Posts Tagged ‘Cerberus’

To: Canaveral Cruise Lines
From: Cerberus Security, International
Re: Security Proposal for Francesco Schettino, Captain of the Costa Concordia

Dearest Canaveral Cruise Executives,

First, I would like to offer my condolences on the recent bad press involving the Costa Concordia capsizing. While the loss of life is certainly just a drop in the bucket (as we all know 1 in every 20 cruise passengers will never be seen again), the fact this is headline/front page news must be a major blow to the public relations department. Which brings me to the focus of why I, President and Founder of Cerberus Security International, stand before you today (even if only visually represented by the modest font of this electronic letter). I would like to suggest a security proposal to not only eliminate Captain Schettino from the public eye, but to do so in a manner that will acquit Canaveral of much of the guilt while giving the angry public the grandiose send-off to the Italian sailor they so despise.

Cerberus is well-versed in character pseudocide (though I am not at liberty to provide references beyond mentioning many celebrity fake-deaths have been personally orchestrated by yours truly) as well as offering security to public enemies, such as, perhaps, the likes of Casey Anthony. We’ve also provided security to Hollywood* film sets, so we at CSI are no stranger to large “productions”. Since Canaveral has aptly handled the ongoing dilemma of thousands of missing passengers with such a professional indifference, almost erasing the wayward tourists from ever existing in the first place, I believe our two organizations are well fitted to work hand-in-hand.

*Hollywood, Florida

By now, I am sure your executives have agreed that merely terminating Schettino as an employee and testifying against him in a civil trial will not be enough to win back the goodwill of the cruise ticket-buying public. Such a passive response will not answer the questions, “how was this guy hired?” or “why was there no oversight?” What is then called for is some sort of cerebral malady to be diagnosed in Captain Schettino, one which strikes with spontaneity and at random, offering no warning to your great organization. After one of your doctors makes this presentation, Schettino should soon perish in a self-assisted drowning. I think you will agree this is fitting, for the public to think of Schettino resting with an anchor around his neck at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Of course, neither of our organizations is directly involved in murder, which is why I propose pseudocide – the act of killing one’s persona. We don’t kill Schettino, we only fake his death and then spirit him away to parts unknown. Look no further than Cerberus if you are seeking pseudocidal professionals. Step 1: dental extraction. I have checked with our resident dentist and, apparently, an entire tooth transplant can be done in Mexico. We just need to find one of these Mexican dentists and send him to Naples where he shall extract Schettino’s teeth and replace them with whatever might be at hand. Step 2: create the genetic duplicate. The Frankensteinian alchemists at Monsanto can genetically modify cornmeal into any DNA structure. We can hire them to create a corn Gollum with the same gene sequence of our Italian sailor. This doppelganger will not look, speak, or smell as the current Francesco Schettino does, but this does not matter at the bottom of the sea. Step 3: insert Schettino’s teeth into the corn Gollum and drown the creature with an anchor and a suicide note. When this perished corn man is found, likely half-eaten by oceanic life, the dental and DNA tests will match Schettino’s. Step 4: take the news to the press.

In the meantime, the new-toothed Schettino will find a different life here in the United States where we can monitor him and ensure he never goes public with his former identity. I know of a budding business in Alabama, the Muscle Shoals Leach Clinic, who could use a good foreign-accented snake-oil salesman.

Please consider these measures and the participation of Cerberus in your plans to handle this awful set of unfortunate circumstances.

Sincerely,

Vic Neverman
Cerberus Security International
“Where three heads are better than none”

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The setting is a lonely stretch of US Highway 27, an artery of Central Florida backcountry, connecting one cluster of incorporated cow pasture with the next. The characters are unsuspecting coeds, an atypical mix of self-righteously geeked-out loners and attractive sorority girls. The conflict is the abduction of said coeds by a secret society of psycho-sociopathic serial killers.

“Wait!” I asked for pause as I lifted my gaze from the script. “How do you wrangle up a society of sociopaths? What, did they meet in group therapy?”

“Dude.” My client shrugged. “I know, that’s what I am telling you. You should totally rewrite the script.”

“No.” I refused. This wasn’t why I was here. Sure, I may have authored an outline of a screenplay about a competitive pumpkin grower messing with genetic engineering in a project titled, “Patch 2: the Second Batch”, but I wasn’t signed on to this project as a writer. I was on the set of “Bloody Hell” – a horror film with the lowest of budgets and dialogue so disingenuous it couldn’t find its way into a pornography – because I was hired to be a body guard.

Frieda Johnson alongside her co-Actor in the Florida Scrub

Frieda Johnson, lead actress in Bloody Hell, came to me with her concerns about finishing the production of the movie. The writer-director-lead actor was a self-stylized lothario with Rasputin eyes and a haircut hijacked from 1983. This man, who we will refer to as “the Dove” for his pure and pacific nature, dealt in psychological terrorism and veiled threats in order to pull Frieda back into a film she did not want to finish. Ostracized and guilted by the insistence of obligation, Frieda agreed to finish shooting despite not feeling safe in the company of the horror/noir-obsessed cast and crew.

