//------------------------------// // Chapter 1- Not According To Plan // Story: Conning The Con Artists // by WeirdBeard //------------------------------// Conning The Con Artists Chapter 1- Not According To Plan Naked as a jaybird and tied to a chair in a dark room. Wish I could say that this was the first time, but unfortunately I don't have that luxury. Then again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit. My name is Cal Braxton, perhaps you've heard of me. At least, named by the media along with my sibling as 'The Brash Braxton Brothers.' (Yes, I think the name's stupid, too, but what can you do with sensationalist journalism?) No? The most notorious con artists of this generation? Wanted in thirteen countries, stolen millions from countless companies, and all-around bad-asses? Still nothing? Well, slick, can't say I've heard of you either, but I won't hold that against ya. Anyway, my brother and I have been pulling off scams for as long as I can remember. Not like we had parents to keep us in check, being orphans and all. Honestly though, I don't blame them for ditching us on the porch of an orphanage. Seriously, babies suck. I probably would've done the same thing as them, I hate the infernal things. My apologies, rambling again. Needless to say, we were quite the hellions. We figured that if the world's kicking ya down, it's high time to kick back. My brother was the only one I could rely on and I for him. We stuck together through it all, thick as thieves we were. Where most kids grow up playing soccer and going to summer camp, we were learning every trick of the scheming trade. It was all small stuff at first, of course: snagging some kid's lunch, smooth talking our way out of punishments, and basically causing havoc. As all kids do though, we grew up and moved on to bigger things. For example, remember that giant diamond that 'mysteriously vanished' a few years back? Nothing but a shiny mantle-piece now. It's not just about money, it's the thrill of doing what we do best. Ya know what's the greatest thing about all this? We haven't even reached our prime. Yes'sir, barely into our mid-twenties and we're already internationally infamous. Safe to say that things are going great. Unless you count right now. You know, buck naked and tied to a chair in a dark room. Mexico, man. Fortunately, my brother is here in the same room and not some other cell. Two heads are better than one, after all. Even if his is practically balding from how much he's buzz-cut his scalp. Poor little dingus is still unconscious, but that can be easily fixed. "Hey! Jimmy boy! Wake up, ya filthy animal!" I call out, jesting with the dork. Unfortunately my command fell on deaf ears as he remained asleep. Plan B it is then. Clearing my throat loudly, I hoke one hell of a loogie up into my mouth for my next step. With the utmost precision that only years of practice can hone (mostly due to boring moments), I spit out in an high arc overhead. With the desired calculation that would leave any physicist tearing up, the spit lands directly in my brother's ear. Harlem Globetrotters, eat your heart out. Almost immediately, the wet sensation rouses Jim from his slumber and causes him to look about wildly. His eyes fall on my cheesy grin and he soon realizes just what is in his ear. Scraping his head against his shoulder quickly, he mutters, "You stupid cactus-humper, I hate it when you do that!" "Well I was gonna kiss ya, but you were too far away," I respond instantly with a chuckle. With some careful effort, I push myself and the chair closer to him. I notice the floor is completely dirt, which complicates things a bit by kicking up a small cloud of dust. "You alright?" After sufficiently shaking his head against his shoulder, Jim finally nods. "I'm fine. Still gonna rip your stupid mustache off later though." "Pffft! You're just jealous you still can't grow one," I accuse. Glancing around the room, I try to gather stock on where we might be. "By the way, this is probably the worst idea you've had. Happy Birthday, clown." Jim's face pales at that last bit. "You really think we've been out that long? I thought we would have been out of here before our day." Fun fact: Jim and I share the same birthday, go figure. Sure made remembering a whole lot easier. May 1st is Braxton Day, write that down. Especially now that we're a quarter of a century old now in this wondrous year of 2020. Yet here we are, most likely in some old Mexican lady's basement while her little ninos figure out how to get their goods back. When I say ninos though, I mean the cartel and when I say 'goods' I mean insane amounts of drugs. Yeah, our idea