THE SLIM JOB
Written by
jaron summers (c) 2025
As told by Slim from his jail cell in Red Deer ….
I always wanted to be a career criminal.
Not the petty kind. Not breakin’ into cars or lifting scratch tickets from gas stations. I wanted the life—velvet ropes, backroom deals, whispers in the dark. I wanted to be part of something organized. The kind of guy who had a name that meant something. Slim. Yeah, that’s me. Always hoped one day folks would say it like it meant something.
Then came Mr. Big.
I was driving cab out of the Red Deer Airport—place so dead you could park on the runway and no one’d notice. But that day? A private jet touched down, smooth and slick. Out walks this guy. Tall. Sharp suit. Cold eyes. French accent. Real presence. The kind of guy who doesn’t walk into a room—he owns it by standing still.
He takes my cab. Just says, “Country Club.” Doesn’t even look at me. And I know right then—I’m in the orbit of a real player.
I drive him to the club—Red Deer’s version, anyway. He meets a group of tough-looking guys in leather and denim who don’t smile much. I try to linger, make myself useful. Maybe hold a door. Get noticed.
Nothing.
He walks away and I’m left staring at the exhaust pipe.
But I ain’t no quitter. Not when opportunity’s knockin’. So I pull strings. Ask around. Find out when he’s comin’ back.
Next time, I’m there. Fresh shave, pressed shirt, even wore a clip-on tie I borrowed from my cousin’s wedding outfit. And I talk. Not too much—just enough to show I’m loyal. Eager. Useful.
Still not much from Mr. Big. But one of his crew gives me a nod. I take that nod and feed on it like a starving dog. Next thing I know, I’m driving Mr. Big to some quiet meeting with his “associates.”
He warms up a little. Orders drinks. Starts talking about operations, benefits, even dental plans. I’m not kidding. Like the mob had an HR department. And I’m thinking—this is it, Slim. You’re being onboarded.
So I open up.
I tell him about my experience. My credentials, you might say.
There was this old drunk lady who lived next door to me. Loud. Lonely. She had money—credit cards, pension, a decent limit.
I got close. Took her on a road trip. Told her we’d see the ocean.
She never made it past Rocky Mountain House.
I buried her. Real quiet. No one ever asked.
Figured it’d impress him. Show him I wasn’t just some wannabe in a cab. Show I could take care of business.
But the room went quiet. Colder than a walk-in freezer.
Mr. Big looked at me like I’d tracked dog shit onto his rug. “You left the body in a shallow grave. Ever hear of DNA? That will lead the cops to you and then to us. You’re an idiot!
I knew I messed up. Bad.
So I groveled. Told him I’d make it right. Begged him for a chance. “I heard about you, Sir,” I said. “When you take someone on, you need to know the good and the bad.”
He stared a long time. Then said, “One chance. I’ll give you one chance to clean things up.”
Next thing, I’m driving a limo through a snowstorm with him and his crew. Headed back to that stretch of frozen woods. We were fish-tailing through drifts, GPS bouncing like it was drunk. Took hours, but we found it. The spot.
I dug.
Fingers numb, boots soaked, and there she was. Still wrapped in the tarp like I left her.
They handed me a gas can. Said, “Burn it.”
“No body, no crime.”
I tried. But the gas can had water in it.
And that’s when I heard it.
Whup-whup-whup.
Look up.
Helicopter.
RCMP.
They came down like hawks.
Turns out… Mr. Big wasn’t Mr. Big. He was Staff Sergeant Big or some such.
Every guy I thought was a thug? Mountie.
Even the guy who looked like he’d been hit by a truck? Undercover.
They’d set the whole thing up—months in the making. A whole operation. All to get me to confess. To lead ‘em right back to her.
And I did. With a damn shovel and a speech about loyalty.
So now I’m here. Steel toilet. Bad food. Roommate named Randy who talks in his sleep and smells like cheese.
And y’know what?
I’m still impressed.
They got me fair and square. Played me like a fiddle in a fedora.
I always dreamed of being a career criminal.
Turns out… I’m the career lesson.
And the RCMP?
They’re a hell of a lot smarter than I gave ‘em credit for.
