It’s better to have your enemies think you’re crazy than reasonable. Me? I’m pry just a big, dumb fish swimmin’ in 100 kinds of snow. Corduroy, corn snow, crystalline or crust—I’m eust to all of it.
Everybody thinks an overgrown guppy like me can’t patrol the mountain same as other fish. But, I’m a businessman. If I catcha little baitfish poachin’ powder O.B., I’m real calm when I say, “Cumeeear.” I listen to him talk; and then I listen samore. Vinny the Shark told me long ago, “A fish is killed by its open mouth.” So if little squidbreath can’t bite his tongue, I cut him, and putim on ice.
Maybe because of my size, I can’t blast through the Wipperweeds at the Canyons; and maybe I’m not as graceful as a dolphin on a Deer Valley groomer. But at Park City, I’m the prince of the fishbowl.
And anyway, ski patrol’s just my day gig. Ominna let you in on the cosa nosta. I gotta a nice little SpeakEasy in Park City that serves good beer and REAL drinks; you know, big as you want, strong as you want. I got guys dealin’ death cookies in Nevada; I got cocaine snow at Alta; and I got ALL KINDS of hoars in Wyoming. Money’s always welcome, even if it comes in a dirty sack. And that’s where The Church does the dishes for me. Crisp and clean and no tax-ing.
I made a killing at Sundance this year. Who needs all that film fluff? Booking, bumps and takin’ bacon—that’s where the action was. Lucky for me, Harry O’s had total control of the Park City nightlife. They sharpen up like good steel and keep things looking cleaner than a backcountry dump. The bar’s a perfect base for all my dogfish to do business. And we ripped an avalanche. Course, there were a few casualties. We got hung up in some mashed potatoes after that late snow party. I had to have Tony the Tuna and Manny Mackeral do some serious cleanup. The next day, both of those fins got reeled in for assault and battery. “Always draw an eel from the hole with another man’s hand.”
Now that the town’s back to normal, I’m back up to my ass in alligators…and it’s time to drain the swamp. My enemy has been working up something stinking. I may not be the brightest beluga on ice, but I know when that shark-livered varmint is about to throw a bomb. Back in snow school, my enemy and I were always swimming circles around each other. Then one day on heavy windpack, he placed a shot above me and I was caught in a slide. I was almost killed, but he came to my rescue. As oz freezing and beein crushed in heavy slabs of snow, my enemy made me repeatedly vow my life to him. I bowed very, very low that day, and I’ve held that bitter memory ever since. Now ommina exact my revenge.
Right before Sundance, my enemy tried to make me an offer to partner up on the piste. Barracuda lose their teeth—but not their nature. I told him that my line’s ardy skied out and that I don’t have much to offer. It was a lie; but killer whales don’t hunt goldfish. Ain’t that dafaquin truth…
Since then, he’s been quiet; silence makes no mistakes, ya know what I mean?. Aowncare what kinda offer he tries ta make. If I let him believe he’s my equal, he’ll think he’s my superior. My plan is to set up some of his piranhas using their modus operandi. Then, when they get picked up in the moguls, I’ll make a sizable contribution to the local government.
Waita minute. Maybe that’s dumb. I’m, I’m leavin’ somethin out here. I know I had a good plan, but uh, wairdit go?
Ah Skrewit. Omgoan skiing.