Folks, I’ve got three questions for you…

What do you mean “how did I get in here”? I’ll ask the questions, sir. I opened the door. But I didn’t open the door to your house; I opened the door to a goddamn financial windfall.


You both look shocked, so I’m gonna be a little bit flexible here: You can paint it super fucking bright yellow instead, if you want. Or super fucking bright blue. God, I can already feel this shit-heap lurching toward a seven-figure payday.

Sir, there’s no need to call the police. Your wife is literally smiling now. I’m a good guy, we’re all safe. I have just as much reason to be concerned for my safety, but you don’t see me being afraid. I’m confident. I don’t have a fear of success.

Okay, let’s pump it up! Sir, I love it—your face still has questions written all over it. Questions like: “Paint the door?,” “Pump it up?,” and “Are we in danger?” When I say, “Pump it up,” I’m talking about the saturation. And the contrast. Pump ’em up in the photos. Especially in the photo of that fucking front door. Drum roll, please! Bidbiddididididididid: Ladies and gentlemen! The! Red! Dooooooor!

It should feel like that, okay?

Let’s see, what else? Low angle. You know what a Dutch angle is? Dutch it! Jack it down! That’s from Meet the Parents. Jack that camera into the floor like a neighborhood meth dealer getting shoved down to the sidewalk by the cops or a citizen who’s finally fed up. Let’s get this sad living room of middle-class regrets looking like Versailles. Put some MIRRORS UP. JACK IT DOWN AND MIRROR IT UP. LET’S DISORIENT THESE ZILLOW-LOOKY-LOO MOTHERFUCKERS!

Little hallway leading back to three bedrooms that will make you reflect on the permanent gray wave of pain of your suburban adolescence? More like THE HALL OF MIRRORS WHERE THE QUEEN WOULD RECEIVE VISITORS WHILE LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH HID IN LE PETIT TRIANON AND INDULGED WHATEVER UNSPEAKABLE BIOLOGICAL URGES STILL ROILED IN HIS MOON-PALE LOINS.

Sorry. Let me take a breath and recenter myself here. When I first started, I could do four or five of these listings in a day. Things were more low-key back then. You’d sell some bullshit house like this for a reasonable amount more than the folks paid for it, and call it good. Now, it’s a murder scheme. JACK THAT NUMBER TO HIGH HEAVEN. PUNCH GOD IN THE NUTS, GRAB OUR BAG OF CASH. DONE—ON TO THE NEXT ONE.

Okay… I’m back in the game. You can feel it in my energy; I’m focused again.

Wondering what this plastic box is? This little plastic square clipped to my belt? A FUCKING DRONE, MY FRIENDS. WHO’S READY TO GET IT UP?

I’m just having a good time, sir. I’m not trying to frighten the two of you. She’s laughing. I like you, miss. Where was I?

DRONE IT. GET IT DRONED. Here we go, un-clipping this bad boy, snapping the blades out—I’m like a goddamn switchblade hoodlum from some old Hollywood movie, chik-chik-chik… all snapping these blades out. Like in Chinatown when the Italian dude cuts Jack Nicholson’s nose with a switchblade. But fuck that, this isn’t some old movie, this is DRONE TIME. HEADS UP, COMING THROUGH! OPEN THAT SAD OLD SLIDING SCREEN DOOR, AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL. LET’S GET THE BIRD’S-EYE VIEW!

Look at that. Look here, on my phone. Now, you tell me: Are you looking at a terrible little sliver of dry, angry land scarred by concrete scraps and dead dreams? Or is that a slightly warpy wide-angle view of a BIG OPEN LOT WITH PLENTY OF SPACE THAT A NEW OWNER CAN EASILY MAKE THE MOST OF BY ADDING A SMALL POOL AND OUTDOOR KITCHEN?

Okay, cool. We have some nice aerial bullshit for potential buyers to put in the spank bank. Time to bring this bad boy down. You are cleared for landing on runway 13-Left.

Folks, thank you for not calling the police. I’m always risking that on a random cold call visit like this. I think we did some great work here today.

Oh… and one more thing: Get ready to make a million dollars or more on this bullshit basic house of yours. RED IT. DUTCH IT. JACK IT DOWN. WE ALREADY DRONED IT, SO LET’S FUCKING DO THIS!

This is yours, right? You own it? You’re not renting, right?