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Pieces

My Master Plan For You

 

By

James Ulay, CEO, Personality of Interest, (Multi-Millionaire)

: Transcribed by (Sexy) Secretary Mary

First Session: Rough Draft:

All words or phrases in parentheses are comments by me, Mary. Keep steady on him that ‘sexy’ should most definitely be left out of the subtitle. Also, consider co-author, or ghost-writer heading, instead of ‘transcribed,’ for legal purposes.


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Chapter One: Listen to my Words

 

          Surrounding this split-open valley before me, a valley formed and deformed by ancient icebergs now quite unimaginable, are the mighty San Juan Mountains. These iced-snowy-ranges before me were once home to a tribe called the Ute Indians; a people that roamed these lands for centuries. The Ute’s territory was vast, expanding from southern Colorado, stretching west on into eastern Utah. The Utes would set their camps, hunt wild game such as elk, our western muscular mule deer, black bear and beaver, and they would scout for varied berries and nuts. During our typical harsh winters they would travel to lower elevations, paving trails that are interestingly still used today by us locals and the millions of seasonal travelers we get a year. This all would come to a crushing end when our quintessential American mining boom of the late 1800’s first created a vacuum, and then a great and mighty boom; a boom that would, ultimately, transform not only these southwestern Colorado mountains before me, but go on to change the entire country and its landscapes. Dozens of ‘fourteener’ mountain peaks pierce the sky around my Lake Town, Colorado—and having feasted on a hundred or more feet of snow during this last treacherous winter—all are now full; bursting at the shoots with ravenous avalanche-potential. These shoots, winter after winter, hold the potential to annihilate anything in their path, not excluding our roads, our homes, our already crippled dams, and, what turns out to actualize, is the total, utter decimation of what once was the sheriff’s home. The ice gave way in the middle of the night, plummeting down a ridge and meeting the sheriff’s house with him and his entire family sleeping soundly inside. Their cow will turn up dead in this story; so will their pig, plus the dog. The result will be unanimous destruction of the entire property, leaving no (American-made) commodity salvageable, due to having had thousands of pounds of snow detonating their home. And somehow, still, aside from losing all of their belongings, losing a majority of their beloved pets, having witnessed all of their irreplaceable (American-made) knickknacks one can never get back be destroyed; all four people will live to tell their story.

        One daughter will be found rolled up in her mattress among the debris, this mattress having saved her life like some, burrito-cocoon sent from The Man himself. (Mr. Ulay insists that we keep the burrito metaphor for reasons that ‘I will soon understand’.) I have to tell you, my young apprentices, it’s the witnessing of this remarkable devastation—now a month or more ago—that has me furiously thinking, like I do, so very often. Right now even, I am thinking; I’m thinking about how fascinating this devastation is and was; about how ruthlessly inspiring this event has been on me. A natural and nearly total apocalyptic scene, as if put into motion for a purpose, as if this was all destined for my 20/20 perfect vision eyes to bear witness to, and it didn’t take me long to understand why my feelings were so strong.

        I, myself, James Ulay, (redundant.) am not a man too dissimilar from my great-great-granddaddy George Ulay, who with very little help from others, (not quite historically accurate.) built this town’s most prosperous mine. He had vision, and so do I, for seeing things yet unseen by others inside my own head. (redundant.) I like to call my foresight: ‘Ja-magination.’ (standing for James’ imagination…) A normal man wouldn’t have seen what I saw in this avalanche, this heartbreaking moment for a family, and this brain of mine is why my undeniable success speaks for itself, and this is likely the reason you’ve chosen to read this book, is it not? I’m successful. I’m a success. I have succeeded. (severely redundant.)

        First and foremost, what a man like myself notices in all disaster scenarios, are opportunities. This aftermath has not in the least had the amount of tender, love, and care of a man with a plan. No, I’m not talking about God here, though his role appears undeniable; I’m talking mainly about myself. This tragedy in our town happened without capitalization, plain and simple. This makes it a double-tragedy. What I mean by this is that no gains were accrued even in the LEAST! (he suggested I consider all caps here.) Destruction this utter phenomenal, for no profit whatsoever, is unequivocally un-american, I must say; and I said it, therefore, I mean it.

No profits: until now. 

Now, hear me out: this is the game I’ve chosen, alright? This is business, Bubba. Texas tea search and destroy I call it, and you better believe that if there’s one thing that I’ve brought to this quaint town of ours nestled in what my late uncle Artie called the ‘perky titties’ of Colorado, (I’m at a loss for words.) it’s this right here: Texas mentality. Think about the situation myself and God have laid before you. We could transform this disaster scenario into a PROFITABLE scenario. Idea One: Let’s turn this into an attraction that nowadays rarely exists. We all know it’s not too politically correct anymore to, quote/unquote, ‘stare at the freaks,’ if you know what I mean? (this sounds quite terrible.) Everybody needs a good pick me up by beating the guy next to him to the punch, it’s the American way. Let’s consider the profit after we plan our attraction, following our ‘toll road’—SEE WHERE I’M GOING!—that has to be paid in order to experience the damage. Luckily for me, this is the only road out this direction, so, of course, everyone pays no matter what. And historically, this is an homage to the wonderful Otto Meers and his toll roads he established back in the day, so, it’s a history lesson too if you care. We also must consider an ‘in your face’ name for the historical/attraction marker, say, “Nature’s Fist,” or “The Mighty Backhand of God”. (he wants both of these trademarked before this book comes out.) People will see it, and they will enjoy it, and it will change them.

