The problem is I know some of the directors on their board. I know a few shareholders. My brother-in-law is one. So is my sister.
Hell, I can look in the mirror and see one staring back at me.
9
judge chili cook-offs
Liam
Sitting in Durango in another short-term rental not far from his compound, I wonder if there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to Briggs Barnett. He knows the vulnerabilities on his property. He knows he can see, as can I, what’s happening on the acreage around him. And he knows—or he should—that I won’t take care of that problem for him. I’m no mercenary.
Illegal “camping” isn’t uncommon in Colorado. Unless it’s federal land and the fines are accompanied by jail time, people tend to try the “I didn’t know this was private,” or “No one should be able to own this much property,” or “My bad, dude. We’ll move.”
The thing is the cameras are clear. The “campers,” if we want to call them that, are military-aged men, very comfortable roughing it, with weapons strapped to their thighs and chests. And not the kind they’d have in case of bears. Not the kind that the state generally allows to be sold to the public. They’re specialized, and the men who carry them don’t show any indication they wouldn’t be just fine using them—on bear or man alike.
“How do we address this?”
We? There is nowe. There’s a lot of shit I’ll do for money. Money makes the world go ‘round, after all, but I draw the line on killing someone.
For money, that is.
I’m precise in my response. “You have several options. Call the cops to report trespassing. Go out there yourself, so they understand the nature of the problem. Hire someone to do it for you. Or you could do something more fun… like play a noise that makes them wish their ears could bleed to get some relief and basically scare them off. But I don’t figure into any of that. I set up the system.” I nod to my open laptop. “I’m not on the team otherwise. I’m not any kind of enforcer. I’m a computer jockey.”
That’s a downplay, an intentional one. I know how to handle my body and those of people coming at me. But I don’t go to them. Except for my family. And Barnett isn’t family.
“What’s your price?”
I hold his gaze so he knows he’s asked the wrong person. “There is no price. I’m nobody’s muscle.”
“Two million?”
I would do a lot of shit for two million dollars. On second thought, who the fuck is out there, and why is he so worried that he’d offer me such a sum to go remove them from private property?
“Again, there is no price. Keep it up and this will end our business relationship.” Not that we have much beyond that. A casual friendship, maybe. Respect, perhaps. He’s a client, and I’m a vendor. Just one of a more sensitive nature.
Holding my gaze as if he could make me wither under its puny stare, he puts his phone to his ear. “Have Hans deal with the intruders. And make sure Mr. Murphy’s motorcycle isn’t blocked in. He was just leaving.”
I smile. It’s malevolent and cold. “Thanks.”
Make no mistake, the idea of being dismissed grates on my nerves. The idea that I’ve extricated myself from this situation intact is worth the hit to my ego.
And I learned a long time ago that ego is the enemy.
Ego brutalizes.
Ego kills.
My dad taught me that.
Lorien
It’s been a week, and I’m finally acting a little less skittish, less nervous, less jittery about being in the office. I’m working under the assumption that I should be mining the data we have, isolating the genomic sequences on the autoimmunity anomaly as well as working with topicals on whatever the heck they’re doing.
Boils, rashes, and flaking skin can be just as painful, itchy, and annoying as other medical conditions. I don’t belittle those who suffer. I don’t believe the work is less valuable.
But I do believe those come from a root cause, not a reaction, so there would be a biological foundation to address, not just treat.
But, alas, we make money—at least our shareholders do—based on doctoring not healing, so symptoms are isolated just enough that we can address one by one.