of 'go big or go home' probably wasn't the wisest. Granted, we've been in worse places on our birthday. On our 19th birthday we were in an igloo hiding out from some crazy Ukrainians. All you need to know is that their daughters were totally worth it. It's at this point of my little reminiscing bout that the door of our room slams open. Wouldn't you know, our captors have decided to join the party. Just so happened that they're all your stereotypical Hispanic drug-lords. Tattoos of the Virgin Mary across their chests, pistols inside their pants (least I hope those are pistols, otherwise this could get real ugly), and grim sneers across their hideous mugs. You may think I'm racist or something, but that's simply not true. I hate everybody equally, it's more fair that way. "So!" the lead drug-lord shouts, blood-shot eyes twitching. He approaches us slowly, pulling out one of his pistols (thank Zeus for small miracles.) With his other hand, he shines a flashlight into our faces. Oh gadfrey, he has the most disgusting neck beard. Let's not forget that stench either, woof. "You're the two pendejos that thought you could steal from me. Thought you could get away with it too, no?" "S'cuse me, Senor Neckbeard, but methinks you're barking up the wrong tree," Jim quickly counters. "You got your money fair and square." With nary a moment's hesitation, the drug-lord backhands Jim's face. "Payaso! You think you could fool me with Monopoly money?" "Pretty much, you guys are dumber than dirt. Plus it worked like a charm on these Frenchies we knew, big idiots thought they were actual U.S. dollars," I say with a grin. Good times. Not good enough though as the drug-lord's hand smacks across my nose. "That's real funny, no? I like to play games, too. Why don't we play my favorite, 'Let's kill the gueros,'" he replies, pulling back on his pistol's hammer and aiming at my forehead. You'd probably think I'm completely screwed and have no way out, that this is the end of the story already. Not so, good friend. Want to know what's great about being us? We always have a failsafe. BOOM. An explosion rocks outside the door that the drug-lords had entered, launching each of them into the wall behind us. Thankfully the blast only jostles our chairs, but somehow leaves us upright. The drug-lords smash against the hard concrete basement wall, knocking them unconscious. When the smoke and dust finally dissipate, I look over to see Jim flashing me a wide grin. "Awwww, looks like someone else opened your birthday present," he says, revealing that he had somehow cut his bonds during the confusion. He rubs his wrists a few times before getting out of his chair to come towards me. I raise a brow at his quip. "You were going to give me a bomb?" Jim snorts, cutting my ropes before answering. "I would have stopped ya from opening it. If anything, it was for if something like this happened. Which it did, so you should be thanking me." He pauses a moment while I get up from the chair and stretch a bit. "Besides, you gave me a piranha in a box last year." "Oh waaahhn, it was dead by the time I packed it. That was just the white elephant joke anyway, I still hooked you up with what's-her-hot-face that night!" I reply, running a hand through my dirt-covered blonde hair. I definitely needed a shower, but that would have to wait for now. "That actress, Emma Stone? Okay, first of all, I'm pretty sure you drugged her with something. Even with my devilish charms she was way too in to me. Second, she called a hit squad on us the next morning," Jim retorts, scratching some dried mud off his chest. I shrug. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time. Now," I begin, motioning a hand around the room. "Are we gonna salvage the rest of our birthday or do you want to stay naked in a room full of unconscious dudes?" "You always know what to say, don't ya?" my brother quips. He points a finger towards the door. "After you, Cassanova." "Gladly. I'd rather you see my rear than I see your's," I reply before quickly exiting the room. I miss hearing what expletive Jim mutters, but I'm sure it was colorful. Luckily for us, the rest of the house is completely empty and mostly unlit. As we escalate the stairs though, the nearby windows reveal that the sun is now setting over the horizon. I let out a long, quiet whistle at the sight. "Those big idiots took up our whole day! I was gonna go surfing out in the gulf!" Jim glances around the rest of the house while I groan about our ill-fated timing. He smiles wildly and prods my shoulder. "At least they left us some mementos," he says, nodding at another room. While the house itself was pretty much a