It was around the time we were discussing our respective tax troubles that Mitchell completely snapped. He just jumped up, walked straight outta the depot, and disappeared.
I heard a little later on that he had gone and scaled the east side of a laundromat using jutting bricks and air intake vents as footholds. Apparently, when Mitchell got to the top, he just lied on the roof for a few days. He told everybody who saw him that he was just collecting his thoughts. Really though, he was just collecting noxious fumes from all that roof tar.
It was seasonably hot here in Guatemala, so his common sense really dropped the ball on informing him to avoid doing something like that. But who knows, maybe common sense is the first organ to succumb to roof tar. Science has its fair share of blank spots, and there’s no sense in harping on ’em to try and make it blush.
Either way, we can all agree that ole Mitch was never too much for thinking. There’s no doubt about that, seeing as how he never did catch-on to the affair that I’ve been having with his wife, for what, like seventeen years now? We haven’t exactly been discreet about it either. Anybody remember Carlos Siega’s Christmas party two years ago? What a night. But perhaps this isn’t the time to get into all that. Water under the bridge, as they say.
So yeah. He sold key chains to tourists, his wife didn’t much care for him, and he owed a few years in back taxes that now he’ll never have to pay. That about sums up the life of ole Mitchell Rebbins, so whaddya say we file his eulogy under “DONE” and call it a day? I’ll be seeing most of you at the after party down at Wallbanger’s.