Big Con Artist
by Michael A.
Kechula
Ed was whale watching when
he heard a whale call, “Hey, Mister, what’s
your name.”
“Ed,” he said,
wondering if he were hallucinating.
“Could you do me a big
favor, Ed?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Let me explain. I’m
the King of the Pacific Whales. Last week, a tour
boat was here. People aboard ate something called
pepperoni pizza. Some of it fell overboard.
Several of my subjects tasted it. Now they’re
hooked and in open rebellion. They said if I don’t
arrange to feed them pizza every day, they’ll
replace me with somebody who can. If you could
get some pepperoni pizzas and put them in the
water, I’ll add poison. That would get rid
of my rebellious whales before they infect more
of my subjects with their weird dietary ideas.”
“How many pizzas do
you need?” asked Ed.
“Seven-hundred extra-large.”
“That’ll be very
expensive. How much money do you have?”
“I’m broke,”
said the King. “But maybe you can help. In
exchange for your generosity, I’d fix it so
great white sharks won’t ever attack you,
should you ever fall overboard. And I’d
arrange with alligators to never bite your hands
off, in case you ever want to pet one in Florida.”
“Thanks for the offers,
but this will cost me about $14,000.”
“I’ll sweeten the
offer,” said the King. “I have a
beautiful daughter with a huge dowry. Perhaps you’d
be interested in marrying her.”
“What’s her dowry
worth?”
“Ten thousand tons of
kelp, twenty thousand tons of seaweed.”
Ed figured he could sell
the kelp and seaweed to sushi restaurants for
mega-dollars. That’d cover the cost of
using his credit card to buy seven-hundred
pepperoni pizzas, ten-thousand times over.
“It’s a deal. But,
it’s gonna take a while to make all those
pizzas.”
“While you’re
gone, I’ll get my daughter and her dowry
ready for you. We can conduct the ceremony when
you return.”
“Sounds great.” Ed
figured he’d make a bundle by selling a
female whale to Japanese fishermen. “When I
return, how will I find you so I know where to
drop the pizzas?”
“I’ll set off
flares,” said the King.
Ten hours later, Ed arrived
with the pizzas. The King heard the boat’s
engines, came to the surface, and set off flares.
After Ed dropped the pizzas
overboard, his future bride came to the surface
along with her dad.
“He so cute, Daddy,”
she said. “He looks good enough to eat.”
“Indulge yourself, my
sweetie-pie,” said the King.
Ed was gone in one gulp.
The King dried the pizzas,
and sold them to hungry tourists who came on
boats to watch whales frolic in the Pacific. He
made so much money, he bought the island of
Tahiti, where he lived happily ever after with
his subjects—none of which had ever heard of
pepperoni pizza, or ever tasted it.
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