The Art of The Conspiracy

In a dimly lit bar ensconced in the chill of a capitol hill winter afternoon, sit three men.

 

 

They are holding an impromptu meeting in light of some unexpected events. The three do not know each other but of each other. That’s the way this deal goes down.
That’s the way they like it. That’s the way it needs to be.

The first one to speak, with some reluctance, was the bearded one.

“If you recall, our most recent meeting discussed giving guidance, mentoring if you will, to a known public figure that may have desired to concoct a conspiracy involving a yet to be identified public figure.”

“I thought we knew who he was and what he wanted,” said the nondescript bartender.

“Shut your trap, you know he likes to dramatize for effect,” whispered Mr Panama.

“Well , we do know the man and certainly the world knows him, “ replied the bearded one.

“ To summarize, part of our council was to advise against direct involvement. Instead, we strongly suggested conspiracy by proxy, that he go through a third party to mechanize events.”
“Mechanize? Has he been watching too many mob movies?” uttered the unassuming bartender.

“Well, if he has do you really want to make him angry?” whispered Mr. Panama.

“Excellent point.”

“Well,” continued the bearded one. “It seems said public figure has ignored our advice and taken direct action. We are here to discuss potential fallout and can we say plausible deniability.”

“Um, yes, we can, um, I can,” answered the nondescript bartender.

“That wasn’t a question you dolt,” interjected Mr. Panama.

“Of course. I knew that. Hey, can I have a better name,” asked the nondescript bartender.

“No, as a member of a conspiracy, nondescript is perfect. It is , well, nondescript,” replied Mr.Panama. “That does remind me of a similar issue. Mr Bearded One, For clarities sake can I suggest we give those involved more distinct monikers?”

“Monikers? Did you just get a thesaurus,” asked the bartender.

“Yea, I’m improving myself. You gotta problem?

“No, It’s just an observation.”

“Distinct Monikers,” echoed the Bearded one. “Yes, we can do that. Let’s call the person seeking advice “pompadour.” His recently identified subject of the conspiracy will be called “the judge.”

“Oh, the picture is becoming clearer now,” said the nondescript bartender.

“Good because I thought I was going to have to do a paint by numbers thing with you two,” mumbled the bearded one.”

“It’s all over the news. How could we not connect the dots,” stated Mr. Panama.
“Yes, which is precisely the problem,” replied the Bearded One. “We need to make sure
we are insulated.”

“Refresh my memory. How did he get a hold of us in the first place,” asked the Bartender.

“A sandwich delivery with shall we say a little fiber,” replied the Bearded One.

“Oh, the old note in the sandwich trick,” said the Bartender.

“Yes but delivered to one of our couriers who then delivered it to the Bearded One,” added Mr Panama.

“So we are untraceable?”

“We Should be,” said the Bearded One.

Just then the front door burst open and on its heals followed the last of the winter sun.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway in the shape of a man who could have been Elvis or some other guy with a pompadour.

“Oh no,” uttered Mr. Panama.

“How did you find us?” asked the barman.

“I just asked around for the best Margaritas on Capitol hill,” replied the new but confused arrival.”

“What’s with the miniature poodle on your head,” asked the barman.

“Oh, I let her do that as a puppy. Now it’s the only way she’ll go anywhere with me.

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