Danny Krunkler

Danny Krunkler’s a litigious son of a bitch.

So obviously, I’ve changed his name here.  And if he ever finds this post, I’m not even talking about you.  I’m writing about Danny Krunkler.  Fuck you Danny.

Krunkler’s a charming son of a bitch too.  He’s a confidence man, despite his 5’8″ stature. (He’d dispute that and tell you he’s actually 5’9″, ‘conservatively estimated’, and then threaten to sue for defamation, of course.)  He’s fairly buff, though, in a white-collar-American-Psyco-kind-of-way, and plays up his very short stint in the national guard as a helicopter pilot.  It helps build the dutiful, patriotic, what-you-see-is what-you-get image that really makes him a killer in the swindle-the-shit-out-of-your-grandparents arena.  To Danny’s credit, he’s got ice in his veins, calmly flipping every switch methodically as the world spirals about.  (He’s got one twitch under pressure–rapid blinking; I wouldn’t doubt it if he’s got a chainsaw at the ready somewhere when All Else Fails.)

Danny’s been deposed about 6 times in our case, he’s sat through almost every other deposition we’ve taken, and he’s attended nearly every hearing we’ve had (his preference is to do so secretly when we have hearings by phone; he’s faster and smarter than his lawyers, so its to his benefit to be able to essentially argue motions himself by way of post-it notes shoved under the noses of his highly paid spouters-of-hot-air, BUT, I know he’s there sitting by the phone, even though his lawyers don’t disclose it, because I drove by his vintage BMW when I was parking at 6am before the hearing).  Fuck you Danny Krunkler, you’re a son of a bitch.

Only ten people I know of see Krunkler as here truly is: short, aging, empty, manipulative, power-hungry man-boy and outright impostor-of a-decent-human-being.  They know the eye-twitch means Danny’s brain is kicking into overdrive for a scheme, pitch, devious self-centered plot, or for the preparation of thoroughly thought-through lies.  Thank God my boss Cal has a photographic memory.  The last time he cross-examined Krunkler on the witness stand, Krunkler left with 80% less skin than when he took the stand.  For guys like Krunkler, who churn out bullshit faster than I can write, it take a photographic memory to bring emdown (at least I hope; we’ll know in a few weeks).

One of these ten people is his business partner and life-long compatriot, Meryll Cox.  Meryll takes the good Danny with the bad Danny.  Danny built the two of them a small fortune, after all.  And they’re man-boys together.  Danny special ordered a vintage tent and camping gear and rustic-looking designer boots for their year-long camp-out on the slopes of one of Hawaii’s largest mountains.  I won’t say which one, however, for fear of libel.   I’ll circle back to this camp-out in  a bit.

The five women that see Krunkler he really is are: (a) his four ex-wives (Danny trades in his old model for new ones every 3 – 6 years; it’s how he keeps his boyish good looks, in addition to hair dye and a slight face-lift), and (b) the court reporter who sat through four of his depositions and caught him in candid off-the-record moments of shitheadhood.  I could have sunk Krunkler, swiftly, months-ago if I could bring in the sworn testimony of these women.

The other five people who see past the Kunkler sheen are myself, my law partner-boss Cal Selzring, and two online open-source journalists with a bone or two to pick.

** to be continued **

 

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