... continued from Part 1.
I informed the Russian captor that I'd really (really) like to purchase one of these lures, and she said they're not for sale. Persuading, I posited that the burden of carting all of these back to Russia was too much, and she dismissed me. Pleading, I asked her if there was no way she could forgo just one? She got her manager.
Reiterating the whole sequence from the above, I was able to break the Russian Manager down. He informed me that they were going to sell off the lot on Sunday, at the end of the show. But I wouldn't be there on Sunday! With some further gentle persuasion and pressure he conceded to sell me one. I asked the price and he gave me a dirty look: if I needed to ask the price, I couldn't afford it.
He suggested we sit down to perform this transaction. Eager, ready to explode with excitement I pulled a crisp $20 bill out of my wallet and proceeded to hand it to him. Mark too pulled out $20 and passed it to me.
The Russian Manager pierced me with dark vodka laden eyes and motioned to the chair. I sat, afraid. Afraid of what, I wasn't sure, but my experience quickly moved from giddy childhood aquisition to something darker. Would I hear the click of a Makarov pistol beneath the table cloth? Or feel the cold steel against my knee? I didn't know, but I held steadfast in anticpation of holding my prize at last.
The Russian Manager opened a case filled with my desired brass, copper and stainless steel implements. He confirmed that I'd like a seven ounce dual propeller, and upon my agreement removed two from the case, silently noting the two bills to be offered in trade. Sliding the carefully stacked duo to the middle of the table, I placed the money beside them and cautiously retrieved my prize.
Unsure of Russian Mob protocol, I ventured a hand shake, satisfied with the transaction. It was coldly accepted, and when my hand was released I briskly left the booth not looking back. Did I fear the sound of a Makarov? Yes, but should it make it's mark it would be quick, and I would die satisfied at having accomplished my goal.
Once I achieved a safe distance, I removed my precious for further inspection and caressing, only to be filled with dread: fishing season was two months away, bass season four and a half!
To be continued...
I informed the Russian captor that I'd really (really) like to purchase one of these lures, and she said they're not for sale. Persuading, I posited that the burden of carting all of these back to Russia was too much, and she dismissed me. Pleading, I asked her if there was no way she could forgo just one? She got her manager.
Reiterating the whole sequence from the above, I was able to break the Russian Manager down. He informed me that they were going to sell off the lot on Sunday, at the end of the show. But I wouldn't be there on Sunday! With some further gentle persuasion and pressure he conceded to sell me one. I asked the price and he gave me a dirty look: if I needed to ask the price, I couldn't afford it.
He suggested we sit down to perform this transaction. Eager, ready to explode with excitement I pulled a crisp $20 bill out of my wallet and proceeded to hand it to him. Mark too pulled out $20 and passed it to me.
The Russian Manager pierced me with dark vodka laden eyes and motioned to the chair. I sat, afraid. Afraid of what, I wasn't sure, but my experience quickly moved from giddy childhood aquisition to something darker. Would I hear the click of a Makarov pistol beneath the table cloth? Or feel the cold steel against my knee? I didn't know, but I held steadfast in anticpation of holding my prize at last.
The Russian Manager opened a case filled with my desired brass, copper and stainless steel implements. He confirmed that I'd like a seven ounce dual propeller, and upon my agreement removed two from the case, silently noting the two bills to be offered in trade. Sliding the carefully stacked duo to the middle of the table, I placed the money beside them and cautiously retrieved my prize.
Unsure of Russian Mob protocol, I ventured a hand shake, satisfied with the transaction. It was coldly accepted, and when my hand was released I briskly left the booth not looking back. Did I fear the sound of a Makarov? Yes, but should it make it's mark it would be quick, and I would die satisfied at having accomplished my goal.
Once I achieved a safe distance, I removed my precious for further inspection and caressing, only to be filled with dread: fishing season was two months away, bass season four and a half!
To be continued...
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