The fat man and the snake

Real estate agents. What a pack of rats, snakes and sharks. Most of them, the nice ones seem so genuine and nice they throw you a little. But this sordid tale is not about them. Its about this pack of three, they normally run in threes at auctions, and the house they were to sell.

The house: it seemed right. The location, size the block. Even the garden was not so bad and the price was there. Right were we could afford it. Something seemed wrong. One the grand day, the place milled with people.

In the kitchen I found two agents. Evidenced by their smug demeanours and the fact they were the only people in suits at the place. I established this and started on some small talk about the wiring sticking out the wall. One was a bronzed snake, who mumbled rather than talked and lent sardonically against the wall. When he moved his head I could see lighter coloured skin in the deep furrows and lines of his neck. Fore. His companion was a ball of a man, round and red faced, with skin that was either close to peeling or just looked like it wanted to.

I shot my question straight in the chest of the fat man. “ Is there anything wrong with the house”. He sweated in his suit and stiffened. His tubby arms found the bottom of his tie and pulled at it. He lurched and paused, found some inner strength and refuted the claims. The fat man looked to the snake, who fervently looked left and right for some exit to the situation and muttered. I looked into the fat man eyes. He searched for safer ground and found it, going on at length on the problem redeveloping the property because of style restrictions in the area.

I found my own agent of evil staring up into the holes in the roof in the bathroom. Faulty wiring? a new roof? it could have been anything. We searched the gardens. The bungalow had an asbestos roof. Was that it? what was wrong with the property that the rats were hiding?

The fat man clamoured through the crowd that had gathered with what I took to be an oxygen machine but which turned out to be a microphone amplifier. He rambled on for 15 minutes about deposits, payments, costs, watering, caveats and redevelopments. Announced it open for bidding. Bid himself. In four auctions I have been two in three weeks. Twice the auctioneer was the only bidder. The fat man had one nervous looking woman who bid and won. She didn’t seem so happy. We could have bought that place, but something didn’t’ seem right. Fuck ‘em, I bet there’s zombie rats under the decking.

this happened on thursday

I stood, unwanted, behind the newspapers on shelves that separated the populace and client from her cigarette sanctuary. The bloated head, on bulbous body turned and saw my desire for service and signed. Swivelling and huffing her way partially toward me was an effort clearly I underserved for a client such as I. “ do you need help.” A question without the question mark, the characteristic rise in tone at the end of the sentence was missing, making it a statement. A statement about my state of incompetence, a remark that intoned, fuck off.
My desire to know the location was meet with a another sigh and she waddled off to closest aisle and pointed to the bottom shelf. Bottom shelf indeed. What do you expect from the middle aged and rotund, surrounded by youth, in a supermarket retail. Back to sell cigarettes and price checks she waddled. And there I was with a smirk wishing for someone to retell the story to, to have a laugh and say, look at that. Who could I tell this story to? I can tell it to you.

Next time I’ll take a video.