We bought our Super Bowl tickets at:
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 "Let me explain what we're doing." I was addressing a room of mentally retarded men and women who were gathered around my dining room table. "We're installing 7,500 batteries into 2,500 electronic lights. It's for a marketing project." "What's marketing?" asked Francine, a sweet heavyset woman in her 20's. "Marketing is what people do instead of real work," I explained. We were on a tight timetable, because the lights had taken longer to arrive from China than expected. Once I finally got them home, the volume of lights was just staggering. I realized I would need help, so I went down to the local school for the mentally retarded, where I was able to hire cheap labor. In fact, they worked for tin foil, once I told them it was money.  On Monday, the lights were complete, but we still had to create 2,350 counterfeit "Party Packs," a production process so focused and intense that I felt my head might explode at any minute. UPS was due to pick up our fully-loaded pallets that evening and haul them to Miami, but I was pretty sure it was going to be impossible to get everything finished in time, especially when I was surrounded by retards. Literally. I was responsible for ordering the lights in exactly the right sequence; they were responsible for stuffing them into packets. Since the white and blue lights looked identical when switched off, there would literally be no way for anyone to decode the message if the boxes were discovered -- short of taking thousands of lights to an empty warehouse, turning on each one in sequence, then viewing them from above. But finish we did, shrink-wrapping our final pallet at 6:25 pm, just as the freight truck came to pick it up. The two pallets weighed over a quarter of a ton, making it the heaviest ZUG prank on record.  The days leading up to Super Sunday were a blur of chaos: ordering uniforms for the crew, researching security-grade walkie talkies, obtaining a legitimate press badge through the NFL, renting hotel rooms, finding a van, buying Super Bowl tickets off eBay. Everything was ridiculously expensive, especially the tickets, which drove the prank to the $40,000 mark. "In for a dime, in for a dollar," I said, taking out a second mortgage on my house to pay for the prank. Thursday afternoon, just before we were to leave for Miami, I had a conference call with my lawyers. The criminal attorney, who would be responsible for representing us in court, really put the fear of God into me. "This place is going to be swarming with security," he said. "They're going to be highly trained, and they're going to want to see some action. You start handing out these unknown devices, they're going to assume the worst. One guy's going to come over, he's going to radio for backup. Before you know it, you're going to have eight guys around you, and they're going to want answers. Now, my advice is always to remain silent. 'Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.' But most guys, in the heat of that moment, try to talk their way out of it." "That's exactly what I'm going to do," I said. "Listen: I'll be the team leader. I'm going to have on a suit, and I'll be carrying a clipboard. I'll look like the guy in charge. I'll be able to talk us out of there."  "Let me tell you what they're doing down here in Miami," said the trademark attorney. "Every employee of the Super Bowl is going through extensive security training, down to the housekeeping staff. Every person will be on the lookout for you guys." I was truly scared. A hollow pit of nausea began to grow in my stomach. I envisioned going to jail again, having to explain it to my children, dragging my friends into this mess. I was in a terrible situation, and I had no one to blame but myself. "Listen, you'll do fine," said the criminal lawyer. "Just be careful, and keep your mouth shut." "A minute ago I was going to be tasered by the housekeeping staff. Now I'm going to be fine? Make up your mind." "I used to be in the military," laughed my lawyer. "I just know how they're going to be thinking." "Really?" I asked. "What branch of the military?" "Special operations." "Wow." "Canadian Forces." "I take back the wow." Note: I didn't really say this last part. The last thing I need is to be bumped off with a side of back bacon.  "Daddy, you know what?" I was buckling my five-year-old into the car later that night. "What's that, pal?" I asked him. "I love you." It was one of those spontaneous things kids say, but given the situation, it pierced my heart. My eyes began to well up. "Buddy, I love you so much." I hugged him close. "I am so happy to have you in my life, and I could not ask for a better kid." "Thanks, Dad." He giggled. As we drove to the store, I reflected: this may be the last time I see my son. Why would I risk so much on a prank? What deep-seated mental illness would make me put this all on the line? "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked my child. "Firefighter? Astronaut?" "Um ... I think an artist." "An artist, huh? What kind of artist? Sculpting artist? Writing artist?" "A painting artist, I think." "A painter." I brushed away tears. We were in the parking lot now, but I couldn't bring myself to get out of the car. This was insane. Tomorrow I would be going to Miami, and attempting to breach a Level One national security event. I was trying not to overdramatize the moment, but there was a small chance I might not return. I was not ready for this prank, but there was no turning back. |
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