The Mannequin from Moscow
Volume 3
“You look good on camel,” she said.
And that’s how it started.
Jack Rhoades had seen some things.
Divorced. Engineer. Four grown kids. He’d mountain biked the Marji Gesick, ridden a camel past the pyramids of Giza, stood on the Great Wall of China, and drank a Two Hearted in almost every county in Michigan.
He wasn’t desperate. He wasn’t naïve. He was just… open.
So when Mia popped up on Bumble—flawless, poised, and Russian—Jack didn’t exactly swipe left.
She looked like a mannequin. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Her first photo? Leopard print dress, stiff posture, a gaze like she'd just been activated by a voice command. The next two? Black velvet, gold chain, and the same unmoving expression—a soft, emotionless stare aimed just past the lens like her camera was set to Eastern European Surveillance Mode.
Her opener?
“You really look good on camel.”
Jack chuckled. The camel pic was his favorite: him squinting under Egyptian sun, legs akimbo on a moody beast in front of the Giza pyramids. It was one of five pics he used—others included him covered in mud at the Marji Gesick, posing on the Great Wall, flying down a Michigan trail on his mountain bike, and his yellow Lab Cully wearing a Bell’s Two Hearted hat.
She messaged first. Strong start.
Said she was Russian, 40, a U.S. citizen for nine years via EB-5 investment visa. Claimed she owned an “elite” beauty salon in Detroit called Urban Beauty. When Jack Googled it, nothing came up.
“We don’t advertise. Only for high-level clients. Politicians. Athletes.”
Of course.
Then she asked to move the conversation to WhatsApp.
“Too much bad energy on Bumble.”
Jack hesitated. Then shrugged. He’d seen worse.
On WhatsApp, she refused calls. Said she was shy with men. But she’d text endlessly, always punctuated perfectly. Not a typo in sight. No emojis unless strategic. Almost too formal.
And then, the voice note.
“I go to bed now. I need yogurt. My tummy is being… European tonight.”
Jack replayed it three times.
Was it flirtation? Flatulence? Foreplay? He wasn’t sure.
But he kept going.
The Crypto Come-On
She started weaving in personal dreams: family, love, Jack’s kids. When he said he wasn’t having more children, she pivoted:
“I want to integrate with your family. I believe in family.”
Integrate? What was she—a VPN?
Then came the cars.
“I drove my Maybach today. Too flashy. Porsche is better for errands.”
Jack read that message while sitting in his GMC Sierra with a cracked vent, mud on the mats, and yesterday’s coffee in the cupholder.
The next day, she dropped a sympathy bomb:
“My best friend needed $300,000 for medical bills. I sent it yesterday. Life is short. I believe in helping.”
Jack blinked.
She sent screenshots. Crypto wallets. Wire transfers. Charts. Everything slick and curated like she’d hired a marketing firm to catfish engineers.
“You should try. Just $500. I will guide you. Trust is everything.”
Jack hovered over the "Send" button. Thumb trembling. $2,500 queued up to vanish into the blockchain.
And that’s when he heard Brett’s voice.
The Cigar Bar Revelation
Churchill’s Cigar Lounge. Dim lights, thick air, and grizzled men speaking in bourbon-soaked wisdom. Jack didn’t plan to talk about Mia. But after three sips of Basil Hayden’s, he cracked.
Brett—a fellow divorcee who once matched with his ex-wife by accident—looked at Mia’s pictures and squinted.
“She’s a mannequin.”
Then Jack showed him the crypto screenshots.
“Jesus, Jack. This is pig butchering.”
“Pig what?”
“It’s the scam. They fatten you up—emotionally, romantically, ego-wise. Then they carve you open and drain you dry. You’re not her first rodeo, brother. You’re just Thursday.”
Jack stared into his glass. Smoke curled past his eyes like the last wisp of a dream he didn’t want to admit was fake.
“If it’s too good to be true…”
“...it usually wants your social security number.”
The Final Message
That night, Jack poured a fresh bourbon, sat on a cold garage stool, Cully at his feet, and sent one last WhatsApp message:
“I’m a published author. And this? This is one hell of a story. I won’t get mad. I’m serious—tell me how the scam works. I’d even meet you. But just be honest.”
Two check marks.
Read.
Silence.
Gone.
Jack blocked the wallet address. Reported the Bumble profile. Deleted the chat.
And then—surprisingly—he smiled.
Epilogue
Jack never sent the money.
He didn’t lose a dime.
Just flirted with the edge of disaster, stared down a Russian mannequin-shaped mirage, and walked away intact.
He kept the camel photo on his profile. Not to impress. But to remind himself:
Because even a smart man can be tempted by a good line… and a better mannequin.