Alfredo is half Colombian, half Lebonese. He wears all black and a gold watch. He owns a frame shop. It’s not your typical frame shop. More like a factory. If quarter-million dollar masterpieces were trees, his gallery would be a jungle. There are only two things he loves more than art. One is women. The other is tequila. Between women and tequila, Jose Cuervo Tradicional Reposado gets the nod.
Alfredo’s sixth wife looks like a Colombian Vanna White. When a customer’s art is ready for retrieval, she struts down a long corridor to collect it like a bought vowel. As she walks away, but before she is completely out of ear shot, Alfredo, busy entertaining a patron, announces matter-of-factly, “She’s the least attractive of all my wives.”
Alfredo used to be involved with Pablo Escobar. His proof is his watch. It is as heavy as one would expect the watch of a man who used to be involved with Pablo Escobar to be. Underneath the face is a mysterious engraved hieroglyph. Alfredo likes to take the watch off, turn it over, point to the engraving, and exclaim to the nearest onlooker: “See! Pablo Escobar!” Everybody believes him.
“Big dick, great,” he declares proverbially, shooting back another agave, “Big balls, better.” He drinks his tequila out of styrofoam shot glasses with ice and lime. At least one bottle a day. He’s built up the tolerance of an elephant over the years. His wife says he can take it because he drinks so much water too. He’s always peeing.
It’s a joy and a privilege to get drunk with Alfredo. When he’s deep into a bottle, he loves to show off his bulging forearms. They really are impressive. Disgusting, actually. His fingers are short, but so thick and strong it’s obvious he has used them for killing. He raises his eyebrows, snarls, and laughs diabolically. “I was in prison once. Sold some art to the wrong people,” he confesses, eyes wide, licking his lips like he just finished a pork chop, “But I got out.”
File under Humor too, Foley. Hysterical!
A.K. is right– this is GOLD.