dump- peeling wallpaper, stains everywhere, dirt floors, the whole nine yards- the drug-lords had the 'essentials.' I follow his gaze until I notice a giant pile of gold bars, what look to be stacks of plastic-wrapped marijuana, and a set of keys for some vehicle all upon a mattress. I feel a surge of excitement rush through me as I take the items in stock and unleash a holler. "Woooooee! Looks like it's gonna be 'Braxton Day' after all!" I shout, eager to put our new found inventory to use. "Hold on there, Cal," my brother replies, blocking me with his arm. His sky-blue eyes flash mischievously and dart back to the mattress. "I think it's high time we suit up first." At his suggestion, I realize our business attire is also upon the mattress. More surprisingly, the gray suit-coats and pants are neatly folded over one side instead of tossed haphazardly. I chuckle lightly. "I s'pose going back across the border would go easier if we're actually clothed." Without hesitation, the two of us grab our respective suits and begin dressing. It's not long before we're finished, grab the mattress loot, and venture out of the house with the unknown car keys. Might as well had a choir of angels singing when we see just where they belonged. "Sweet Poseidon's left nipple, I've died and gone to heaven," Jim manages to utter. Before us sits the most beautiful piece of machinery that we have ever set our eyes upon: the Hennessey Venom GT. We're both speechless for who-knows-how-long as we gaze at the miracle on wheels. I finally snap out of my daze and punch Jim's shoulder, spinning the keys in my other hand. "Happy Braxton Day, Jim," I say, tossing the keys to him. His baffled look is priceless as he tries to comprehend what's occurring. "...You're kidding. You're kidding, right?" "Hey, you were technically the one who got us out of that mess. Granted, you were the one who thought we could pull off that deal and quite possibly almost ruined Braxton Day, but here we are with the score and a shiny new car. I think you've earned it," I reply with a smile. Jim unleashes a triumphant yell and punches a fist into the air. Without warning though, he rushes over to me and lifts me off the ground in an attempt of some bear-hug. "Happy Braxton Day, you hairy monkey!" "Hey hey hey, you're ruining the mood! Don't be that guy!" I shout, unable to not share in his excitement though. My brother finally puts me down after a moment and sprints to the sports car. It's a wonder that he's able to wait for me to get in before starting it, but somehow he manages. The next sound we hear is the incredible roar of the engine igniting. Jim revs the accelerator pedal a few times, basking in the vehicle's glory. "I think I'm love. Purr for me, baby, purr," he says, rubbing his hand across the dashboard. "Let's go for a drive." This poor Mexican landscape is not prepared in the slightest for our new joy ride. Jim slams the pedal to the floor, rocketing the car forward like a bat out of hell. Ohhoho, this car is unlike any other as we accelerate onto the roadway. Hardly have ten seconds passed when we already reach over 150 miles per hour. It's good to be a Braxton. ~~~~~~~~~~~ After a half-hour of fantastic driving, we arrive at our entry-way to Texas. Specifically, a patrolled gate courtesy of these fine United States. Only the highest trained and most loyal of guards are stationed here. Ya gotta remember though, we're the Braxton Brothers. As we slowly pull in, a uniformed patrolman approaches our vehicle, sneering all the while. We stop when he raises his hand, lowering his head to view through the open window. The patrolman clears his throat, glaring at the two of us. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you two criminal scumbags here?" "Well you see, officer, we're hoping to make our merry way back into the good ol' US of A. Mexico didn't really strike our fancy," Jim replies without missing a beat. He smirks at the patrolman, awaiting a response. The guard maintains his glare, leaning closer towards Jim. "Is that so?" he asks gruffly. The silence lasts for a few moments before his face breaks into a grin. "Good to see ya, Jim. Lookin' good there, Cal," the patrolman responds. "A fine hello to yourself, Keith. How are Mary and the kids?" I ask, genuinely curious of their well-being. Keith shrugs. "Could be better. Ol' Uncle Sam took another cut of my salary and the bank's trying to foreclose on us," he replies, his face darkening for a moment. "Well, we can't have that now, can we? I'm sure Mr. Franklin and his jolly band of ten thousand clones would be happy to help the cause," Jim jests softly, stuffing a stack of bills into Keith's vest. "Besides, America needs all the help she can get." The guard nods, his grin once more returning. "That she does. That she does." He raises a hand at the gatehouse and whistles. While the fence starts to separate, he looks back to us and says, "Much appreciated, boys. You take care of yourselves out there." We both nod to him. "Likewise, Keith. Happy trails," I respond before Jim slowly drives forward past the gate and into Texas. It isn't long before we make it to one of our bases of operation, right on the outskirts of Corpus Christi. Our little Venom has blended well with the low-night visibility, only seen by the occasional street light. 