The thing about running a con by yourself is that there are very few ways for it to go right but a lot of ways for it to go wrong. So far he’s been banned from three cities in two countries, burned through five aliases, and one guy in the RCMP swore a blood oath to capture him. And that’s just the last six months.
A better con man than Stan once said that the perfect con is one where everyone involved gets just the thing they wanted. Stan is more than willing to settle for nobody else getting hurt and him getting filthy stinking rich. Even with lowered standards, he’s not exactly batting a thousand. At the present moment, for example, he’s trying to whittle a stick into a spear using a rock that isn’t all that sharp.
“Only one of us is getting off this island alive!” Lord Austin Tatious, former yacht owner and total fucking prick, shouts from somewhere downhill. Stan thinks this is a bit of an overreaction. What’s one flaming shipwreck between friends? Well, business partners. Well, fake business partners. In the context of swindling Austin out of a significant portion of his considerable wealth. Whatever. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
Stan gives up the stick as a lost cause. Austin’s a stringbean and his only advantage is the fact that he has a hunting rifle. If Stan can get it to a hand-to-hand contest, he’s confident he’ll be the one paddling the inflatable life raft away from this useless spit of land. These aren’t the best odds he’s faced, but they’re still not the worst he’s walked away from in one piece.