Hey, this is therapy; you're not supposed to bring back more painful memories! . Somewhere around 1991 I was 21 years old, cash was extremely tight, and at a weekend garage sale I found a '69 Honda Dream motorcycle in boxes and crates, The guy wanted $50 for it, but he wasn't even sure whether it was all there, so nobody was buying. To most people, it was just boxes of junk. I could swing the $50, just barely, but not if anything significant were missing since parts for a '69 Dream were pretty much impossible to come by at the time. There was no eBay. There was barely even an internet.
I was a folder operator in a bindery, loading big stacks of paper onto a feeder mechanism and stacking the folded pamphlets (or catalogs or coupon booklets or whatever they were) in boxes as they came off the other end of the machine. There were moments of idle time in the process, and that Monday I used all those spare moments to brainstorm a list of every component of a typical motorcycle, going back and forth over an imaginary bike, writing down every component, with the folder clack clack clacking for hours. At the end of the day I drove back to the house where the sale had been, and spent another hour or two emptying the boxes and crates, spreading their contents across the driveway, going over my list. The seller patiently waited nearby, chatting with a friend. Amazingly, it was all there -- every footpeg, carburetor boot, muffler clamp, headlight bezel and turn signal switch.
The moment I declared it complete, the seller's friend reacted with surprise. There followed a moment of urgent, furtive talk over in a shadowy corner near the garage while I was putting everything back into the boxes and crates. I don't remember whether I approached the seller then or he came over to me, but literally as I was getting out my wallet to pay him, he said his friend hadn't realized that the bike was complete, and now his friend wanted to buy it, at a slightly higher price which I could not afford, And there was nothing I could do.
When I think of an archetypical slimebag, that is the guy I think of.