And this is where Vic comes in…

The production was more Hollywood, South Florida, than Hollywood, Southern California, but this was a great opportunity for my fledgling firm Cerberus Security International (“where three heads are better than none”) to gain some industry clout and perchance a foothold in the studio security niche. Feeling altruistic, I made a contract to protect Frieda for a dollar (plus expenses) and went to work on a guardian scheme.

The first line of defense is always “deterrence” (something I picked up during the Cold War when I patrolled the beaches of Florida for Soviet submersibles and disoriented midwestern spring breakers). Since my second line of defense was “surprise head butt”, a tactic that loses its effectiveness with every application, I decided I really needed to bulk up that front line. And bulk is something I, Vic Neverman, happen to lack. My size was mediocre, at best, for the role I was to play. A seamstress once told me at a tux fitting I had the perfect body, elaborating that I had the same standard dimensions as the universal mannequin circa 1999. Since “average” is hardly intimidating, I made up for this lack with a well-practiced dark surliness.

“This is the Turk” Frieda introduced me to the suspect cast and motley crew, providing no more explanation to my presence. The Turk, however, offered plenty for them to digest by way of puffin chest (courtesy of held breath), hands plunged deep into his pant pockets and a diabolical half-squint of a glare. The facade of bad-assedness left the appropriate impression as the director and his minions kept their distance and wearily avoided making eye contact with the foreign menace in their midst. Fortunately, their untrained ear did not notice my faux accent was more Ukrainian than Turkish.

For the most part, my role was limited to special assistant to the actress, ever-ready with script and bottled water. The island of misfit film students was certainly occupied by a creepy variety of characters, but nothing this paranoid wanderer hadn’t seen during his stint in the dark woods of Oregon. I wouldn’t have wanted my client alone on the roadside or within the abandoned building with this lot, but my presence – meager though it may have been – seemed more than enough to dissuade any malicious intent the Dove possessed in coercing Frieda Johnson out into the Florida wilderness.

Frieda and the Dove filming "Bloody Hell"


In preparation for the great climatic finale featuring the lead actor taking his frustrations out on masked axe murderers via shotgun, the director-actor-writer Dove brandished the sawed-off weapon for Frieda to examine. My suspicion struck and yelled for her to not touch the gun, “Don’t get your fingers on it!” I am not sure where my paranoia was going with this theory, but apparently I feared the Dove was attempting to frame my client for some dastardly deed. Frieda obeyed my frantic suggestion and backed away. The Dove turned the gun towards me and smiled with those hypnotic, mystical, Rasputin eyes, “It’s just a toy…” Already closing in on the two actors, I reached out and slapped the barrel of the gun away from my direction. Startled, the Dove backed off, leaving me holding the spray-painted water gun (weighing some 8 ounces) and realizing my concern was perhaps… a bit exaggerated.

Understanding the Dove’s obsession with completing the shooting on this evening, I reasoned the most dangerous time for my client was after the final take. I was ready. Full moon obscured by the midnight cumulus, I had my hefty mag-light within reach. My getaway car was in full view and I knew two and a half points of egress (the “half” was more of an exit that may/may not have been a dead end). Sound, camera, action, we were rolling on the final take. Shadows moved in tune with the player’s dance as mosquitoes hissed in my ear like past lovers starved for my bloody affection. Despite my low caffeination and the fact I was usually three sheets at this point of a typical Saturday night, I did possess all of my wits. I was on this.

“And… scene! That’s a wrap.” the Dove smiled, almost expecting someone to produce a bottle of champagne. He quipped about the filming of Bloody Hell, “It only took three years!”

I quickly escorted Frieda off-set and to my waiting getaway car. After a quick assessment of my vehicle to ensure it had not been tampered with, we got in and made our escape. I watched in the rear-view mirror as the cast and crew grew smaller in the distance as they loaded their equipment into the trunk of a car where they kept the other actresses.

Cerberus Security International
where three heads are better than none

July 11, 2011
Casey Anthony
Orange County Correctional Facility
Orlando, FL

Dear Casey,

Allow me to be the next to congratulate you on securing your freedom from the oppressive persecution prosecution of the State of Florida. The easy part is over. Now begins the new challenge of living your life outside the safety of the prison bars which kept the terrors out more than they kept you within. If I may be blunt, and I am wont to believe you like it blunt ;), it is a scary fucking place we live in, Casey. This is why I write you today.

