Strangely, the buyer insists on buying in person, in Hammond, so he returns to his parents’ home, eager to tell them that their financial worries are over, and once he makes the sale, he intends to move back to LA, resume work at the spa and make his next cheese, Zellweger Appenzeller. His life is feeling exceptionally sweet, and his mania leads him to wonder if he shouldn’t also make some cheeses for the ladies: a Gosling goat cheese, or for the older set, a robust Tom Selleck cheddar. He figures that getting into their dungarees will be much easier than what he’s had to go through so far. You just try to get close to Brooke Shields’ bacteria. She’s got crazy security.
When he returns home, he finds his room in the basement to be unchanged. He removes the carefully wrapped cheese from the shoulder cooler that was his carry-on, places it in the downstairs refrigerator with all the beers, and decides to go get a burger then take a nap before the exchange scheduled that evening at 6:30PM. He slips out the back door, cuts through the carport and strolls through the neighborhood to a local McDougal’s to have a Fourth Pounder with extra cheese, half for the irony of it. It feels so good to stretch his legs after the long flight and cab ride home, that he fails to notice the car parked at the end of his street, with the man hunched down in the driver’s seat.
I slip in the basement, find his refrigerator, and slice off a really thick slab of Lagoon with a View Bleu, though hopefully not enough for it to be missed, unless he already weighed the block of cheese, which I’m sure he has. Do I feel bad? Luring him back to his house with promises of a great fortune in exchange for his special cheese? Not at all. I am stronger, smarter, and more resourceful than my peers and auction competitors. I deserve to be rewarded, and if Ayn Rand were still alive we would have had the hottest sex two rapacious narcissists with delusions of grandeur could have. The universe owes me everything, and I owe it nothing in return. Besides which, if I am going to completely satisfy six Amazonian strap-on fem doms, I am fucking aye right gonna keep all the money. Besides, from what I can tell, I’m not making a dime in residuals.
Now I am off to set my grand plan into motion.
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Editor’s note: Technically it is her vulva, not her vagina.