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Picture this: it’s 10 p.m. on a Tuesday, and I’m glued to secret stockpile footage of N95 masks—yes, genuine “proof-of-life” videos, sent by random strangers. Just then, Tim, our enthusiastic juicer salesman with the electrifying personality, chimes in.
“I’m Tim, and I hear you have questions about VPL,” he squeaks, sounding slightly more anxious than a cat in a dog park. “I ditched them because, well, they weren’t quite delivering the goods!”
Just hours earlier, I had contacted VPL Medical LLC—freshly minted from Los Angeles—who had snagged a juicy $6.4 million contract from the Department of Veterans Affairs for 8 million three-ply surgical masks. Apparently, my inquiry sent a panic through their ranks, leading them to share my details with Tim.
Curiosity piqued, I pried about his story.
“I had $8,000 cash ready to roll in my briefcase, and then—bam!—the deal fell apart,” he lamented, as if recounting a plot twist in a rom-com.
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Why call VPL, you ask? Well, they turned up in records showing they popped into existence just four days before reeling in the VA contract. Their new website boasted their “ear loop” masks—now regarded as ineffective Chinese knockoffs, not exactly the crown jewels of protection. One could say their branding was as inflated as a balloon at a kiddie birthday party.
Before venturing into medical supplies, VPL’s owner ran Rock On IT—a digital marketing firm. Both businesses, as fate would have it, were housed in the same cozy corner of an office park in Rancho Cucamonga.
Our friend Tim—aka Zelonka—was halfway to that office when he realized his deal for masks was about as solid as wet toilet paper. Turns out he was asking too many pesky questions about product sourcing and the company’s real credentials. Such a pesky investigator!
“He told me: ‘The masks aren’t in boxes; they’re in Ziploc bags,’” Zelonka recalled, clearly shaken. To which he replied, “That’s not what you promised on your website!” Cue dramatic music.
The truth sunk further: the representative had a history, having faced legal troubles for a robocalling scheme involving dubious products. Surprise, surprise!
Bedi, the owner, assured me with bravado that his company was a beacon of reliability during an unparalleled crisis. He shrugged off any fraud allegations like they were just bothersome gnats. And Ziploc bags? “Never! We don’t do that!” he declared, as if that was the most absurd idea he ever heard.
Zelonka strived to score a win as the VA frantically sought masks, favoring untested vendors over the steady, reliable supply lines like an awkward first date with a stranger who doesn’t have access to Yelp reviews.
Tim, our beleaguered juicer aficionado, didn’t even come from a medical supply background! He identified himself as the distribution guru for a Spanish juicer company before he took a plunge into the PPE shark tank hoping to make a little cash on the side. A financial wild west filled with colorful characters and questionable morals.
Tim wanted to sell masks for cafes reopening post-lockdown—a mini industry inside an industry. The real question was, could he profit without compromising his morals? His ambition danced between ethical and predatory like a poorly executed ballet routine.
With business dealings cranked up, our hero planned to show me this bizarre world of mask dealings, promising a rendezvous with VPL to sample their products.
“You should come to LA, I’ll give you the whole tour,” he declared with flair.
Intrigued, I promptly bought a ticket the next day, eager to dive into this absurd underbelly.
Entering the PPE Circus
My plunge into this PPE carnival began with a federal contractor whose impressive venture already hit a dead end, complete with a private jet and the former Alabama Attorney General straight out of a shady novel.
Post-report, my social media notifications exploded with tip-offs from self-proclaimed “mask moguls” claiming to have stockpiles larger than their local grocery store.
One frantic Seattle man even insisted I help him connect with FEMA’s top brass, effectively ignoring the fact that my skillset does not include matchmaking for desperate business ventures.
While covering the first contractor, I chuckled at the notion of “proof-of-life” videos—live footage showing bundles of masks awaiting ransom payment. It felt like I had stumbled into a low-budget spy film, where my role seemed to oscillate between comic relief and the straight man.
With the walls closing in after weeks of isolation, I found myself tossing around insider jargon like, “Can you show me your proof of life?” Embracing my new undercover role as a PPE detective!
One contact even shared a video of boxes labeled KN95—China’s version of N95—as a “show and tell.” People proudly displayed their ownership portfolios like they were pulling out a prized family heirloom.
“Yes, he’s got proof of life…Let me connect you,” was the common refrain among my eccentric new connections.
Solicitations flowed like cheap wine at a wedding, full of the same tales of grandeur and dubious supply chains.
The backdrop was set: overnight, a global mask drought led to an unregulated marketplace bursting with activity. Inspired by the federal government’s chaotic procurement style, opportunistic brokers joined the fray, driving up mask prices like they were NFTs on auction.
“It’s like wading into the drug trade,” Rick B., an experienced broker, confessed while requesting to remain nameless. “One minute, you’re casually peddling snacks, and the next, you’re orchestrating complex deals like a mob boss.”
From writer to mask broker—Rick had mastered the pivot. He was knee-deep in contacts across medical supply chains, deftly navigating his way through this unexpected business shift.
“The early birds,” he explained, “they’re swimming in cash—stupid, ridiculous amounts.”
A daisy chain of middlemen was thriving, flipping masks with flair while collecting commissions. It resembled a real estate deal, just with less property and more dubious business ethics—charming, right?
“Some brokers make me want to take an evil shower,” said Rick, chuckling darkly. “They’re buying cheap and marking them up to daylight robbery levels.”
Negotiations unfold over WhatsApp, where secrets are shared among first-name-only brokers who probably have lives more exciting than mine. “Just picture it—on a $300 million mask deal, brokers pocket a little change for themselves. Say hello to a multi-million dollar payday for doing absolutely nothing.”
