minutes for feedback?”
“I have a very eager seller,” she responded, by way of an apology.
“Look, Peggy, I’m right in the middle of an appointment. If you want to call back with the property address, you can leave it on my voicemail. I’ll review my notes when I’m done here and call you back,” he directed, willing his rigid jaw to relax. The last thing he needed was a trip to the dentist to fix another filling.
“Surely you remember it,” the agent pressed. “8423 North Oak – the beautifully remodeled Tudor with a split guest suite and stained glass clerestory windows in the foyer.”
He glanced at his black Yukon, where his clients were struggling to load their squirming nine month old. He couldn’t help but smile at their plight. Dylan had started reacting to his seat like a cat to an ice bath at about the same age. Damon suspected it was because he didn’t want to face backwards anymore. No longer content within his own little world, he was ready to join the big, forward-facing one.
“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell,” he lied, deciding to play along. “What day did you say I showed it?”
“Today, between ten and eleven,” the incredulous agent informed him.
Damon pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time.
10:31 AM.
“Today? We must not have gotten to it yet. Nothing but overpriced dogs to this point,” he said. His mouth curved into a toothless grin.
“But I just got off the phone with the seller! She said you were just there!”
“Wait … did you say Oak,” he asked.
“Yes, Oak! There’s a koi pond in the front courtyard,” the agent clarified.
“No koi ponds today, just a stagnant bog that someone is using to brew West Nile virus. Couldn’t have been your listing,” he assured her, looking down at the half dozen carp of varied brilliant colors loitering near his feet.
“She was home when you came through,” the agent insisted. “You were there for half an hour!”
Movement in the living room window caught Damon’s attention. A wrinkled face disappeared behind the elegant taupe curtain when he turned to look.
“Tudor, you say? We did see one Tudor, but it needed a lot of work,” he replied.
“My listing has newer appliances and a tankless hot water system,” the agent corrected.
“Well the one I’m thinking of smelled like an old lady’s apothecary chest and had the most garish flooring I have ever seen. The husband called it the “La Vida Loca House.”
“I’ll have you know that is the finest terracotta tile money can buy, imported directly from an artisan in Pienza. Each piece is handmade, baked in the sun for seventy two hours and fired in a 16th century kiln,” she huffed.
“No kidding? It looked like something my kid made in art class,” Damon responded. “And not for nothing, but Michelangelo he is not.”
“Well, what did they think about the kitchen? Is that not a gourmet’s delight,” she asked.
“If you are into cherry wood and granite, I suppose,” Damon admitted. “My people are alderwood and corian people. The kitchen would be the first thing they’d have to gut.”
“You won’t find another piece of property like this,” she pressed. “Where else can you get an acre and a half backing to state trust land in Scottsdale?”
“Maintenance would be a killer,” Damon countered. “My people are relocating from a studio apartment in San Francisco. He doesn’t even own a lawnmower.”
“How about the price,” she asked, hesitating slightly.
Damon allowed an audible sigh to preface his reply.
“You already know you’re overpriced by two hundred thousand, Peggy. No sense belaboring the point. It’s out of their range, but we wanted to take a look just in case it was move-in ready and the seller was willing to deal a little bit.”
“She is open to all offers,” the agent replied.
Damon realized he was pacing and began walking towards the SUV, where his clients had finally wrestled their sobbing child into his seat. He made a mental note to stop for a snack, toy, bottle of methadone or any other anti-tantrum talisman one could purchase at a Circle K.
“I appreciate that, but I just don’t see this house working for my people, Peggy. They want a split master, need an extra half bath, hate stairs …”
“Any suggestions? She really needs out of that house,” the desperate agent interrupted. “Since her husband passed away last year, it’s become too much for her to handle. Her family is all waiting for her back in Toledo.”
“Just between me and you, as a professional courtesy, it’s not going to sell while she’s living there. Her stuff is all over the place, family pictures staring down at you from every wall. Didn’t help that she followed us through the entire house, pointing out where one of her kids bumped his head forty years ago and the laundry room baseboard that Daisy, the Golden Retriever, chewed up in the mid eighties. My people felt like intruders.”
