Imagine my joy when I opened up my inbox today and found another mass-mailed piece of spam from the intrepid “fellow travelers” at Eyeshot.net. I thought that my last e-mail had made things abundantly clear, but it seems to have reached blind eyes. To reiterate: do not send another group e-mail solicitation to this or any other e-mail addresses maintained by myself, my devises, or my assigns.
Another such message will result in swift and terrible legal action. I’m a damn good lawyer, which means I’m rich enough to hire an even better one. And I feel that I should warn you: my attorney is an absolute bastard. He has the instincts of a Detroit street hustler, complemented by the temperament of an injured bull, or even a wolverine. He’s as fiercely and blindly loyal as a whiskey-drunk Hell’s Angel, one from San Bernardino even, defending a gut-shot buddy in a bar fight. Consider yourself forewarned, Mr. Eyeshot; my attorney wields his Yale Law School diploma like a stiletto.
I met my lawyer at Yale. We were both members of a secret society so ancient and weird and dark and wrong it makes Skull and Bones look like an office fantasy football league that lets girls play.
I’ve certainly said too much about that already. If my dead body turns up tomorrow, hanging where the rising tide covers my bare feet, facing west, with my eyes gouged out, a silver coin wedged under my tongue bearing the image of the Hindu God Ganeesh on one side and Nathan Hale on the other, I guess we’ll know why, won’t we?
Still, I’ve got some bad news, Mr. Eyeshot. You may already be hearing from my law partners and I, whether or not you decide to spam me again or not. My firm represents Pfizer, and we are all aware that you cribbed your spam’s gag press release format from a Pfizer media statement, one which one of our associates wrote awhile back. And guess what pal, they’re gonna want to litigate. Pfizer’s CEO is a nasty bitch; he will not suffer candy-ass shit from some pseudointellectual, armchair-socialist pissant with a mother fixation, a liberal arts degree, and a hobby-website.
My firm may not employ any guys as innately viscous and cruel as my personal attorney, but we’ll still rip out your throat and show it to you while you die like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse. Actually, truth is, we may not win a copyright infringement case against you. But we’ll have you tied up in complicated litigation for so long you’ll be brushing your teeth in the courthouse bathroom sink and the panhandling vagrants out front will call to you by name.
Personally, I don’t work for Pfizer all the time, although I did represent them in a minor products liability matter some years ago. We ended up settling and the specifics of the case are sealed. The parties involved are bound to permanent silence by a litany of injunctions, writs, and gag orders. Let me just say this: when a constipated 10-year-old boy is given a new, chewable laxative and two hours later he still can’t shit and his head has swollen to roughly the size, color, and texture of a regulation WNBA basketball, the parents tend to start looking around for somebody to sue.
I have revealed too much. The point is that I know these guys. I’ve watched them nickel and dime a horrendously disfigured little boy; they will have no qualms about breaking you in half just to make a point to the shareholders and have something to talk about over bourbons at the club.
It’s like Woody Guthrie wrote:
"As through this life you travel you’ll meet some funny men, some will rob you with a six-gun, some with a fountain pen. As through this life you ramble, as through this life you roam, you’ll never see an outlaw take a family from its home."
Guthrie’s backwoods wisdom of the Appalachia is as correct as it is simple, and it remains true almost 100 years later. A street hood will take your wallet, maybe your watch, and a wedding ring if you’ve got one. He might even boost your shoes if they’re nice, if the alley’s dark, and if he’s got an extra minute. But guys like my lawyer and the dudes at Pfizer, they will drain your bank account of every red-colored cent. They’ll take your house, your car, your dog. They’ll get a court order awarding them 90 cents on every dollar earned until the day you die. Then they’ll do the same to your family and friends like some corporate Kyzer Sozes.-- Woody Guthrie, Pretty Boy Floyd.
Don’t mess with me, Mr. Eyeshot. I’m a powerful man. More importantly, I have even more powerful friends. But you know what, on second thought, send me another e-mail. I dare you. My lawyer could use the practice.
See you in Court, asshole.
Stephen J. Rhombus, Esq.
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