Diary of a Used Car Salesman: Repo Man

His cell phone line was dead. A disconnected phone is always the first sign that one my automotive “investments” has gone south. Number two: timing. His payment was due that afternoon. By 2:00 PM I was at the house. My car wasn’t there. Common scents told me his associate, DJ Jazzy Dumbfuck, was inside getting high. Angry rap songs blasted from inside. Knocked on the door . . . doorbell . . . knock . . . doorbell . . .

DJ emerges from his drugged stupor and staggers to the door. His eyes are barely open. Then again, maybe not. “Do you know where Darrin is?” ”Um . . . no, sir.” I love it when they call me sir; a buried if totally unrealized respect for authority makes my job easier. Turns out the client had been arrested for theft. The cops led him away in handcuffs. At the nearby McDonalds. I wondered if they let him keep the toy. I knew where he worked. Yes, worked. And there it was. My car.

Unfortunately, so was his highly decorated sister. I informed the seven body piercings surrounding her face that I was repo’ing the car. The police would arrive shortly to inspect the vehicle for any stolen merchandise. She leaves immediately. Then I order the hauler.

I’ll have the police open the trunk tomorrow. If they recover someone else’s belongings, the heat will jerk his chain. Or not. Those TV guys might be able to lift a print from a discarded Tic-Tac, but real life cops are more likely to throw everything into a garbage bag.

I’ve only had two repos this year. Both were referrals. From now on, I’m going to put my faith in ageism. I won’t finance a “referral” under 25. So sue me.

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