Attached, you will find a five step proposal from my firm Cerberus Security International, detailing our plan to not only protect you as our client, but to distance yourself from the dangers of mindless vigilante violence and the relentless interrogative paparazzi. We at Cerberus are experts in Security, Counter-Surveillance, and Eluding Pursuers and I think we may be just the torch-wielding friends you need in these times of darkness.

Good Luck and Godspeed,

Victor Ulysses Neverman

Cerberus Security International
Proposal to Prospective Client Ms. Casey Anthony
Platinum Asset Protection Package

Five Stage Process:
1 – Secure Safety
2 – Exploit Celebrity
3 – Transfer of Wealth
4 – Escape
5 – Rebirth

Stage 1 – Secure Safety
Upon her release from incarceration, provide client 24-7 security by Cerberus Guardians. This protection will last through to the final stage when the Client is born again under a new identity. During Stages 1 & 2 it is important that the client lives the lifestyle expected of her, that of the trollop. This is important because if the Client suddenly has a coming-to-Jesus and renounces her former modus vivendi, this will only draw suspicion. Living “trampily”, as it were, would involve exposure to the public, which must be avoided, so this lifestyle must be earned falsely via releases of sex tapes and volunteering staged photographs of revelry to the paparazzi all in attempt to prove the Client is who she is expected to be.

Stage 2 – Exploit Celebrity
In order to succeed, the system requires funding. Stage 2 will be an all-out whoring to the media to exploit this ill-fame and collect as much wealth as possible. CSI will provide the Client with coordination of this process, from negotiating book deals & movie rights to booking travel accommodations.

Stage 3 – Transfer of Wealth
As soon as revenue begins to come in, CSI will establish a faux Non-Profit Charity Fund as a front for off-shore bank accounts where these funds will funnel through. Client will claim to be philanthropic while still living the lifestyle expected of her.

Stage 4 – Escape
CSI will create a new identity in a foreign locale where the transferred funds will be made available. Reconstructive surgery is a must as well as the adoption of an entirely new life history by the Client. Learning a new skill or profession would be ideal to accommodate this new persona. Before the Client enters this new life, the former must literally be killed off. CSI specializes in pseudocide – the art of faking one’s own death. Ideally, the pseudocide would be as easy as faking a drug overdose in Rio de Janeiro where paying off the coroner and police would be no difficult feat. Unfortunately, this is not 1971 when Jim Morrison pulled off a similar stunt in Paris – the American public will demand proof via its media. This demand will not be as easily swayed as it was with Osama bin Laden, we can’t just dump a body into the ocean. What is called for is a spectacle. Perhaps something akin to the Princess Diana tragedy where paparazzi record the final moments of the Client’s “life”. The sensationalization of this “evidence” would quash the public’s demand for proof and even their blood-thirst for revenge for whatever crimes they assume the Client has committed.

Stage 5 – Rebirth
Client will have evolving stages of metamorphosis. There will be the reconstructive surgery and healing stage, perhaps done in Cuba where such services exist with utmost discretion. The next stage will be a limbo where the Client will pose as a tourist in some distant metropolitan locale where English is spoken, perhaps Auckland or Vancouver or Edinburgh. Finally, once the client is comfortable within her new “skin”, she will be provided with her final destination, a locale further off the beaten path, perhaps an Australian coastal town where the Client can easily mimic the shag-happy locals’ lust for the beach and beer.

Conclusion of Services
Once the Client is safely secured in a new life, the service will be considered provided and this will conclude the relationship between the parties.

If you, dear reader, reside in some subterranean habitat and my blog is your only source of information on the air dwellers walking above you, then I have some BREAKING NEWS! Casey Anthony was acquitted of killing her 2 year old daughter! For the rest of my readership, this news is as old and soured as the half-and-half left in Casey’s trunk. Yes, the convicted liar (the only charges that stuck were lying to the police) will be released from prison in a few days. The story, now, shifts to the public outrage over Casey’s impending freedom. Especially here in Florida, where she and I, Vic Neverman, reside (not together, not hardly), here where the sun doesn’t burn as harsh as the vehemence on display by the local populace.

Nancy Wants Blood

It is rare to taste this sort of pure hate. Even Osama bin Laden never had such a rich, frothy, stew of animosity stirring in peoples guts, mainly because he was an outsider. He was supposed to be evil. Casey, though, she was one of us. She was a mother, she was young and attractive (in a tramp-next-door kind of way). She walked amongst us and she will again. Turn on the television and there is legal “expert” Nancy Grace so filled with spite she might eat her own face in search of blood. Social media is overblown with outrage at Casey going free. There are likely half a dozen lynch mobs milling around Orlando, just waiting to get their ropes around her neck.

And then there are others. Let us push aside the sadomasochists out there who have developed some perverse fetish for Casey, I don’t want to go there. Who I am referring to are the group of justice fundamentalists who somberly approve of the jury’s verdict. I happen to be one of these few.

