If you thought your relatives were bad....
Here's the first section. If you are intrigued, cliff notes are below.
Source article:
1.
Mize hurt you one at a time, pulling tools from a briefcase, cold and businesslike. Heād gash your brow with a razor or box cutter. Scuff up the wound with sandpaper, gripe if you didnāt bleed enough. For concussions or a busted knee, heād smack you with a liquor bottle, a brick, a frying pan. Youād chug a Red Bull to spike your blood pressure. Pop aspirin so your blood would stream faster. Spill a bottle of your urine on your pants like youād blacked out.
Inside the āvictimā car, women could clamp on a neck brace, a helmet. Men typically wouldnāt get any protection: too wimpy, in Mizeās view. Heād get into the āat faultā car, headlights glaring through the darkness down the road. Your dread would be coursing now ā fear about whatās to come, whether youād pull this off.
All clear.
Mize would hit the accelerator, speeding toward you at 40, even 50 mph ā you packed in with the others, your girlfriend or cousin or best man, like bowling pins. Your wounds already throbbed, and you feared that the crash would go off-script to do further damage: steel warping unexpectedly, glass slicing something vital, a seatbelt rupturing a spleen. After the impact, after the cars had spun and screeched to a stop, after you realized you were rattled but alive, Mize or another person would rush to the window to collect helmets and braces and pee bottles and burner phones. Mize would hop in a third car with a getaway driver and vanish. The at-fault actor would climb into the driverās seat of the car Mize had left crumpled behind, ready to take the blame.
Then youād sit in the eerie silence, listening to the drip of oil. Youād ask quietly if everyone was okay, tap your scrapes to conjure fresh blood as sirens started their tiny, far-off scream. The first responders would see a totaled car of crash victims bruised, bloodied, whimpering, seemingly in shock or barely conscious. Youād feel like such scum as you were strapped to the stretcher, the responders comforting you as you wasted their time. Cops ā sometimes at the scene, sometimes at the hospital ā would pull out their collision reports.
Showtime.
Mize had made you rehearse your lines. You were driving a Sebring convertible down an industrial stretch in Las Vegas when you dropped a CD on the floorboard and, reaching down, sideswiped a Mercedes. You dropped your water bottle. Your vape. Your Pepsi. You were lighting a cigarette. Reaching for a phone. You swerved to miss an animal. You were swigging from a glass bottle that chipped your tooth. You slammed your head. You blacked out. Could you blame the responders for believing?
At some point, you might reflect on the craziest part. You had agreed to this. Youād hoped that your injury would go like Mize wanted ā registering on a CT scan, or justifying stitches, or nabbing a referral for a procedure ā reaping a mammoth insurance payout. You had joined the ranks of a scheme that a federal prosecutor would one day say operated like a criminal organization and that a judge would call a ātragedy,ā sucking in dozens of accomplices and millions in profits before it all went sideways, though some part of you had expected that, too.
At the head of it all: His legal name was William Mize IV. You knew him as Uncle Bill, your friend, your husband, or Dad.
Here's the first section. If you are intrigued, cliff notes are below.
Source article:
1.
Mize hurt you one at a time, pulling tools from a briefcase, cold and businesslike. Heād gash your brow with a razor or box cutter. Scuff up the wound with sandpaper, gripe if you didnāt bleed enough. For concussions or a busted knee, heād smack you with a liquor bottle, a brick, a frying pan. Youād chug a Red Bull to spike your blood pressure. Pop aspirin so your blood would stream faster. Spill a bottle of your urine on your pants like youād blacked out.
Inside the āvictimā car, women could clamp on a neck brace, a helmet. Men typically wouldnāt get any protection: too wimpy, in Mizeās view. Heād get into the āat faultā car, headlights glaring through the darkness down the road. Your dread would be coursing now ā fear about whatās to come, whether youād pull this off.
All clear.
Mize would hit the accelerator, speeding toward you at 40, even 50 mph ā you packed in with the others, your girlfriend or cousin or best man, like bowling pins. Your wounds already throbbed, and you feared that the crash would go off-script to do further damage: steel warping unexpectedly, glass slicing something vital, a seatbelt rupturing a spleen. After the impact, after the cars had spun and screeched to a stop, after you realized you were rattled but alive, Mize or another person would rush to the window to collect helmets and braces and pee bottles and burner phones. Mize would hop in a third car with a getaway driver and vanish. The at-fault actor would climb into the driverās seat of the car Mize had left crumpled behind, ready to take the blame.
Then youād sit in the eerie silence, listening to the drip of oil. Youād ask quietly if everyone was okay, tap your scrapes to conjure fresh blood as sirens started their tiny, far-off scream. The first responders would see a totaled car of crash victims bruised, bloodied, whimpering, seemingly in shock or barely conscious. Youād feel like such scum as you were strapped to the stretcher, the responders comforting you as you wasted their time. Cops ā sometimes at the scene, sometimes at the hospital ā would pull out their collision reports.
Showtime.
Mize had made you rehearse your lines. You were driving a Sebring convertible down an industrial stretch in Las Vegas when you dropped a CD on the floorboard and, reaching down, sideswiped a Mercedes. You dropped your water bottle. Your vape. Your Pepsi. You were lighting a cigarette. Reaching for a phone. You swerved to miss an animal. You were swigging from a glass bottle that chipped your tooth. You slammed your head. You blacked out. Could you blame the responders for believing?
At some point, you might reflect on the craziest part. You had agreed to this. Youād hoped that your injury would go like Mize wanted ā registering on a CT scan, or justifying stitches, or nabbing a referral for a procedure ā reaping a mammoth insurance payout. You had joined the ranks of a scheme that a federal prosecutor would one day say operated like a criminal organization and that a judge would call a ātragedy,ā sucking in dozens of accomplices and millions in profits before it all went sideways, though some part of you had expected that, too.
At the head of it all: His legal name was William Mize IV. You knew him as Uncle Bill, your friend, your husband, or Dad.
