Jackpot

I met Gaspard a month after I repossessed his girlfriend’s Lamborghini Reventon. The two came in together to claim it and pay the tow bill; but she was hysterical, crying, and hurling four-letter words like a box of corn pop cereal fired from a cannon.
She was pissed.
And from South Jersey.
She demanded I give her satisfaction by way of lowering the fees, which inspired me to advise her I’d held it for thirty days and it was pay up or lose it. I’ve been in this business a very long time, so wasn’t disappointed when she jumped up and down, banged her fists on the counter, and screamed that Gaspard pay the bill for her “Right effing now!”
He, obviously hoping I was clueless, reminded her in French that he’d spent a fortune purchasing the thing for her; that she should have had her insurance paid up before getting a speeding ticket, and ever so politely invited her to Va te faire foutre.
I was so hot by then I jumped the counter and kissed him full on the lips.

As a result, she lost that fabulous piece of machinery, Gaspard bought it at auction, gave it to me and asked me to run away with him. So, I am. We leave for Monaco tomorrow.

I’ll stay in touch. 🥃😘

 

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Dear D’arcy

Today has been total shite. I have a migraine, I couldn’t sleep last night, and when I finally did nod off I dreamed we shopped cruises, but decided against it after we couldn’t find any place to sleep except the dining room and two vegetables were $47.95.
Work is beginning to resemble the black plague, and I was forced to extend my deepest and most profound apologies to those women who may have taken offense at my having used the term “trailer trash” yesterday.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s easy to repo anything from those hard drinkin’, fishin’ and huntin’ camo-wearin’ hags; because they’re mean as Hell.

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