The Assassination of Mr. Nice


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Published: July 5th 2009
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No entiendo, he said with a puzzled face and a look of fear in his expression. The over-confident prick/a**hole had had the tables turned on his little charade.

Not two minutes earlier the man had gotten into the front passenger seat of the taxi I had just hailed to get back to my residence. Asking for documentation, the driver duly obliged. The man proceeded with a mobile phone call to 'HQ', 'reporting' that the credentials were in order and asking me for my nationality and where I was staying.

Turista?

Agitated by the label, I bluntly replied: No, viajero/traveller.

The man continued that a lot of foreigners were illegally working in the country (yeah, right, the wages are top notch in Bolivia), especially Americans and wanted to know if I was one of them. All the while he was holding his phone to his ear as if reporting his 'findings' to the 'station'.

Mr. Fake Policeman was a real d***head. Not only was his act ridiculous but by mislabelling my nationality he had unintentionally pissed me off. The shit had hit the fan, Mr. Nice was gone. I switched into survival/killer mode. Easy to back up when you're carrying pepper spray, a four inch blade and have the benefit of sitting behind your would-be assailant. Or should I say assailants. The taxil driver was taking a different route than requested, proving he was in on it. It was time to take control. The best defence is offence. I looked Mr. Fake in the eye and told him I was going to kill the SOBs if they didn't release me in front of my hostel. To back it up I gave him the look Mike Tyson had before chewing off Evander Holyfield's ear and finished off with a barrage of Slovene swear words that brought out his dismal no entiendo.

What a difference a threat makes. Within a minute I was breathing in the crisp air outside my hostel while Mr. Fake and his accomplice were left to toss off and wonder where they had gone wrong in their little act.


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