Dirty Insurance Tricks

I got a call from Barry Wood. 
Odd.
Especially after the report he compiled on me, that wasn’t only on paper, but verbally.
‘I was only doing my job,’ he said.
‘From your fucking home in Logan,’ I replied.
And added, ‘smoking crack and doing Insurance reports is a collision waiting to happen.'
Yes, Barry, how can I help you, I eventually asked.
He started crying  down the line.
Cry baby Barry Wood, who destroys people’s lives with anecdotal reports.
In  news speak, we call them shaggy-dog stories. A slow day, a filler, even a yarn.
‘It wasn’t personal,’ he eventually blurted out, between intermittent nose blows and baby whimpers of an infant hungry to suck on his mother's udders.
In short, a natural born liar. 

‘You fucked me over Barry.  I missed my wife’s funeral in Perth. I missed my son’s graduation. I missed burying Sandy, my Labrador, in the backyard, under the Tamarind tree. She died from dementia. Then I missed Rosie's funeral, my neighbor next door, who was killed crossing the road by a driver who fled the scene.'
And now I missed out on getting what was rightfully mine in a policy I took out.
I could hear a sucking sound.
Barry's breathing was getting heavy.
He sounded elevated.
I could almost hear his heart beat, racing at 100 bpm.
Other sounds.
Then Barry's queeny voice,  ‘Sam, harder, harder.’

Ahh, so the sucking sound was Barry's asshole sucking hard on a ten inch black cock. He just didn't want to release it from his anus.
Just as I suspected, another crack head who was being fucked up the  ass.
‘I bet the butt fuck I  gave you wasn’t as good as the one I’m getting from  Black Sambo.' 

He was still short of breath. I could still hear that sucking sound. Fuck, loose lips sink ships was my thought on that.

'Fuck, he's tearing my ass apart.'

Then the line went silent.
Talk about a well orchestrated production. No wonder he's the rising  star of AAMC.
Hmm, extraordinary, I thought.
Barry-Fucking-Dead-Wood now working on intimidation.
Mmm, maybe the theater might take him on.  Because he wasn't going to make it as a writer, writing fictitious insurance reports.  That much I knew. 

So I made a few calls,  to see if Barry was full of shit. 

I called  up Mick to ask if  what Barry wrote was correct and he denied it.
‘Why would I do that?' said the auto electrician, 'you paid your bill.' He said his company won’t deal with some insurance companies for this reason, being harassed and interrogated by their investigation units.   ‘We won’t  deal with  NRMA,' he said, saying, ‘they are always haggling for a cheaper price,  and pay far too slow,  if indeed they pay at all.' 
He said thanks to Barry Wood,  from AAMC, he won’t be doing  any insurance claims for RAC. ‘It is just not worth the bother,’ he said, saying he was glad I got the transmission sorted out. ‘Toyota knows what they are doing and have the license for software that we don’t have.'
He said he wasn’t aware of any loose connections.
‘Must have been someone else down the line.'
I told him about the  so-called souped up invoice.
‘Oh, another Peter Ralph production, he’s notorious for that kind of shit. Most likely that outfit left the transmission module unattached.'
What?
‘It’s called sabotage, which means Peter Ralph can get more tows.'
None of it made sense. 
On top of that, I was dealing with Barry Wood, a wolf who wrapped himself in sheep skin to disguise the killer scents that oozed out of every pour.
‘A ferret pits one person against the other to get what he wants, dirt.'
Sounded about right.    

I called up Peter Ralph to ask if Barry spoke with him about me. 

'Yep,' he said,  'he called up digging for dirt for RAC about a guy who was trying to claim for damages from an impact with a kangaroo and  wanted to question me about you for making a fraudulent claim. '

What, is he taking swipes at our favorite pastime? 

