The Shamrock Shakedown (or “Why Florida is Psycho-Meatloaf”)

Posted: April 15, 2012 in paranoid life, Vic Neverman Travelogue
Tags: , ,

Where the fuck did he think he was-in some friendly Civics class? Hell no, he was in Florida, arguably the most vicious & corrupt state in the Union…

– Hunter S. Thompson, from “The Fix Is In” column, 11/27/00

Central Florida breeds some unsavory character. If New York City is a melting pot, then Orlando is genetically modified meatloaf gone horribly wrong. A cow town grown to prominence overnight by selling outsiders on a ‘magical’ facade: in existential terms, this town is utter bullshit (if only bulls had udders to shit through!). The population recipe includes the rednecks who were here the longest (discounting the natives whose burial sites were paved over), the later influx of scoundrel merchants looking to benefit on the loose change of the tourists and then the transplants looking to move to paradise to seek out eternal youth by turning their flesh into mummified beef jerky courtesy of the oppressive sun and margarita salt. It is a psycho-meatloaf with the binding agents of delusions of grandeur, sociopathic entitlement and overall intolerance. I, Vic Neverman, have wandered the globe and have never found a higher asshole quotient than here in Orlando. Grade A, top notch, douche-baggery. Ahh, yes… and it’s home.

Can you blame me for anti-social behavior when society is represented by this lot? Can you blame me when I had Casey Anthony living 15 minutes down one road and George Zimmerman 15 minutes in the opposite direction? I try my damnedest to avoid the cretins of this town, but I occasionally make an appearance I would later regret. The weekend of the Daytona 500, there were two South Dakota farm hands in town for the races that I single-handedly (literally one-handed, my other was holding a slice of pizza) saved from being mutilated by a local crowd of territorial mini-thugs (like fire ants, they might be small but numerous and they will stab the shit out of your shins) who didn’t like the way the taller/stronger Dakotans were looking at them (NOTE: nothing good happens downtown after midnight). The boys from Pierre were dumbfounded by the revelation that the shorter Hispanic dudes would bring knives to a cow-tipping contest, “but that ain’t fair fightin’.” No shit. Welcome to Orlando, the City Beautiful.

And then came St Patrick’s Day 2012, when I stood accused of a crime I not only did not commit, but didn’t even know what the accusation was to begin with. While I am no stranger to Irish stout and whiskey, St Paddy’s is amateur night (along with Cinco de Mayo, Valentine’s and all the other ‘liquor me up’ holidays sponsored by Hallmark) and I tend to stay home. This year I should have.

The facts from March 17th are quick and easy – I was in Oviedo (imagine a tick burrowing into the leach embedded in a jackal that is munching on the carcass of Central Florida) with friends and friends of friends at a sports bar where everyone was intoxicated and winding down as the clock reached midnight. I was hovering over the pool tables with some very loose acquaintances when an employee of the establishment charged our group with starting trouble “outside”. The accusation by the bartender was so spontaneous, our reaction was mixed. Puzzled, we were unclear of what exactly happened outside when a member of our accused party called the female accuser a word so foul, so uncalled for, so far removed from my lexicon I am uncertain how to even spell it here (but it rhymes with ‘runt’). It was at this point, the River Styx overflowed the dam of the damned and all hell broke out. Cry Havok! and let slip the dogs of war! This sports bar establishment suddenly became the 38th parallel in Korea: a demilitarized zone where drunken patrons spat at drunken patrons, where dish boys stood confused, where waitresses cried bloody foul and all with Victor Neverman standing in the middle.

Obviously, one ponders at the crime… What was the scene like out the side door? If I left to seek the truth, would I burst into the open just to trip over some decapitated skulls as the Oviedo police squad cars illuminated me with their headlights? I couldn’t take the chance to investigate further. Instead, I attempted to diffuse the situation by escorting the fork-tongued offender out the front and to his car. Still, within the establishment conflict loomed with no resolution in sight. Fortunately, at my side I had my trusted sidekick Raz Kelly, whose sobriety and acceleration was able to speed me away to freedom before the arrival of any local authorities, badged or otherwise.

Knowing what we know of central Florida, these events seem to just be another day at the office, a stroke of ill-fated luck in a town full of bad omen. Let us not do ourselves a disservice, however, by putting the realm of conspiracy out of mind. What if I was setup? Who would try to set me up? The list is long: envious fellow conspiracy theorists, former tennis doubles partners, Newt Gringrich, jilted ex-lovers, IKEA, that guy from the Korean bbq taco stand… but, of course, there is my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law.

It just so happens, the next day the spook in question was to arrive (that is, if he wasn’t already in town pulling the puppet strings) back in Orlando to commence the cross-country journey that would deliver his mongrel horde to Denver where the NeverSister and NeverNiece were already relocated to. This journey was to include not only my brother-in-law and his dogs, but (much to the chagrin of said spook) yours truly: Victor Ulysses Neverman. Was Shamrock Shakedown 2012  an event of his planning in order to have me detained by local authority and unable to leave the state? Worst case scenario for him, I would be gutted by a lobster fork at the sports bar brawl and the spook would get to cash in on the million dollar bounty he put on my head via life insurance policy benefitting the NeverNiece.

How could my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law possibly know which bar I would visit on this amateur night holiday? The answer is simple. Through his agent provocateur, Layla Santana Crow. A month ago, my sister and her spy merc husband introduced me to an eccentric couple at a dinner party. The husband was your typical Mainer: an outdoorsy survivalist who hosted corporate team building challenges within his survivalist Hancock Compound. His wife, the aforementioned Layla, had a smile that would put a standard wattage light bulb to shame. You might detect hints of her sly-fox-like brilliance shrouded beneath faux bashfulness. Even her courtesy laugh, a forced exhalation of false air to appease the ego of the target, was a delightful spring rain upon a barren soil. She was, for all intents and purposes, a refreshing smack across cerebral cortex. And she was nothing but menace.

I suspect Layla Santana Crow because of a simple rationalizing principle of the conspiracy theorist: cui bono, which is Latin for “who benefits?” If her groom Cyrus Lee Hancock and Vic Neverman became embroiled in small town disturbance of the peace that found themselves imprisoned, there would be two benefactors: my crooked spook of a brother-in-law for my absence and Layla Santana Crow who would be able to inherit her husband’s Hancock Compound and turn it from the survival camp and into the Resort Spa she always envisioned. The Spook and the Crow were likely allies and co-conspirators, thus the targets of my preposterous assumptions.

Did the goon squad of my government contracted brother-in-law and his ally Layla Santana Crow arrange for my downfall? Or did I just step in some happenstance shit in a town full of bull? Either way, I, Vic Neverman, stand (sit, actually) accused of some dastardly crime, be it bestial, manslaughterish, peace disruption, treasonous, larceny, arson-y, or conspiracy to commit murder. I am still unsure of the very crime I am suspected of! Should I turn myself in to learn the mystery behind the accusation? Or Should I do what Nevermen do best – flee, dispersing into the ether, disappearing down the rabbit hole? Yes, I believe this Neverman is due to get out of town and I just happen to have a road trip in mind.

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