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I was a Teenage International Arms Dealer

a true confession by Buddy Pine

My name is Aloysius Edgemere Pine. Buddy Pine to you. I am 16 years old, a sophomore at St. James of the Treefrogs Jesuit Academy in Covington, Kentucky . . . and I am an international arms dealer.

How, you wonder, can a 16 year old boy become an international arms dealer? One hyphenated word: E-Bay.

I had not intended to become an international arms dealer. I read about the dude who started trading with a paper clip and eventually traded up for a house. I thought, “Hey, I could do that.”

I had a genuine 1956 Davy Crocket air rifle in “decent” condition and decided to start with that.

Rather than go through E-Bay, I started my own web site with the stated (but joking) intention of trading up my Davy Crocket air rifle for a Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter.

I was way successful. Within three days, I had traded the air rifle for a used set of Honma 5-Star Golf Clubs, the Golf Clubs for a Senator, and the Senator for a case of Chinese AK-47 assault rifles. This was when my internet provider and my father shut me down. Four days after that sad event, the crate of AK’s made its way to my doorstep.

I got my mother to believe it was a crate of vintage Marvel comic books but I knew that my father wouldn’t fall for that and would confiscate the crate on the spot. So, my buddy Dale and I hauled it over to Dale’s garage while I figured what I was going to do with enough small arms to start a revolution.

Without a web site I went back to E-Bay.

Within 18 hours of posting, some guy named Abdili Nbuka offered me $50,000 for the crate. This was tempting but I was trading up, not selling for cash, so Mr. Nbuka offered to trade a bag of diamonds that his “kids” dug out of their backyard.

I gave Dale half of the diamonds for his help in hiding the AK’s from my father. He traded those up for a Lamborghini. I, however, stayed focused on my goal of a Blackhawk and managed to trade the diamonds for a cigar boat.

Dale’s Lamborghini

Some Somali businessman named Osman Aidid offered to trade me an oil tanker (minus the oil) for the cigar boat. At first, this seemed fishy but he explained that he enjoyed water skiing and that the oil tanker just couldn’t go fast enough. That made sense to me and the deal was done.

The Cigar boat

This is where I ran into my second snag – where to stash a 900 ft. tanker until I could make my next trade. Luckily, I didn’t have the tanker long enough to worry about that. Within hours of my trade with Mr. Aidid, I was contacted by a Mr. Clarkeston-Withers who identified himself as a “special representative” of British Petroleum. He offered me $40 million for the tanker no questions asked.

I was at another crossroad. With $40 million I could buy two brand spanking new Blackhawks – one for me and one for my bud Dale. On the other hand, it would be shortcutting the process of obtaining one Blackhawk (condition uncertain) through trade – and only through trade.

I determined to stay on task and declined the $40 million – asking Clarkeston-Withers if he had anything comparable to trade. After some offline discussion with his employers, he came back and offered me a small Indonesian island complete with a palace, game preserve, and a population of people who were known for their hospitality and the “generous” nature of their women.

I accepted, knowing that the “generous women” part would cause some friction with my girlfriend Shelley, so I was hoping to unload it pretty soon – and soon I did.

Within two days, I was contacted by the secretary for a Mr. Yanukovich who apparently had lost his residence recently and was staying with “friends”. However, he was uncertain about how friendly his friends actually were and was seeking a haven where he could maintain his accustomed lifestyle without fear of revolution or accidental hanging by an angry mob. Mr. Yanukovich seemed to feel that my island was just the ticket.

It had been nearly two weeks since I started with my treasured Davy Crockett rifle and I was getting bored with it all and ready to get to the end goal, so I asked whether Mr. Yanukovych had a Blackhawk helicopter. (as he apparently had recently run a country, I assumed he also had an army or air force).

The secretary said that, sadly, Mr. Y did not have a Blackhawk but he did have a friend who owed him a favor – and that friend had access to many Blackhawk helicopters. He would put that friend in touch with me.

Three days later, I was contacted on E-Bay by a Mr. Cheney who said he had a fleet of black helicopters hidden at his ranch in Wyoming. I explained I wanted a Blackhawk helicopter, not a black-colored helicopter. He assured me they were Blackhawk helicopters just painted with a special black paint and super quiet engines that made them pretty much invisible until it was too damn late. How many did I want?



The next morning, I woke up two find two very special black Blackhawk helicopters sitting in my backyard. Never heard them land, never saw who landed them. Didn’t care, didn’t really want to know.

I had done it. I had traded a genuine 1956 Davy Crockett air rifle for not one, but two Blackhawk helicopters (special terrifying stealth edition). Boy, were Dale and I going to have some fun.

Now if we could only find someone who will sell us some beer . . .

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