That’s money talk, Bubba. 

        Second venture, this one is mere peanuts, but nevertheless, it’s a small investment quick-straight to your table and my billfold, and it’s a rather brilliant plan to induce an emotional response to this event that has mountainous brand potential. You ready? You ain’t ready…

THE BURRITO! The little girl was saved by a mattress-burrito, remember? OF COURSE. These things take vision, my young mantises, and behold, that vision has come: Avalanche Burritos Inc.

We get some hippy with a laptop and a Web Design degree to deliver some logo and we put it on the packaging and then we’re done!

“Where were you on that one, dip-shit?” (he really likes the line but it’s likely a copyright since it’s not original.) I’ve already got it going. We’ve started a small non-profit organization that takes a few cents and puts it in an avalanche fund for similar ‘lose all your shit in an avalanche’ cases around the globe. By the time any of you read this, we will have already hit profit gains, and that’s what I love about non-profits. (ask if he really wants to say this?) And, this is the deal sealer—this being even better than the little girl surviving part (consider using sympathy here.)— but get this, the beef consists exclusively of cows that were killed in avalanches! I’ve got multiple ranchers chomping at the (‘titty’) who are willing to put their cows in high risk areas. OF COURSE. And you, you reading this, the Go-Getter: I know what you’re thinking… “These ideas are valuable, and yet, they remain low-ends on an opportune case like avalanche destruction. You can do bigger, Mr. Ulay.” Well, my young entrepreneurs, Ja-magine with me. The grandest question might be ‘how do you bottle avalanche power?’ Not simply the marketability of the product, like some Gatorade flavor or something, I mean the actual power of the avalanche. Like bombs of snow, for example. Because it wasn’t just the snow that perpetrated this vast devastation, it was the momentum, the low-down velocity rolling down that hill, blasting like a freight train through the Amarillo night. So, sure, not only do these hypothetical bombs need to be full of snow, they need to be coming at you real (‘fucking’) fast. OF COURSE. “Someone get Jeremy on the phone. Someone!” (he’s yelling at me, Mary, the only other person in the room.) “There you are.” (referring to me; I toss him his phone.) “Jeremy? It’s me. Snow bombs coming at you seriously balls out and fast like a rocket. Get on it.” 

That Jeremy. I always hang up without any further details to give the boy alone time so that he will think about the potential of the idea. It’s ‘potential’ that I want to drive home to you all about what it takes to become successful; to become a success; to succeed. (redundancy again.) 

        Get this. This is a freebie for you Go-Getters. Some years back, a bear family, a mama and her two cubs, they crawled into an SUV that was parked at the Alpine Lodge on 7th and Silver in the middle of the night, and all three bears, they’re all sniffing around, must’ve been some steak in there or something—heard it was a Texan—but get this, the cubs shut mama up inside the vehicle. Mama’s locked up and she can’t get out. Mama takes it upon herself to rip this poor shlub’s vehicle to pieces, and I mean vehicular assault and battery. She slashes apart the dash, rips the seats to shreds, shits all over it, and I mean my lord, shit is just everywhere, shit, shit, shit from the butt all over. (he is down right adamant that I keep ‘butt’ in here for some god awful reason.) All this destruction, again, was completely free! Every single one of you should be yelling at your own personal Jeremy right now about this gold mine. Example: “Jeremy! Bear power. Claws and shit. Get on it. You da man!” 

 (OK. From this point on, I do not think I can salvage anymore of this transcription. Consider leaving out the entire rest of this piece. I kept typing because this is what he’s paying me to do.)

       

Jeremy, seriously though, he’s nothing but a ‘yes man’, through and through. He’s like my little lap dog… 

Ugh. Aw shit, Mary, I can’t talk about that right now; aw damn, it’s too late. My Little Larry. My shitzou baby. R.I.P. Lare. I’m going to cry like a little bitch. Him in his little suit we had tailored for him; his little custom snow jacket we’d put on him when we’d snowmobile over the lake. Gah. Now all he does is stare at me with that “love daddy, daddy pappy moomoo” everyday when I walk in the house after work. He’s stiff as a frozen pecker now, of course—we had him stuffed and had all new hair put on him since he was unilaterally melted from the coals popping and catching him on fire; god awful stench in the house for weeks, lord. I mean he looks brand new, so, can’t complain too much. I comb him with my fingers, everyday. I comb him as we watch the deer and the rabbits, the chipmunks, the magpies and the robins, all mere feet from us outside my office window. Sometimes Diane puts him in his suit for me just to change things up a bit. It doesn’t fit him the same with his new hair and all. He’s still with us. His soul’s with the The Man Upstairs but his little stuffed body is still with us. Since I mentioned it, there is, subsequently, I’ll call it a ‘patriotic positive’ from this tragedy worth mentioning. This new hair, I’m more than proud to say, was shipped from the same company our President gets his from. I made a few calls and was able to get the exact batch of hair as 45 actually, and Diane researched it and she thinks it’s some wild, rare equestrian; Arabian she says, so it’s top prime oil money product. One could say that, really, well hell, haha it’s hokie yet it’s true, you could say that with all this extra body work, in his suit, remaining out here in the wonder of these magnificent San Juan’s; one could say that we made Little Larry Lawyer…we made my baby great again.  

   

 

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