Guilty scams

A few tips for arguing with scam artists. Think before you speak, only show emotion when necessary, never take anything at face value, there is always a different motive than you think, and most importantly don’t trust them. “I feel guilty.” My palms are sweating, my knees are buckled, I’m shaking. Swimming in guilt, swimming in lies. I just can’t take it anymore” My family stares back at me, their expressions blank. And so their little games begin. 

“Why? It’s the family business,” my mother responds with the usual motherly and feminine lip pout. My poor mother didn’t understand that her only move, was for 60-year-old men, not her 20-year-old daughter. My next words had to be careful, clever, cunning. They had to shut down the big speech my dad was about to give.

“I won’t tell, I just don’t want to do it anymore.” I know that was all they ever cared about. As long as the business stays, they won’t care. 

“This is a family, and we need you for our routine,” my father continues. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to care. “If you feel guilty we will just let you stick to the rich people.” Like that’s any better. 

“Just because they are rich doesn’t mean they deserve our scam,” I reply, reminding him that I actually have morals. 

“That’s exactly what it means darling,” my mother chimes in. I take a second, a millisecond so I don’t sound planned. How do I fix this? 

“Maybe you are right, but look at us.” I move my hands to reference the large dining table we are sitting in, the vintage artwork, the huge archways of our castle-like home. “We did this when we were the underdogs, why don’t we give back? Otherwise, we are just as bad as they are.” I can see my father’s brow furrow as he thinks, my mother shifts her legs to face my father’s. They lock eyes, they seem endearing. 

“No,” my father says, I turn towards my mother. 

“No,” she repeats. Great, just great. “We used to say it was for the underdogs, it’s really just for us.” What?

Truth, something I had never encountered. My parents used to be genuine, then they gave birth to me. A pathological liar, with psychopathic tendencies. I learned from day one how to use people, how to manipulate them. Around age twelve, I had my parents wrapped around my greasy pre-teen finger. That is when our first victim came along. Our new neighbor was a company developer, trying to move us out of our one-bedroom shack. He claimed it was so broken we would be better off in a shelter. My parents wanted to just accept the loss and move away. I had a different idea. This was my mother’s first con. I wanted to perform the con, but I knew this wasn’t a job for a 12-year-old.  Within two days we had a new apartment in a nicer area. From then on, I had convinced my parents. There was an easier way to live life. People can call it a scam, a con. We called it retaliation for the underdogs. Until we had all the money we needed. Then we started scamming the underdog for name brand handbags and sweaters. It was no longer for the underdogs, it was undeniably for us. 

“You are truly evil,” I respond. She needs to feel guilty. 

“I am not evil, I earned this,” she rebuttals. My voice starts to strengthen, I lift it an octave. 

“You are against everything you stand for, why can’t we just stop scamming people with less money than us?” I look into my father’s eyes as I question. 

“They are easier to scam, and that’s all that matters,” my father responds blankly. He was too good at not showing any emotion. That was his strength, it’s easy to trust someone who never looks uneasy. I looked extremely uneasy, they knew I wasn’t staunch in leaving. They knew it would be easy to get me back if they wanted. This was when the true games would begin. I look at my father, then my mother.

 “I’m out,” I say with confidence that I surely don’t have. 

My mother glances at my father, his turn. 

“That is ridiculous, just because you aren’t interested right now doesn't mean you won’t be later.” Is he serious? That’s the best he can do? 

“Dad,” I say “I have been lying my entire life without feeling bad, but now…” I let my voice trail off to show my genuine intent. 

“You only feel bad because they are poor.” My mother chimes in.

“Exactly,” My dad explains. “What if we stuck to the rich?” He asks. 

“And gave some of your shares to the poor?” I question. Even my dad looks shocked. 

“How much?” My mom asks. She’s considering it. Good, undeiniably good. 

“Not much, maybe one-fifth of our revenue,” I answer. I knew they did the math, I knew that one-fifth of our revenue taken out would still afford the house, private jet, and name brand clothes. 

“One-seventh?” My dad asks

“One-sixth?” I respond. Sometimes it’s better to look uneasy. 

“Deal.” My mom chimes in. I knew she would stop it, she can pout her lip and quiver her eyes, but she can’t talk numbers. 

“What charity?” My father asks. “I don’t trust most of them,” he continues before I can even get a word in. 

“The one we used to use, the soup kitchen next to the development, we can trust them more than anything else.” 

“Ok, fine,” my father says. 

“Great, I vote we hit Riggs and Johnsen Insurance tomorrow.” I look at them with a plan in mind. They smiled, they didn’t care about the money, they were just happy they conned me into staying. They walked away feeling superior because they got me to stay. And I walked away feeling even better. 

I knew they had been reducing my shares. And I needed that money. Yes, I did. Oh, I forgot to mention that I am the new owner of the soup kitchen. Remember the rules, never take anything at face value, everyone’s motive is different than you think.