The Family Financial Situation (fiction)

SoBad

G.O.A.T.
[The story is pure fiction, any resemblance to real life characters is purely accidental.]

Chapter 1

-- Hello dear, I am home!
Retcher walked into the house.

-- Take off your dirty shoes and leave them at the door!
The wife sounded unhappy.

-- What’s the matter, dear?

-- We are in financial trouble. All the rascals are getting hungry. We need to talk.

Phone rings. Larka picks up the phone, briefly speaks, and places the phone on hold.

-- Who is that now?
Retcher inquires anxiously.

- Your old pal Bob Raver. He said some Sydney paper journalist is at his door and wants an interview. Bob said for 500 euros he’ll mention that you’re one of the greatest players of all time.

-- That old fool is getting greedy. Tell him AUS 200 and he unequivocally states that I am the greatest.

Larka consults on the phone.
-- He said USD 250 and he will wear an RF hat at the next champions luncheon.

-- What on Earth? I already told Mike not to give him any more free RF hats.

-- Okay, I’ll tell him to talk to Mike about the hats.

-- Okay. What else?

- The French TD wants a bigger cut to put you into the semi, as usual. And he said you have to pay the chair umpires separately.

-- I don’t care about RG, have you made the deal to replace Olympic Rio slay with fast hardcourts?

-- Yes, the Olympic Committee want quarter mil for the whole thing.

- Who do you think they are? A kind uncle? See if we can pull something through our fake African charities. What good are you, anyway... Two girls, now we have to come up with the dowry!

-- Unless some fool like you comes about...

-- You stupid fat woman, how dare you!

- What a talentless tool, where would you be without me. Couldn’t win a slam last 3 years despite all the bribes.

-- How dare you!

Larka went quiet. Her husband didn’t know that she developed romantic connections with young ATP players who got her addicted to gambling. Every briefcase of cash she took over to the powers that be, she skimmed to support her habits.

[to be continued]
 

stringertom

Bionic Poster
Chapter Two

(Balding and schwetty Humberto limps into the room under the stern staredown of Tio Antonio)

TA: "Where have you been? Much practice is all we need to turn back time! Our cash is running out from losing to pigeons early and often!"

H: "Gamblers Anonymous meetings are muy importante! Get that hotel chain you pimp for to pay our bills instead of giving us free rooms at these Mickey Mouse tournaments you keep entering me into! Cash is Rey!"

TA: "I can no longer coach you. I have run out of hand signals to use from the box! Perhaps you can hire supercouch Sureshs to lead you back to the top!"

H: "Anything but that! My yacht will sink and he'll not only eat all of my catch but all the bait too! Let me call the good Dr. Fuentes to see if I can trade in my FINNISH passport for a clean updated bio passport and start winning again!"

to be continued...
 

SoBad

G.O.A.T.
Chapter 3

-- Remember Jale Garmer?

-- Of course I do. That fool wouldn’t take the cash to get me over DelMundo in the 2009 final. I gave him a major dressing down right on the court.

-- He was a highly respectable umpire who made clear that his chair wasn’t for sale. An honorable man, a well-respected international umpire. An honorable american man who paid his taxes. The community will not forget.

-- So what, I am the greatest! I buy and sell TDs and umpires like hotcakes.

-- But now we can’t pay the bills because you can’t win slams despite buying SF.

-- I am twice as good now as ten years ago, you stupid woman! I will win strong-era slams and Olympic gold yet!

-- I have an appointment. You stay home and watch the Dokic-Fadal match, maybe you’ll learn something.

-- You witch, go play poker with your Coric playboy.

-- You are full of nonsense.

-- I have photographs.

-- Do you have toilet paper?

-- Have a good time.

-- Thanks, stay well, I left baklazhan dinner on the stove for you.
 

SoBad

G.O.A.T.
Chapter 4

The night before the Monte Carlo final, Larka gambled all night at a casino by the sea. She was thoroughly drunk by the time she ran out of cash, so she got loaded into the casino van and dropped off at the hotel lobby. The bellboys loaded her onto a luggage cart and took her up to Retcher’s room.

Retcher was furious:
-- What the hell are you doing waking me up at 9 in the morning?

-- It’s your girlfriend & manager sir: she is registered in this room.

-- She is trashed, put her in the closet.

-- Yes, sir.

Larka started waking up.

-- Where the hell have you been all night?

-- I was on a conference call with the troll center in India. They agree to deploy another 200 accounts on tennis forums at 2 rupees per post.

-- Did you give the cash bag to Kilopascal Elena?

-- Of course, I did dear.
Larka was slurring her words and bumping into furniture as she tried to walk toward the bed.

The phone rang and Retcher picked up the set.

-- Hello, who is this?

-- It’s Elena. Where is the money?

-- Didn’t Larka give it to you?

-- No.

“Damn, another Monte Carlo gone because of the stupid cow,” thought Retcher to himself.

[to be continued]
 

SoBad

G.O.A.T.
It was getting dark outside. Fetcher was sitting in his favorite recliner by the window.

-- Dear, how is dinner coming along? I hope our private chef a-la Sampras entourage is up to the task tonight.

- Yes, dear, they flew in the finest cow from Hamburg for you favorite filet mignon sandwich de pan paraisese. They are taking extra time preparing your favorite steak sauce.

-- That is exquisite. Please call when the dinner is ready.

Larka picked up the phone and dialed Burger King:
“Double whopper, extra mayo and mustard.”

Larka knew that her husband had no taste in food or anything else. Her gambling and wandering habits demanded optimization of household operations. That’s why when Fetcher demanded private chef out of vanity and Sampras, she brought in a drugged young man from her favorite casino who got fired for stealing chips.
 
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