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 fucking 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.