Cracker Cartel

Episode 11

A confession: I am a reluctant member of the Cracker Cartel. Membership requires participation in nefarious cracker schemes.

Last week, I owned a warehouse full of rancid Triscuits in Yakima. I was planning to give the crackers away as hog food to a couple of farmers. But when the syndicate boss learned about my inventory, he approached me with a plan I could not refuse.

There were other cartel members in Boston, Chicago, and Milwaukee with similarly situated snacks. Cookies with stale cream filling, Bo weeviled biscuits, and blighted peanut butter bars.

With a parade of hurricanes marching across the Atlantic, the plan was to consolidate the snack foods, place our freight in harm’s way, and file an insurance claim for distressed inventory. The syndicate tapped me to run the operation and they expected results.

I told the boss that the math did not work. The plan was not profitable. The boss said, "Don’t forget to count your fingers. They’re priceless."

Then the boss smiled. He advised me to find some enthusiasm for the project and get started. The clock was running.

So I met a Teamster named Christopher in Boston. We met at the Dainty Dot Hosiery building. Outside the day was warm and bright with no hint of the tropical doom bearing down on the East Coast. Boston was crawling with women with bare legs.

Christopher and I got the convoy going. The trucks were headed for New Orleans, disguised as hurricane relief supplies. FEMA was paying for the haul, I learned. Now the scheme looked profitable.

We missed Gustav so the trucks turned towards Savannah. Then late today, after reading the forecasts, we re-routed the truck to Miami hoping for a date with Ike.

What a week! Today’s buck went to a gallon-sized McLatte. Let me tell you, nobody should drink 80 ounces of McLatte. I won’t sleep for days. Now it’s back to the Pacific Coast for the VME poker run and (hopefully) some lovin’ with Hamsini.

I'll be back on the Isle of Vashon in search of Dalton.