Casey in Chains

I too was shocked by the “not guilty” verdict because I lacked faith that a jury of Casey’s peers could let their emotion stay out of their judgment. I approved of the verdict because it was the only choice the jurors should have made. While I will be the first to say I would bet my left kidney that Casey did have some sort of involvement in her daughter’s demise, the State of Florida failed to prove any such thing. You can gamble on gut faith, but you must judge on fact. If Casey was convicted, it would have been wrongly so. “Justice would have been served!” the pitch-forked mob cries out. No, justice would have been misled. You must bring a universal philosophy to this situation – in an entirely different scenario, imagine yourself being tried for a crime you didn’t commit and the jury convicted you because they intuited your guilt despite a lack of evidence – this is a failure of the system. While Casey probably deserves a stern penalty, we can’t prove that she does. Sadly, Nancy Grace continues to fan the flame of outrage to keep her post-trial television ratings high. I am tempted to use a word, perhaps the only in my lexicon I will not write in my blog, on both Nancy and Casey. They are a pair of cross-eyed c–ts if I ever did see one. More evil than these self-serving bitches will ever be, though, is the pure hate they generate.

Where the Vic Neverman involvement began was Sunday, the day of closing arguments. I had avoided the trial hysteria until that day, 7/3/2011. Sure, everyone had been abuzz for years about the local child-killing trollop-on-trial, but I had better things to focus on: Russians in the Arctic, Nazis in Antarctica, the NSA following me around in an ice cream truck, the Chinese at my gym, and figuring out which of my former flames was feeding information to the Mossad. Casey Anthony was soap operatic irrelevance… until I woke Sunday morning on a couch to my sinister government spook brother-in-law making eggs and flapjacks while the NeverSister turned on the court proceedings. I woke, I caffeinated, I watched, I became hooked…

Sunday night, the eve of our great country’s “independence”, I found myself at the local sports bar where the only person who saw through my disguise was the full figured, raspy-voiced, blonde beer-slinger I’ve come back time and again to see. With just baseball and tennis going on in the world, the sports bar actually resorted to putting on highlights of the Casey Anthony trial. It was in this environment of case analysis, chicken wings, and draught beer that an odd alliance was slowly forged between myself and some kindred spirited dudes. We became very vocal in our desire to see Casey acquitted (this being two days prior to the verdict being made) much to the dismay of the collected bar crowd around us. We three kings of judicial fundamentals banded together, moving to closer bar stools and allowing the kid of the group to buy all of the beer*. We laughed as we became known as the last defenders of Casey.

*A weird kid, somewhat, who was a chef at a local hotspot, missed his traveling girlfriend, tried to get me to buy Iraqi Denars on a get-rich-quick scheme, and later invited me to his home for perogies and more beer (I obviously declined).

With the kid paying the blonde beer-slinger to send Coloradan pale ale in my direction, the voice of Neverman slowly increased in volume as I appreciated pissing on the fires of mob mentality. “The prosecution has proven naught!” I claimed to the mob. “If Casey is convicted, my brother fellows and I shall work towards rescuing her and breaking her out of prison!” Oh my did this draw the ire of a “cougar” pack from the nearby country club community, much to the delight of one of the members of my fellowship who grinned as their costume jewelry jingled as it rang against their cranberry vodka tonics (good for the regularity, I am told) as they cried “foul”. But alas, we last defenders of Casey Anthony were stricken with a problem, “What to do with her once we rescue our dirty little damsel?”

I didn’t want her. One of my fellows claimed his wife simply would not have her sitting on her couch, let alone her toilet. The lad, the creepy one, he was game saying Casey and his girlfriend might become fast friends, but I didn’t trust him on this. “Nay, we need a better plan” says Vic, de facto leader of the last defenders of justice. Then the epiphany and from it a conspiracy develops…

The Honorable Judge Perry


“We shall not have to break her out of prison at all!” I announced amidst my pale ale’d brilliance. “The jury decides the guilt, but the judge, his honorabilitiness, he sets the sentence. What we need to do is talk to Perry and convince him to buy in.

“Instead of sending Casey to death or life in prison, we can talk Judge Perry into sentencing her to life of house arrest at his house!” I explained. “We can even turn it into a reality show. She’s off the street, but still able to live a fair existence. I am sure his honorability has HBO and a pool she can lounge out at. In return, Judge Perry has someone at home folding laundry, washing dishes, walking the dog, and we the tax payer wouldn’t have to pay a dime!”

“If I’m Perry…” One of my fellows hypothesized. “Sure as hell ain’t letting her walk my dog.”

Fortunately (or not) justice was served (or not) and Casey is going free. Out of the wok and into the deep fryer, if you ask me. Her best bet is to hire my firm, Cerberus Security International, to guard her and help her develop a new identity. Perhaps I shall write up a proposal.

To be continued…