“I know, I know,” the crestfallen agent confessed. “I keep telling her to take the dog for a walk during showings. It died ten years ago, but she doesn’t know that.”
“Put her on a plane to Toledo and crash the price. It’s too far gone for a mom and pop. Your buyer is an investor.”
Damon climbed behind the wheel and buckled his seat belt while pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder in a well-practiced maneuver. After checking his passengers to ensure that everyone was secure, he started the car.
“Well, not what I wanted to hear, but I appreciate your candor,” the agent said, partially obscured by the throaty engine roaring to life.
“No sweat, hope it helps,” Damon offered.
“It does, thanks for taking the time.”
“Sure thing, Peggy. Best of luck,” Damon concluded, terminating the call and dropping the phone into the grey cup holder in the console. He looked in the rearview at the young woman in the back seat, beaming despite the now shrieking child next to her.
“So what do you think, guys? Still feeling it,” he asked.
“Absolutely, it’s everything we’ve ever wanted,” the computer programmer with the prematurely salt and pepper flecked buzz cut sitting next to him gushed, breaking from his usual recalcitrance to answer for them both.
“Terrific, let’s go back to the office and write it up. One thing, though,” Damon teased.
“What,” both spouses asked in unison.
“We’re gonna offer a hundred grand less than we discussed.”
All three smiled as they pulled away from the curb, leaving 8423 N. Oak Drive in their wake.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 13, 2011 | This & That
“I’ll dust it, but I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”
The lanky crime scene investigator known as Phelps kneeled beside the passenger door of the beige sedan and opened his kit. He shook his head as he studied the eruption of prints on and around the chrome handle, his floppy, straw-blond hair betraying his reluctance.
“Whaddya mean, waste of time,” Detective Dekker demanded. “There must be fifty prints on that door.”
“Fifty six visible latents,” Phelps corrected. “Look, Detective, these are ancient. See how the paint has oxidized around the perimeter of this one?”
Decker nodded.
“The epithelial oil has preserved the surface underneath, essentially forming a hermetical seal against the elements, while the surrounding paint shows advanced stages of weathering. If the print was fresh, the underlying paint would reflect the same level of deterioration,” Phelps concluded.
“How long are we talking here,” Dekker asked.
“Difficult to say. Lots of variables. Paint degradation to this extent would take decades if parked indoors and properly cared for. The prints would have been obliterated by routine washing and waxing, however, so-”
“Skip ahead,” Dekker growled. Patience had never been his forte.
“Couple years, give or take,” Phelps summarized.
“Run them through CODIS anyway,” Dekker ordered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Phelps returned to his work without argument.
“Got something over here, Peter,” a female voice called from inside the car. His partner was the only one who called him by his given name. Even his mother called him “Deck.”
Dekker walked around to the driver side and poked his ruddy face inside the open door frame. The familiar, dizzying combination of vanilla and lilac rose from the occupant’s flowing, jet-black hair, overpowering the close quarters.
“Whatcha got, Perez?”
“GPS. God, I love technology. Almost as much as I love the predictability of a Realtor,” she answered.
“Let me guess, a synopsis of the last five hours of his life? He programmed a route of the homes he was showing yesterday.”
“Close,” Perez responded, extending an olive hand to the windshield-mounted unit. Dekker’s eyes lingered on the recent addition to her slender ring finger for a moment before moving to the data that was called up on the display.
“Wait, I know that address,” he interjected.
“Of course you do,” Perez replied, turning to face him with a wicked grin. Her dark Persian eyes flared with mischief. “You’re there most every Tuesday and Thursday. Are the lunch specials as superb as everyone says?”
He felt his face warm as he flushed a deep crimson.
“Yes, I mean no. I mean I, uh … how’d you know that,” Dekker stammered.
