So, I Run a 411 Scam on A Nigerian Prince and His Entourage…

Sorry for my absence these past weeks… I’ve been off the road finishing a major project…

Today started early, 5AM to be specific, and it started without chain smoking twenty cigarettes, and shot gunning a pot of black coffee. It started by trying to sneak out of the house as quietly as possible. I had laid out all my clothes, socks, everything, so I would only need to get up, and get to the bathroom and get dressed, and minimize the risk of accidentally waking the rabid orangutan that was at that moment occupying my bed. The orangutan doesn’t like smoke, hence no smoking. The orangutan thinks that the coffee grinder sounds like an industrialized African deforestation apparatus, so it’s Redbull over Colombian gold. The orangutan likes to sleep in… thus I’m tiptoeing around my own house like some kind of thief… 

I’m ready and out, having even gone so far as shaving the night before to minimize noise… I lean down to kiss the orangutan good bye, she says: “would you fucking leave already…”

I left.

All of this preamble serves only to illustrate that I was in what clinical psychologists refer to as: “No motherfucking mood” to be at the airport at 6am. As a consequence I’m pretty sure I can be medically deemed not responsible for what happened next.

Terminal D at DFW is simultaneously the nicest and second worst terminal** at the airport. It’s the nicest because it’s fancy, and clean and new… it looks like it was designed by Walt Disney… it’s amazing. It’s the worst because it is 3/4ths filled with tourists. It’s the international terminal, and for every qualified business passenger anticipating with dread a transatlantic flight in coach, or sorta looking forward to ten hours of relative quite and alone time in business or first class, there are ten world-class idiots off to see grandma, going on their honeymoon, or generally being in the way.

In the way being the operative turn of phrase. This was supposed to be a day trip to Houston… I had nothing but a suit jacket and a briefcase, it should have been a snap.

Of course it wasn’t. As I make it into the secure area, holding my pants up with one hand; with belt, boots, and briefcase in the other, I make my way towards the benches TSA has provided for me to get re-dressed. The benches are mostly occupied, all except one, which is literally over flowing and also surrounded by what looks to be a Nigerian prince, seven of his wives and half a dozen ministers and hangers on… 

They are of course not getting dressed having just come through security… they are just fucking sitting there. Just motherfucking sitting there like they didn’t have an Admirals Club pass, and couldn’t be bothered to wait at their gate in anticipating of boarding their plane off to some godforsaken equatorial country. So… right here they sat… where they could be as much in the way as humanly possible. Right here is where they decided to set up camp.

Suddenly I was fucking Gandolf… You Shall Not Pass (not at least without being mocked).

I foreswore the benches that were merely occupied and went to this over-occuipied bench where Prince whatever-the-fuck had sat all seven of his wives and surrounded it with his entourage… I was still carrying all my belongings in one hand, and holding my pants up with the other as I pushed my way through their crowd.

Literally, I had to push and elbow my way in. I spied a four-inch space of bench between two of the wives and sat right down in it, edging my way in, first one side, and then the other making my own seat and forcing the wives to scrunch together on either side.

I started getting dressed.

Prince I’m-Better-Than-U and several of he entourage turned to face me… they tried to create a menacing horseshoe around me. “What are you doing?” The prince asked.

“Getting dressed, it’s what these benches are for”. I said.

“We’re sitting here,” He said.

“Yes. So am I.” I said, then I added right away: “Or was I included in We’re.”

He fumed… his honor was being insulted in front of his wives and his posse, but there was little he could do, we were in the secure area of the airport, and literally five feet behind us was a platoon of TSA.

I pressed my luck. It’s what I do. I picked my bag up off the floor, made just enough room by scooting one way to set it on the bench, and then scooting back the other way to balance out… I made myself big. I made myself occupy as much space as possible.

Prince Dip-fuck-a-roo glared at me. His posse glared at me.

I asked as friendly as possible: “So where you from, man?”

“Nigeria.” He said. Cold. Bitter. Hostile.

“No Shit?” I asked.

“No Shit.” He said flatly, looking at his watch.

“Maybe you can help me with something?”

He looked at me blankly. I pressed on.

“My name is Colonel Lucky Hackworth, my uncle was a CIA operative in Africa who managed to embezzle one hundred million dollars from the Nigerian oil ministry… the money, though, is tied up in local banks. If you could help me get it out of the country – I need someone local – I would happily pay you five percent –that’s five million dollars – as a commission.”

He was nonplussed: “Do you think you’re funny?”

I smiled. “No. But you know what I think is funny. All these people trying to get redressed while standing up coming out of security because you assholes decided to camp on the benches.”

I leaned back, and spread myself out wide on the bench, basically scrunching the wives on either side, I dramatically threw my arms back on the back of the bench, such that I had nearly three wives in the arc of each arm. 

“Isn't watching those poor peasants motherfucking HI-LARIOUS?” I asked dryly.

Prince Shame-Be-Unto-U gibbered something in Nigerian to his companions, and they all got up as one and started to set off into the terminal.

I hurried to finish getting ready, and followed after them… “What about 10 percent… would you take 10 percent to help me get the money out of the country… TEN MILLION DOLLARS!!!!” I called way too loudly after them. 

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**(the worst terminal at DFW is of course terminal E, which is old, shitty, and where all the airlines OTHER than American fly out of… as a consequence it is filled 98% with tourists, 1.5 percent travelers from other hub cities, and .05% people whose companies make them chose the cheapest ticket regardless of airline preference… These people I refer to as zombies, because their self-loathing, and bad career choices cause all the life to leave their eyes.