Something I read...
A kleptomaniac is a person who can’t help but steal, and they could almost be forgiven for it. Me, well, I’m a thieving bastard. I don’t have to steal, I don’t need to, but I like to. I don’t have any excuses, either. An excuse would suggest that I felt in some way guilty, which I don’t. Not me. If a shop or store doesn’t have the right security, or some sod doesn’t have his wallet in his inside pocket, well, they pay stupid tax.
About three years ago, I was taking a walk along the high street when I noticed a new shop had opened. It was a small bric-a-brac shop full of the normal old furniture, paintings, time pieces and old coins you would expect to find in such a place. Walking in, I noted only one old man behind the desk, and after a few minutes concluded he was the entirety of the staff. It was time for me to have a little fun.
I found a small pocket watch, which felt old, cast iron, and almost industrious. “That will do,” I thought, turning to see that the lone shop keep was even kind enough to have his back to me.
Think about it, here he is. He’s new in town, just opened shop, and won’t even acknowledge his first customer. Well, “His tough luck,” I thought, as I pocketed the watch and calmly strolled to the door.
I think the phrase is “blunt force trauma,” but I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that getting a big oak table leg wrapped round the back of my head was both blunt and more than a bit traumatic.
A kleptomaniac is a person who can’t help but steal, and they could almost be forgiven for it. Me, well, I’m a thieving bastard. I don’t have to steal, I don’t need to, but I like to. I don’t have any excuses, either. An excuse would suggest that I felt in some way guilty, which I don’t. Not me. If a shop or store doesn’t have the right security, or some sod doesn’t have his wallet in his inside pocket, well, they pay stupid tax.
About three years ago, I was taking a walk along the high street when I noticed a new shop had opened. It was a small bric-a-brac shop full of the normal old furniture, paintings, time pieces and old coins you would expect to find in such a place. Walking in, I noted only one old man behind the desk, and after a few minutes concluded he was the entirety of the staff. It was time for me to have a little fun.
I found a small pocket watch, which felt old, cast iron, and almost industrious. “That will do,” I thought, turning to see that the lone shop keep was even kind enough to have his back to me.
Think about it, here he is. He’s new in town, just opened shop, and won’t even acknowledge his first customer. Well, “His tough luck,” I thought, as I pocketed the watch and calmly strolled to the door.
I think the phrase is “blunt force trauma,” but I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that getting a big oak table leg wrapped round the back of my head was both blunt and more than a bit traumatic.
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