“I’m a cop, Peter,” she said with an ironic wink. “Besides, let’s just say that I don’t have to call Quantico for any help with the profile.”
“What about the rest of his stops,” Dekker asked, eager to plow ahead.
“Airport, few more gentlemen’s clubs, a liquor store and the bank,” Perez informed him.
“I don’t get it,” Dekker mused, regaining his composure. “The wife told us he was out showing property all afternoon. Big shot investor of some sort.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a man lied to his wife about his whereabouts, Peter,” she noted, eyes darting to the floor.
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. “Something is off here, though. How did his car end up all the way out here in the sticks if he was barhopping in the city? And how do you explain the credit card records? That stop at the Quickie Mart off I-10 for bottled water, soda, ice and snacks is consistent with the contents of the cooler in the back seat.”
“He was thirsty,” Perez suggested.
“No, he was definitely planning to meet somebody,” Dekker corrected. “Those are tour guide supplies.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Perez said.
“What?”
“He made one more stop. Missed it the first time,” she confessed. “But this can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s right here,” she answered.
“Here? On purpose? How is that even possible? There can’t be any address associated with this place,” Dekker argued, gesturing to the surrounding area. “We’re in the middle of frigging nowhere.”
Surveying the fallow cornfield, his sinuses, reminded to object, began throbbing. If desolation had a taste, it was the dusty hint of maize that now sat upon his tongue.
“True, he wasn’t necessarily looking for these coordinates, just something off grid,” Perez elaborated. “Take a look at this.”
Dekker leaned in closer, doing a poor job of ignoring the electricity that coursed through his body when a few errant strands of her hair brushed his cheek. The GPS display was illuminated with the green letters, BFE.
“Is that time-stamped,” he asked.
“5:42 PM, exactly two hours after the previous search.”
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong. Something happened alright, but he wasn’t forced to drive here,” Dekker declared. “Things went bad with the mystery guest for some reason or another, and our boy had a change of plans.”
They were interrupted by a loud crash behind them.
“What the hell,” Decker exclaimed as he caught sight of the trunk bursting open in the rear view mirror. He jumped back from the doorway and sprinted the three steps to the back of the car, Perez not far behind. The shrieking CSI tech scurried around to the front bumper and ducked out of sight.
“Damn it, I thought this scene was secured!”
Perez jostled Dekker as he stopped short. She opened her mouth to chastise him, but had her train of thought derailed by the spectacle playing out in front of her slack-jawed partner.
“Whaa?”
Hopping away from the flabbergasted pair was a pale, middle-aged, white male. Save for the red garment with which he had been hog-tied, he was naked as the day he was born, his bare skin twinkling in the midday sun with each lurching movement. The gargling sound emanating from his strained vocal chords failed to resolve into coherent words.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see everyday,” Dekker managed.
The man had hop-crawled ten yards into the barren field before the detectives recovered their wits sufficiently to walk him down. They approached as one would a strange dog, palms up and cooing assurances of, “it’s okay,” and “no one’s gonna hurt you.” Closing in, they noted a light dusting of glitter on his skin to compliment the heavy stench of Scotch. He regarded the detectives through bulging, bloodshot eyes that had taken on the panicked sheen of a cornered animal before grudgingly yielding to their assistance.
“Herph mah,” he pleaded. “Herph mah.”
Phelps loped over with a blanket from the CSI van as Dekker freed the captive from the silk necktie that bound him and dislodged a crumpled up piece of paper from his throat.
“Help me,” the man croaked, wincing against the words.
The trio helped him to the backseat of Dekker’s Saturn, where Perez took his statement as they awaited the arrival of the paramedics.
Leaving the victim to his thoughts after fifteen minutes of gentle questioning, Dekker let a low whistle escape his lips when they were clear.
“Dirtbag,” Perez spit as she looked back at the cowering figure in the window.
“Hey, not his fault if he doesn’t want to buy,” Dekker retorted. “Like my daddy always said, never pity a salesman.”
