American Asshole in Mérida: Dan Karnes
Harriet Riggs could hardly contain herself from bursting out laughing when she saw the photograph of Dan Karnes—fat as a fuck since he was a fat fuck—taken surreptitiously when he was making a sworn statement in a civil proceeding at the Junta Local de Conciliación y Arbitraje del Estado de Yucatán.
Yes, the Mérida English Library of Scams had been sued.
Yes, under his brilliant mismanagement, not only had Dan Karnes allowed fat spic José Martínez Domínguez to steal hundreds of thousands of pesos, but the library was now being sued.
A measure of his incompetence: Asshole Dan Karnes was spending his retirement in legal proceedings, just what every damn gringo in Mexico want to do, not!
This called for a cocktail, Harriet Riggs thought, as she made her way to the patio to make herself a gin and tonic at the Clandestine Cantina this sham of a library operated without a license. She smiled, shaking her head.
“Dan, Dan, Dan, you pathetic festering sore on the sphincter of the American Asshole community in this shithole of a Mexican city,” the volunteer librarian said to herself.
Her amusement—and outright pleasure—was such that she put her tumbler down and reached for her cell phone. She had to text that picture to Claire Wentworth. Within minutes, her cell phone rang.
“Oh, is that man fat!” Claire Wentworth said.
“I know!” Harriet Riggs said. “At least there’s comfort in knowing it.”
“Knowing what?”
“Oh, Claire, my dear, according to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, an American man of Dan’s age and weight has less than a decade left,” she said. “That morbidly obese fat fuck will be dead we know it.”
“Good!”
“In fact, if he thinks a stupid labor civil suit is all he’s up against, then that fat fuck is as dumb as a fat whale!”
“What do you mean?” Claire Wentworth, renowned for her ravishing locks of hair and patrician manner asked. She was not all that familiar with the carryings on of American lowlifes in town.
“Well, this is only the beginning,” Harriet Riggs said, sitting down.
“Really?”
“Of course!” she said. “Remember how we fired María Hernández after that goody two shoes demanded that the library comply with Mexican law?”
“Yes, I do.”
And she did.
“Well, Dan Karnes had a fit—he said we didn’t have to comply with Mexican laws,” Harriet Riggs said. “We could sell drinks without a liquor license. We could raise money without permission from the tax authority—lo sentimos, no contamos con recibos fiscales—and all the other shit.”
Harriet Riggs laughed. The Mexicans were such idiots they assumed Americans were decent people, and not the pathetic opportunistic leeches that they were in town.
“They’re still getting away with that?” an incredulous Claire Wentworth said, chuckling.
The patrician WASP was always amused by the American lowlifes in town.
“You better believe it,” the volunteer librarian volunteered. “Remember, when María Hernández demanded the library get itself squared away, Dan fired her.”
María Hernández was a Mexican professional in the library sciences who was recruited to correct the errors that led to José Martínez Domínguez being able to empty the library’s bank account, such was the absent oversight under the remarkable incompetence of Dan Karnes.
What proper gringas in town needed to prevent becoming dried out old pussies, like Lewie Connor.
The women continued to gossip. Claire Wentworth nursed a gin and tonic and Harriet Riggs, ever so discreetly, applied some K-Y jelly to lube herself up. She was cognizant of the fact that, as women aged, they need to supplement vaginal lubrication. (“The last thing I want is to end up with a dried out old pussy like Lewie Connor,” she often told friends, a reference to Ms. Connor, one of the American miscreants running amok at the library. “That old bitch’s pussy would need a gallon of K-Y jelly, it’s so parched down there.)
“Well, you know, there is something you can do,” Claire Wentworth said in a conspiratorial manner.
“What?”
“Well, if Dan Karnes has been running the library’s finances in such a cavalier manner, who’s to say there hasn’t been a comingling of funds?”
“Really?”
Canadian Munchkin and Gringo Loser in town: Reg Deneau
“Didn’t you tell me that when that Haitian madman came around collecting funds after the earthquake, Reg Deneau just gave him $5,000 pesos without a receipt from petty cash?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Harriet Riggs said, wiping her hand on a moist towel.
“There you have it, the library was a personal slush fund, something that, under IRS regulations, constitutes income to the assholes benefiting from it.”
“And that means that … it’s taxable.”
“Oh, Harriet, the IRS has a bounty program—they will pay you to snitch on tax evasion,” Claire Wentworth said.
Harriet Riggs was listening intently; she always wanted to be a Bounty Hunter.
“And …”
“And what?” she said anxiously, standing up to walk over to the Clandestine Cantina and freshen her drink.
“And if even one dollar was donated to the library in the form of a check drawn on a U.S. bank, then that means that in cashing that check—why, it’s money laundering!”
“Money laundering?” she said, aghast, making her drink a double.