11:37 blinks across the car's console as we pull into our mansion's garage. The house itself is completely dark, its other resident (one of of our few trusted advisers) most likely asleep. We enter the side-door quietly, both of us quite exhausted from the day's events. Jim turns towards the stairs and sets foot on the first step before I stop him. I grin at his questioning look and say, "Braxton Day isn't over yet, Jimmy boy." He raises a brow, but follows as I begin walking towards the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge door, I retrieve an amber-colored bottle wrapped with a green bow from within. I hear Jim gasp as I turn around and reveal our last present. "Is that a bottle of that scotch we got from Ireland?! I thought we drank all of those!" "All but the one I saved for tonight, dear brother," I reply cheekily. With a firm pop, I uncork the fine liquor and grab two shot glasses. Jim watches as I pour a good deal into each and hand one to him, while leaving one for myself. Setting the bottle down on the counter, I raise my glass into the air. "A toast." My brother nods and raises his glass as well. "To the Br-," he begins, but pauses as a look of confusion passes over his face. My smile fades and I lower my glass at his abrupt change. "Jim?" I question while poking his shoulder. "Hey. You alright in there?" He remains silent for a good while, cocking his head to the side quizzically. His mouth tries to form a question, finally asking, "Flim?" "...what?" I manage to respond. His expression stays puzzled, staring at me in a most creepy fashion. Jeebus, that's frightening. I can hardly stand any longer before smacking his face. "Oy! Cal Braxton to Jim Braxton, are ya in there?" The jostle somehow brings him back to reality as his eyes focus back on me. "Whoa," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his cheek. "What just happened?" "You tell me, you just zoned out there," I reply. "I guess you're more tired than I thought." Jim shakes his head a bit, trying to regain his composure. "I'm fine. Just some weird moment," he explains. However, his grin returns as he raises his glass. "To the Braxton Brothers." I smile and raise my own. "To the Braxton Brothers. Take from the rich!" "And give to the needy!" my brother finishes. We clink our glasses together and gulp down the shots of liquor. The alcohol burns on the way down, but it does its work as we're left with a delicious aftertaste and pure content. Even with the waking feeling that the scotch gives off, Jim still manages to let loose a massive yawn. "Maybe you are right, I am feeling kinda beat." I pat his shoulder briskly, putting the scotch back in the fridge. "No worries, brother, we have tomorrow to gather our wits. Get some shut-eye and I'll see ya in the morning," I reply. Jim nods, trudging towards the stairs. "G'night, Cal." "G'night, Flam," I respond. It's probably time for me to get some rest as well. We did have a long day after all. After cleaning a little, I soon follow up the stairs to my own room and gently close the door. Quietly, I undress myself in the dark and make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My fingers search along the wall until they brush the switch, causing the overhead light to slowly flicker on. I inspect myself in the mirror, still a bit worn down from that scuffle in Mexico. However, my debonair features are intact, mustache is still smashing, body parts are in the right places, apple slice tattoos on my thighs- Wait. My eyes go from the mirror to my legs. I gingerly scratch at the new additions, wondering if my vision is playing tricks on me. Sure as the steroid users in a baseball team though, there is an apple slice tattoo on both my right thigh and my left thigh. Maybe I'm just tired or maybe I'm already asleep and just dreaming, but they seem mighty real to me. However, before I go straight back to bed and lay down from the confusion, my mind connects to only one plausible explanation. The cartel is kinky.