“Yeah, but four years? FOUR YEARS? You string somebody along like that and you’re lucky they don’t show up at your front door with a bazooka,” Perez answered, eyes narrowing.
“Touche,” Dekker said.
“This had to have been the last straw,” she decided. “Guy hasn’t had a client in his car in ages, according to the wife, right?”
“Right,” Dekker acknowledged.
“His white whale calls out of the clear blue sky and says he wants to see some multi-million dollar properties. He’s serious this time. Our guy puts on his best suit and closing tie, makes appointments, picks the whale up at the airport, gets derailed by requests to hit up every strip club and nightspot within a five mile radius. Ever the good host, he hits the ATM to pull out his last sixty bucks somewhere in the middle of it all.”
“Then Moby Dick here tells our boy that he’s too partied out to look at houses and needs a lift back to the airport,” Dekker finished.
Dekker handed Perez the wet piece of paper he had fished from the victim’s mouth. Unwadded, it was a surprisingly legible document. She handed it back after a cursory glance.
Perez nodded.
“Our boy goes all Falling Down vintage Michael Douglas. Plots a course for the middle of nowhere, strips the vic in symbolic retaliation for same, binds him, gags him with the buyer agency agreement, abandons him with the vehicle and … ,” she trailed off, scouring the horizon for signs of life.
“K-9 unit should get here before it gets dark,” Dekker told her. “They’ll find him. Nothing easier to track than imitation Aqua Velva and desperation.”
She looked unconvinced.
“A night in the desert isn’t gonna do him in if the nuclear holocaust in the housing industry hasn’t managed it,” he added. “They’re cockroaches. Can’t kill’em.”
“But if he’s suffering some kind of psychotic break …,” she began.
“Then better he’s wandering around out there somewhere than holding an open house,” Dekker interrupted with a chuckle.
“And if the dogs don’t get here before nightfall? Cockroach or not, no one is surviving two days in this heat without water.”
“He’s a Realtor, Alana,” Dekker reminded her. “We should be so lucky.”
She studied his rigid jaw for a long moment, recalling her embittered partner’s botched short sale. The stress of the resulting foreclosure had led to his eventual separation and six months spent on her couch. Not necessarily in that order.
“You gave them the wrong directions, didn’t you,” she demanded.
His light green eyes flashed grey, a tell that had chased him out of the weekly Robbery/Homicide division’s card game years ago.
“Maybe.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jan 6, 2011 | This & That
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OU812 E. Impasse Trail …GOOD NEWS!!! Jan 1 (5 days ago) Reply [v]
Dear Barry,
I am happy to inform you that the buyer has concluded his inspections for Impasse TL. Outside of a few minor issues that he would like the seller to address, we should be good to go. Please find the following list of repair items, and let me know if you have any questions. I’ll go ahead and schedule contractors while we await seller signature.
Action Items:
- Repair wood rot at NE fascia board above garage.
- Repair leak at main water valve and install pressure regulator to bring pressure below 90 PSI.
- Remove dated 30” oak cabinetry in kitchen and replace with 42” dove-tailed, raised-panel cherry.
- Laminate counter tops throughout home to be replaced with level 5 granite of buyer’s choice. Beveled edge or beaver cut.
- Seller to credit buyer $20,000 towards stainless steel appliance package.
- Water staining at SW corner of third bedroom closet ceiling. Roof to be replaced.
- Garage to be enclosed as livable square footage with 18 Seer A/C unit and R-19 factor insulation batts installed.
- Neighbors on east side of home to paint their trim.
- Water heater is six months old. Nearing the end of its useful life. Seller to upgrade to solar and assign tax credit to buyer.
- 50’ x 500’ moat to be constructed between front yard planter and porch by licensed contractor under the guidance of medieval historian. Seller to credit buyer $5000 towards stocking with reptilian of buyer’s choice.
- Helipad with Starbucks kiosk installed above third story addition (see permit plans already submitted to the city).
