I hear there’s a lot of money in property these days. Mainly in old people’s properties as they tend to hide money in cookie jars, drawers, under floorboards, and in giant, floor-standing penny jars. Trying to help yourself to these items might be considered “illegal” in some provinces (please, always check with your local police department before attempting to relieve pensioners of their money/belongings), so I decided to take a safer route through the property market by selling houses.
I found out that the correct term for a person who sells accommodation is a “real estate agent”. I figured that I ought to try and become one, especially since I’ve been operating as a fake estate agent for many years. Very few people had yet to purchase a flat in my flagship stacked-box tower block. The hobos complained that it was spoiling the skyline, and that the high-rise, high-density living it introduced was destroying the sense of community. Trendy, unsociable, commuter hobos were moving in and pushing rental prices higher, until the whole thing was washed away by a light drizzle. Due to this experience, I figured that becoming a real estate agent would be might give me the credibility I deserved.
The first couple of people I showed around didn’t seem too impressed by my sales skills. Everyone knows that estate agents bend the truth a little, but when we walked into a squalid, 1 bedroom hell-hole fit only for ritual sacrifice, they didn’t seem too impressed when I told them it was a luxurious mansion, made of gold, and came with 17 butlers who will queue up to give you hand relief in the morning. The leaking toilet was a state-of-art swimming facility, and the dead cow that was attracting flies in the bedroom was a lively nightspot with local amenities.
|This house even has a dedicated Antler Room|
It seems that my white lies were not selling houses. I was doing everything right, and yet, my sales figures were lower than the number of honest MP expenses claims. It was obvious that the quality of the houses were at fault. That night, I set about improving the houses in my local area.
The current occupants weren’t very pleased when I began bug spraying their homes without warning. People like men in uniform, but the large murals of Rudolf Hess I painted on some of the houses didn’t seem to appeal to everyone. The Smiths seemed outright angry when I burned an image of the Compare The Market meerkat on their front lawn. I was trying to make the houses on my route more appealing to the mass market, and yet my neighbours seemed to be concerned by a “trail of vandalism” that someone had created. There were tears, shouting and lots of finger-pointing, and yet, I didn’t receive any credit for my work. In fact, the neighbours were threatening vigilante justice against the perpetrator.
They began to wonder why my house was the only one unaffected. Accusations soon followed, so I had to sell my house and move away. I was very proud that I had made my first sale, but decided that perhaps the real estate game wasn’t for me.