Hello, readers! My name is Rudolph Baylor. I am composing and submitting this narrative of the other night’s events from my, and our, friend’s account for reasons I will momentarily reveal. For the sake of full disclosure, I must admit I am the man with whom he has been working. For those unfamiliar with our time together, please see the mildly-stylized narratives here and here.
Now that we are on the same page, I will provide a bit of personal backstory heretofore unknown to you all.
As I mentioned above, I am Rudolph Baylor. I’m 52 years old. In what now seems like a past life, I was a day-trader who made quite a bit of money in the forex markets during the early growing-pains of the Euro adoption. I’m by no means a King Midas, but I’ll just say I’ve been quite fortunate.
One of the problems with making enough money in a few years to last one’s lifetime is trying to fill the following years with purpose. I ended up doing what many, many people have done when searching for purpose: I trawled the Internet. Most of this trawling was to kill time. I make no effort to hide that fact. As a man uninterested in the hedonia that drives others to seek social and sexual interactions, I sought intellectual stimulation on the World Wide Web. Continue reading “I’m still traumatized by what happened when I answered that Craigslist ad, part 3”
A little over a year after my experience with the crazy guy who wanted his teeth pulled, I got an email from him. He wanted to pay me a quarter of a million dollars to come back and do more work.
After I read it, I experienced an entirely new sensation: I shivered with horror and nearly came in my pants. $250,000 is a TON of f*****g money. No more college loans, no more 1983 Camry, no more 300 square foot apartment. All I’d have to do is meet up with that lunatic again. Well – more than just meet up. I had a feeling I’d be earning every cent of that 250k.
The Craigslist ad wanted a male companion for 6 hours. No sex, nothing illegal, and, get this: it paid $10,000. Who wouldn’t jump at 10k?
We met at his house. His handshake was firm. He seemed solidly middle-class; modest home, basic decor, nothing ostentatious. A suburban bachelor pad. After our hellos, he asked if I’d like something to drink. His fridge was stocked with microbrews. Good stuff! I grabbed a Dogfish Head 90 and he guided me to the basement. “That’s where we’ll be working,” he said.