- Stucco damage at front facade to be patched.
- “My Little Pony” theme in bedroom 4 to be changed to “Toy Story” motif, complete with life-sized Buzz Lightyear figurine and fully operational rocket ship.
- Ceiling fan in master bedroom to be removed to make room for trapeze.
- Strike plate on hall bathroom door to be realigned to close properly.
- In addition to these minor fixes, buyer requests that seller agree to personally return to premises to make needed repairs to property for up to five (5) years after closing.
I look forward to your positive response. Please fax executed agreement to (888) 317-1635.
Thanks!
Chet
Chester Montgomery, REALTOR
VelociRealtors, LLC
We pin’em, you skin’em
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RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail …GOOD NEWS!!! Jan 3 (3 days ago) Reply [v]
Chet,
Thank you for furnishing the buyer’s inspection notice. After careful consideration of the repair items, the seller proposes a closing cost credit en lieu of repairs in the amount of go f&%$ yourself. Please find official response attached and forward to title once executed.
Best,
Barry
Bartholomew Shackles CRS GRI ABR CDPE
Shack and Awe Realty
Alienate, Detonate & Move Into What’s Left!
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RE: RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail … GOOD NEWS!!! Jan 4 (2 days ago) Reply [v]
Barry,
My client thanks the seller for the considerate response. Just a minor tweak to the addendum and we’re all set. Please see
counter offer and have seller initial changes.
Thanks,
Chet
Chester Montgomery, REALTOR GPS SUV DR DRE ABBA STD
*National Junior Honor Society Member, Outstanding Achievement in Reading Recipient, Cochise Elementary – 1976, Melba Island Pie-Eating Contest Runner-Up: 1993, Eagle Scout, PTA Enthusiast*
VelociRealtors, LLC
We pin’em, you skin’em
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RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail …GOOD NEWS!!! Jan 5 (1 day ago) Reply [v]
Chet,
Thank you for agreeing to our terms. Please crumple up the previous response which you erroneously forwarded and shove it straight up your @$$. I will watch my fax for the executed acceptance.
Barry
Batholomew Shackles CRS GRI ABR CDPE (Can you even spell CRS?)
Shack and Awe Realty
Alienate, Detonate & Move Into What’s Left!
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RE:RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail … GOOD 1:17 PM(1 hour ago) Reply [v]
Barry,
The buyer challenges the seller to a no-holds barred mud-wrestling match on 2/1 at Cesar‘s Palace. Standard Thunderdome rules apply, with the bout to be sanctioned by the Nevada State Athletic Commission. Winner receives the losing party’s signature and 60% of the pay per view.
Chet
Chester Montgomery, REALTOR
VelociRealtors, LLC
We Pin’em, You Skin’em
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RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail … 2:04 PM (12 minutes ago) Reply [v]
Chet,
The seller accepts on the condition that Flavor Flav, Sandra Day O’Connor and the guy who played the dad on Alf serve as celebrity judges.
Barry
Bartholomew Shackles CRS GRI ABR CDPE
Shack and Awe Realty
Alienate, Detonate & Move Into What’s Left!
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RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail 2:07 PM (9 minutes ago) Reply [v]
Do you want to call title with the cancellation or should I?
Chester Montgomery, REALTOR
VelociRealtors, LLC
We Pin’em, You Skin’em
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RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse Trail 2:10 PM (6 minutes ago) Reply [v]
I’ll do it. Gotta check on loan docs for another file anyway. Tell Janet I said hello. We still on for Saturday?
Bartholomew Shackles CRS GRI ABR CDPE
Shack and Awe Realty
Alienate, Detonate & Move Into What’s Left!
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RE: RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE: OU812 E. Impasse 2:13 PM (5 minutes ago) Reply [v]
Yep, we’ll meet you at 8. Bring your wallet. Told you this one wasn’t going anywhere. 😉
Chester Montgomery, REALTOR
VelociRealtors, LLC
We Pin’em, You Skin’em