Peter continued:

'I laughed down the line and replied, "if you got a park bench then I’ll tell you about it." Then he asked why I'd needed to sit down on a park bench. The mongrel wasn't too bright. I told him  about the four tows we gave you, how Ultra-tune across the road had advised not to drive the car, how your  battery was flat, another sign that your car was fucked, and how I was booked up for a year from the recent hail storms and how I was getting fed up with scumbags like him trying to get insurance companies out of not paying for legitimate claims. Then I told him how I had no time to scratch my ass and how it was really getting itch which meant that my bullshit detector that was going through the roof. Apparently he  got the message and on my recommendation,  ferreted on to his next call,  Greg Hennessy Smash Repairs in Woolgoolga. Boy was he in for a surprise, Josh is the king of jokers who hates insurance companies.

I told him that in his report, he said he physically visited Mike.

'Bullshit. He never physically visited Mick down the road. We communicate, June street isn't long and he said 'I gave the ferret a bum steer'. I knew what he meant, and told him he wasn't a cunt, but an ankle, two feet under a cunt and that I also led Barry down the garden path.'

Then I  called up Josh from Greg Hennessy  Smash Repair, asking if he was visited by a creep called Barry Woods.

‘Nope,’ he said,' but I did get a phone call and  I said  there wasn’t much I could say since we  hadn’t taken on your claim, though we did a few tows and  that I was  too fucking busy with the towing side of business to discuss bullshit matters with insurance companies. But I did  email him  photos I took of the damages,  a poor substitute for actually looking at the damages with your own eyes. Then Barry asked me what I thought of you. I said you striked me as shaddy, my kind of person. I knew that would get Barry's juices going. Then I told him how you wanted a write off, knowing Barry would write it up, because he wasn't an assessor but a dramatist. I would have happily written the car off for you, but after meeting Barry, I wanted nothing to do with RAC, they were too clever for their own good and could easily have sunk my business. Bad for business as we say, meaning what ever work I'd put in, would be declined by the likes of Barry who would sell his grandmother for another ego stroke from his master.  Then I wished Barry the very best without actually telling him to fuck off. I run a business and a part of it is dealing with asswipes like him.'

Thanks, I said to Josh, and yes that was me stalking you on the Pacific Highway from Grafton on Monday.

'Yeah,  a school bus  tow and yeah,  I was about to pull out the sawed-off-shotty.' 

Then asked and answered his own question, 'what was Barry's last name again, yes, Deadwood.’

I called up Nathan, the auto electrician next to Banana Batteries, around the corner from June street.
‘Yeah, Jake told me about a receipt that they believed was forged. We got rid of Tracey, a fucking smack head who doesn’t know the difference between a word document and an invoice. ‘
That bad?  I asked.
Well I thanked him for the report, saying just as I suspected, that was also corroborated by Craig from Car Finders on Industrial Drive.
‘Great mechanic, auto mechanic and electrical mechanic.'
I didn’t doubt it. He didn’t even charge me for a full service because he didn’t want me to throw my money away when there were bigger fish to fry.
‘Problem with the newer cars', says Nathan, who was out of town doing some out-calls near Moree, ‘it could be a mechanical problem, or a software problem, and idiots like Barry ignorant of this fact exploit it in their reports which means huge savings for insurance companies.'

Barry only knew what he plagiarized from car manuals but didn't have 'real' understanding of what was going on, I told him.

'Office workers who put on overalls for a day to blend in,'  he said, apologizing for the dodgy invoice.   and loose wiring on the  transmission module. 

 'We don’t call him Big Jake for nothing, slobbering over donuts and wiring at the same time, a recipe for disaster.’

And I said Barry Wood is going down for hate crimes, against me and my car.

But I didn't tell Barry that he ruined my reputation.

If I had to be honest, I'd say I never had one. 

That's on the records, Barry Wood, one  of the faceless millions
of corporate foot soldiers who  wouldn't think twice about thrusting a bayonet in your gut to beef up their sales stats.  They destroyed people's lives and celebrated it in the evening at trendy cafes eating fusion dishes and drinking 'single' size bottles of wine made for their miserable lives.

Corporate assassins? Yes and they slept well at night.

No wonder some people took the law in their own hands.

We are after all, animals, the apex predator. 

And Barry, despite his civilized demeanor was an animal, who loved noting more than having his ass ripped apart. 

'It certainly beats sharing bean bags in an office, ' he responded, via email.