My name is Hugh Diamond. I’m a big wave surfer and investigative journalist. David E. Wesley gave me his credentials to his account on The Spoof.com to share my story.
In October 2012, when I read in a news article by Bill Searchman in The Acapulco Sun Times, that David Wesley was presumed dead, one of twenty poor souls hanging from the La Vista Colonial Bridge, a victim of the vicious Sinaloa Cartel, I nearly asphyxiated myself, in total shock, that our international man of mystery, and, dare I say, our unsung immortal hero among us mere mortals, could have left us in such a tragic way. This was not his destiny. He couldn’t have been so reckless. I couldn’t accept his death, and therefore, because I said so, he couldn’t be dead. That’s how that fake news shit works, right? It was then and there that I decided it was my life’s mission to find out what happened to David Wesley, and that one-day I would find him, and that his sudden disappearance from this little blue orb was not a result of foul play. That was seven years ago.
There is some extraordinary news to report, my fellow Wesley sycophants. The man hanging from the bridge on that cold-blooded Mexican night was none other than Wesley doppelganger, C. William King. Past dead ends and broken leads, I obtained this information from the autopsy doctor in Acapulco Medical Center, and out of respect for King’s family, I will show enthusiastic restraint moving forward, but I did bearhug the doctor with joy, knowing that our enigmatic hero could still be alive. On the night of his presumed death, our beloved idol was actually several hundred miles away, enjoying a hedonistic weekend in Jamaica. Only wiping one drop of sweat from his tan brow, Wesley had paid his body double $30,000 in cash and a free ride on his personal jet to what he thought was going to be a free weekend stay at Wesley’s grand luxury suite at Hedonism III. Instead, Wesley had his private pilot reroute the plane, and before pushing his doppelganger out with a parachute right over the direct coordinates where the cartel had guns a-blazing, he told him earnestly, “You deal with this mess. I have other more important and carnal matters to attend to.”
Months went by, and the rumors spread that Wesley had retired, not from his vigorous sexual appetite for busty brunettes, but from international adrenaline rushes involving the world’s most dangerous drug dealers.
Then, in the spring of 2017, when I was munching on chocolate-covered Cicadas at a coffee bar in Old San Juan, I overheard two members of the Sinaloa Cartel talking, saying that they had witnessed Wesley lounging on a beach chair at the Blue Bitch Bar in St Maarten, where they claimed Wesley had engulfed over 35 boneless chicken wings in 30 seconds (sans the blue cheese, but with ranch dipping, since our humble hero is always trying to lose a few pounds. See previous post on Weight Loss Tips From DW at his abandoned blog, The David Wesley Review Review.
He washed his meal down with a 99oz frozen mango margarita with extra Triple Sec., and, by some cosmic miracle, passed a breathalyzer test. A few weeks later, and another rumor sighting surfaced, this time at the Hotel Cocal and Casino at Jaco Beach in Costa Rica, where a senior casino manager welcomed Wesley back with open arms and a red carpet emblazoned with his name in Bold Copperplate font. That night proved to be a business disaster for the once profitable beachside resort and casino, as I read on the internet site Gambling USA, that a mysterious gambler with an aqua blue lined fedora, fitting Wesley’s description, bankrupted the place for $6 million in one night, using chaos theory and telekinesis at the roulette table. And this, dear DWRR readers, is where the story begins to unfold on top of itself and starts to make sense in a nonsensical way.
These days, I reside in the Northern California town of Half Moon Bay, a few miles from The Mavericks, where big wave surfers come from all over the world to take their shot at catching a 50ft+ monster wave at the dangerous rocky beach. One cool March night in 2018, I was walking my Danish terrier Fitzy, when I stumbled upon, at random, a black Ford Mustang Convertible with a custom New Jersey license plate that read SURF327. My jaw dropped. My heart was pounding. It was Wesley, and he was here. But where? The pieces of the puzzle soon came to me from my subconscious, and it all made sense. I had a theory as to why he had come to my coastal town, and surfing only played a minute part in it.
I approached the car with a subtle strut, looking for tiny webcams, knowing how Wesley fiercely guarded his privacy and whereabouts, and also how his rumored paranoia was a leftover symptom of rampant drug use after he finished recording his three-album masterpiece trilogy, “Radical Boss”, “Cop Magnet”, and “I Did It..So What? Try and Stop Me”. He had gathered a magnetic lineup of personnel from the music world, including Phosphorescent’s Matthew Houck, Jack White, and Wesley’s current crush and muse, Lana Del Rey, at an undisclosed studio in southern Argentina. But that has nothing to do with this story, (but is surely worth mentioning, as it belongs in the worldwide lexicon of Wesleyian achievements.)
I peered in through the back driver’s-side window, and, just as I suspected, there was an old decrepit book in the backseat, with pencil scribbling on the pages, that at first glance, would appear to look like the work of a madman. But this wasn’t an ordinary book, and no ordinary person learning from it. It was Dr. Edward O. Thorp’s book, The Mathematics of Gambling, and I presume Wesley had arrived here to discuss his game theory with the internationally-renowned financial genius.
Part 2 coming soon...