And with big money on the table, the allure of corruption lurked just a handshake away. Investors blitzed through brokers, selling masks like hotcakes while end users paid inflated prices that reeked of shady dealings.
One stockpile could flip back and forth multiple times, generating a profit for each broker involved—all while healthcare workers twiddled their thumbs in desperate need of life-saving gear.
The LA Adventure Begins
Arriving in LA, the wide-open streets lent a surreal quality to my journey. I was riding shotgun with Zelonka, who had come equipped with his signature enthusiasm and retro aviators—an outfit more suitable for a beach day than mask dealing.
“I may be nearly 50,” he quipped, “but I’m practically LA 50. I look 15 years younger!” Another classic marketing ploy!
He recounted tales of convoluted conversations with suppliers, raising red flags at every corner. I mean, who wants to buy milk from someone who isn’t quite sure if it’s whole or skim?
Then a thought struck me—had he bought any masks yet?
“Nope!” he replied, “Because everyone’s just full of nonsense.”
Curiously, had he ever made any profit?
“Not even a penny!” he laughed, the irony creeping in slowly.
So, naturally, we detoured to the garment district—why not mix things up?
Enter Scott Wilson, the T-shirt factory maestro who now dutifully churns out cotton and spandex masks for Kaiser Permanente. A true visionary, he turned curiosity into revenue—at least someone was doing well in this mess!
Checking up on local suppliers, Zelonka believed in making meaningful connections. You never know when you might need a contact in LA, especially now that masks were mandatory!
And oh, the tales he told about a Florida venture capitalist sitting on a pile of cash, seeking a one billion dollar—yes, you read that right—cash infusion into the PPE business! Where do I sign up?
He excitedly played back snippets from a slick video conference call. “We’re sitting on millions to procure product yesterday,” the voice crackled with urgency, partially in disbelief.
Sensing the gravity of this opportunity, I wondered if this cash was even real. Was this the jackpot or just mirage number two?
“I think he’s looking for an underdog supplier to impress the federal government,” he mused, grappling with the ethics of potentially profiting off a worldwide calamity.
“Am I a profiteer?” he joked, just shy of sounding like a financial villain.
Frantic Contacts and Dodgy Deals
Turns out Bedi, the illustrious owner of VPL, has a colorful business history filled with legal tales that might just inspire a gripping miniseries.
Among tribulations, a tenant once accused him of serving up a forged lease like it was a gourmet dish—let’s just say, a not-so-happy ending ensued.
In an email, Bedi assured me he’s just a straightforward businessman trying to navigate the chaos. But I couldn’t help but ponder how this freshly birthed company snagged massive contracts without a bidding process that resembled a toddler’s art class.
“It all happened with such haste,” he chirped, downplaying his unexpected stroke of luck.
However, VPL’s shipments to the national stockpile were as elusive as a unicorn; they hadn’t delivered a single mask to the health department.
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Bedi repeated, almost absent-mindedly, that “the crucial point is fulfilling demand during this pandemic,” while I wondered if he had the faintest idea how that contract found its way toward him.
“It all happened in the blink of an eye,” he added nonchalantly. “No time for thinking—just hustle!”
Bedi promised to gather insights from his team about the deal’s origin. However, when I called back during our scheduled chat, he artfully dodged my inquiries and hung up like a magician exiting stage left.
So, the following day, I met Zelonka in a Walmart parking lot, where he chugged an energy drink like it would provide the necessary caffeine-fueled courage for our upcoming quest.
Our mission: sneak into VPL’s office to confront the mysterious Jason Cardiff, who promised deep insights into their KN95 mask operation.
Bedi later confirmed that Cardiff was a consultant…what an elegant title for a man embroiled in a pyramid scheme past!
Cardiff once faced an FTC injunction for what sounded like an elaborate scam, living large while dodging responsibilities like a video game character on the run from the law.
Though Cardiff didn’t return my inquiries, Bedi defended him fiercely, claiming those in suits were just after his good name.
“His expertise in manufacturing is immense, and let’s not judge too harshly,” he remarked, as if validating a life choice based on the effectiveness of a single napkin mask.
I had my sights set on talking to Cardiff, but the universe had other plans. Zelonka’s efforts to connect had fizzled (because letting journalists near sketchy businesses is always a bad idea!).
The door at Rock On IT was unresponsive, echoing the silence that pervaded the entire mask delivery saga.
As we drove back to Walmart, my eagerness transformed into resignation. Certainly not the triumphant exploration I had envisioned.
Zelonka, however, started dreaming of the venture capitalist, imagining a billion-dollar payday with conspiratorial excitement that brought new life into our otherwise lackluster mission.
But the mystery remained. Would the alleged financier deliver or would it all be smoke and mirrors? What a delightful twist this reality show had produced!
When I returned to D.C., I made the heroic effort of sleuthing through contacts to reach Cardiff, only to find him as elusive as a well-prepared politician under scrutiny.
Zelonka soon gave me a light update about his investor whipping up plans to spend $1.8 billion on overhyped masks, priced at $6.25. Goldmine, right?
That was a tale better suited for a blockbuster—him heading to Texas while I settled back into the relentless noise of D.C.
Finally, the prospect of becoming a protagonist in the arms race of masks began to fade for Zelonka. “ I’m back to juicers now,” he declared, the glimmer of a grand future slipping away like sand through fingers.
Eager to unveil the truth, I pushed for clarity about his venture to create a PPE empire.
“My phone’s breaking up,” he responded, crisis vibe apparent.
The connection faltered, the call quietly digressing into oblivion.
Kirsten Berg joined in the quest for truth.
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