After I was fired as assistant foreman of the poultry farm, I decided to go into the real estate industry.
(Over the last twelve years I have purchased most of the real estate courses available on late night cable shows.)
The basis of these courses is to show investors, such as myself, how to convince home sellers, through a series of small fibs, that their properties are worthless.
This way investors, such as myself, can acquire valuable homes and properties for no money down.
With a bit of paint and ingenuity, one can then sell (we call it flip) the property and effortlessly make twenty or thirty thousand dollars over a weekend.
I called on my neighbors, the McDougals, as they were finishing their breakfast.
McDougal said he didn’t want to buy any eggs but I told him I was out of the poultry business and was prepared to buy his four-bedroom, two-bath split level home and all of its contents.
McDougal beamed and invited me in. I was impressed with the beautifully finished hardwood floors, the crown moldings and the elegant bay window.
I told McDougal that I might do him a favor by taking the property off his hands as I knew that he and his family did not want to live in a home where so many murders had been committed.
“What?” asked his wife. “People have been killed in our home?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, telling the rest of my first tiny fib. “A drifter by the name of Freecell did in the entire family that once owned this ‘house of horrors.’ Those corpses are no doubt at home with the remains of the Bernet family who were eaten by cannibals in the very cellar below our feet.”
“Can this be true?” asked Mr. McDougal.
“It’s all in the police reports. You have been living in a home overrun with death —”
“We’ll lower the price,” said his wife.
“I don’t know,” said her husband. “We’ve got our home priced very competitively at $385,000.”
“Not considering the horrors these walls have witnessed,” I said. “I am willing to give you $99,000 today. Sign here.” I passed him the papers that I had learned to write up from my home study courses.
McDougal scanned the documents. “A quarter of our home’s value? No money down? You take us for fools?”
“Haunted houses with corpses in the cellar are not marketable. I would be doing you a huge favor by taking this cursed property off your hands.”
“You crazy chicken man,” said McDougal. “Coming in here with wild talk of dead people and frightening my wife. Leave before I call the authorities.”
I left but returned that midnight with my chicken ax and dispatched the entire McDougal family.
It took a year for the home to go through probate and when it was sold, I called on the new owners. When I showed them the newspaper clippings of what had happened to the McDougals, they were horrified.
Once they had signed the papers, I was able to flip the property in less than a week.