“Why, of course!” Claire Wentworth said, laughing. “Unreported income, the comingling of funds, accepting foreign currency donations, failing to pay taxes to Mexico’s tax authority.”
“Oh, the criminal activity!” Harriet Riggs said, interrupting.
“To say nothing of raising funds with issuing recibos fiscales and operating a bar without a liquor license from the city.”
“Bounty program, you say?”
“It’s part of the Whistleblower program,” Claire Wentworth said. “I hear that’s going to be used against that bitch, Adele Aguirre, who’s been using SoHo Galleries to defraud the IRS for years and years.”
“Really?”
“Oh, of course, my dear,” Claire Wentworth said. “In fact, the IRS Whistleblower Office is on Rulon White Boulevard in Ogden, UT.”
That’s why Harriet loved Claire: she was so brainy and competent.
“Utah?”
“Whenever you’re ready to report Dan Karnes—and all the American members of the board—just let me know and I will help you apply for the Bounty Award!”
That got Harriet Riggs thinking. There was a pause as the women thought, the clinking of ice cubes in their respective tumblers the only sound heard.
“Do you think there’s much of a bounty?”
“That depends on the level of their financial crimes, Harriet,” she said. “And on the penalties levied against fat fuck Dan.”
“Speaking of crimes,” Harriet Riggs said.
“Yes?”
“Well, I know they’ve had almost no financial controls at the library, using it as their personal piggy bank for the better part of a decade … but …”
Her voice trailed off, almost as if in fear.
“But what?” Claire Wentworth prodded.
“What about the sex crimes?”
“Sex crimes?” the patrician WASP said, fear in her voice. “Are we talking about Catholic priests here,” she said, with the natural disdain Protestants have for Catholics.
“Remember when Daniel Tyrrell admitted—in writing—that the Monday night Conversations with Friends was used to promote sex tourism?”
Dan Tyrrell, unwittingly, had written three emails confirming that Conversations with Friends on Monday nights were used for sex tourism, and two underage Mexican boys had been sexually assaulted a subsequent investigation revealed.
“Oh, Harriet, who cares about old gringo fags and young Mexican sissies hooking up?”
“No one, of course, but there’s more.”
“More?”
“Well, thanks to Yucatán Yenta—”
“Beryl Gorbman?”
“Yes, Beryl,” the volunteer librarian said. “People don’t know she was a private investigator and after the scandal broke—fat fuck José stealing the money, Mexican martyr María being fired, and limp-dick heart attack waiting to happen Dan—she started to snoop around.”
“What did she find? I imagine since the Holocaust Jews have become expert private detectives, finding all kinds of things.”
“Well, through her methods, two—not one, but two—underage boys were found who were molested on the library premises during Conversations with Friends.”
“Oh, no, that can’t be.”
“Pedophiles. Alcohol. Ruffies.”
“Rohypnol, the date-rape drug?” she said, gasping.
“Julián González is prepared to come forward with medical reports about his young nephew, then twelve years old, who was raped by a geriatric gringo during Conversations with Friends.”
“And who knew?”
“Well, according to the affidavit I read, they made a big stink, but the matter was dropped with fat fuck Dan was desperate to cover it up.”
“So that explains why Daniel Tyrrell went on and on about posting guards at the library door on Monday nights.”
“Exactly, Claire.” The she paused for dramatic effect. “Interpol.”
“What about Interpol?”
“They might want to read those emails Daniel Tyrrell wrote—and the affidavit Julián González signed.”
“Really?
“Oh, my goodness,” the volunteer librarian said. “This sham of a library has not only been used steal from the public, but it has been used to promote sex tourism in Mérida—and the sexual exploitation of Mexican minors.”
“That’s terrible.”
“And Dan Karnes and Daniel Tyrrell covered it up—”
“—instead of reporting the authorities they covered it up!”
“As if they were Catholic priests!”
“Interpol, you say?”
“Oh, Claire, I think you should print out all those emails from Daniel Tyrrell—and I’ll send you Julián González’s sworn affidavit and you can just make sure Interpol—”
“—in France, right?”
“200, quai Charles de Gaulle, 69006 Lyon,” Harriet Riggs said, demonstrating why she was a brainy librarian.
Would Claire Wentworth provide all the evidence, including a sworn affidavit, to officials at Interpol?
“Quite so.”
The women continued to talk. Claire Wentworth wondered if Harriet Riggs would file a Whistleblower complaint. Harriet Riggs, for her part, wondered if Claire Wentworth would send all the incriminating evidence of the rape—and cover up—of a Mexican minor on the premises of the Mérida English Library of Scams in a complaint to Interpol.
The women knew that no matter how high a wall would rise, FedEx would deliver to Ogden, Utah and Lyon, France without a problem.
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