LAST EDITED ON 03-28-13 AT 12:06 PM (EST)

Never mind. We can guess.

It probably happened along these lines.

You graduated from High School after a number of run-ins with the law, and entered the UofK (and there is a variety of opinions as to whether or not and to what extent the Uof K actually rocks) after being turned down by Louisville and Cincinnati U. It seems that those childish didoes that were on your criminal record actually did count against your college entry chances at most places. Except the UofK. There, due to a university minion who was about to retire and just didn’t feel like actually checking your records, you got in.

You probably majored in “Partee” while taking psychology classes, and since, as fate would have it, that same minion, instead of retiring, when on a multi-year drinking binge and was transferred to the student records department and put in charge of winnowing out students who didn’t meet the academic standards of the UofK. So, you managed to stay in school and actually graduate.

OK, you got your highly dubious BS degree in Pre-Psych. However, after interviewing and being rejected by an aghast and disbelieving graduate committee, you got a job at the state prison as the resident psychologist in charge of interviewing prison newbies.

It was a low paying throwaway job that some do-gooder legislature forced the state to establish. The conditions were barbaric, occasionally the machine gun armed undiagnosed PTSD'd guards went berserk and mowed down inmates and prison staff alike, the food was unpalatable, and danger abounded during the periodic prison riots. You were treated as a burden to them by prison officials, and the other prison staff held you in low regard, often parking their cars in your space.

But your job had one unappreciated perq. Because you were the first to interview prisoners after their ordeal with lawyers and prosecutors and judges was over, the scared first timers were often willing to let their hair down and unburden themselves to you. Understandable, you were the first person to express any non-hostile interest in them. You were a relatively friendly shoulder to cry on in their despair after having been informed on the first day of their sentence of the number of years they had to serve, and after it had sunk in on them the reality of their predicament and the endless stretch of time in miserable and downright scary conditions ahead of them. Some were by that time so tired, so remorseful and so frightened that they were willing to totally unburden on you in the hope that you might be able help them. And this led to your knowing where a lot of money stashes, drug caches and warehouses full of stolen merchandise were. Along with a number of bodies.

So now, you here at OT trying to form a gang to fence the goods and launder the money, right? Because, hey, I’m your man. I’ll handle the money laundering, and I know a guy, see, that can get rid of the drugs and stolen stuff, see. I even know a resident of Mockingbird lane who will let you stash the dead bodies in his basement. It’s not like it would be the first time either.

Call me.