On The Lam

It's difficult to fake your own death these days. This guy, Marcus Schrenker, would have been much, much better off going for a long hike in a remote area, changing his appearance in the wilderness, emerging from a different area than his entry point, slipping across the border into Mexico, making his way to Belize via minibus, and living happily ever after.


Right now, he could be living on sponge cake, and watching the sun bake all the tourists covered in oil. Instead, he's skulking about in a Yamaha V-Star like a midnight cowboy.

Why did he try to make it so complex? It's like he was going for the most cinematic possibility rather than the one with the highest percentage of success. Or maybe it was a cry for help? Did he seriously think the crash would create flaming wreckage that would incinerate his body? The federales can get DNA evidence from exploding space shuttles, much less some little turbo prop.

It reminded me of the end of "The Rock" (1996).

Agent Paxton: Congratulations, Dr. Goodspeed. You did it.
Dr. Stanley Goodspeed: Thank you, sir.
Agent Paxton: You know, for a while there, I didn't think you were going to make it. Well done, son. So where's Mason?
Dr. Stanley Goodspeed: Vaporized. Blown out to sea.
Agent Paxton: Blown out to sea, huh?
Dr. Stanley Goodspeed: Yeah.
Agent Paxton: [smiles] Poor bastard.

Well. His original plan is shot to hell, but he still has a chance to make a run for the border, and I for one am pulling for him. I tend to root for white collar criminals regardless, in much the same way African-Americans supported O.J. Simpson, a man clearly guilty of murdering his wife, based merely on some demographic similarities. We white white-collar males have to stick up for each other.

Update: The stupid son of a bitch got caught in a campground. And to think I was going to be the Mallory to his Mickey on a reign of homicidal terror across the southern United States.