Motherfucker Brit undercover store detective sheizzerkopfs (or whatever the word for ‘shithead’ is in German—if it’s one thing the Germans have a handle on, it’s shit). Two days left in this dried up twat of a country (bejewled isle, yeah right—England can kiss my euro fannypack) and I get tapped for shoplifting. At pansy ass Self-ish-ridges of all places, that avenue-thick, three block long fortress of a department store nightmare, where, incidentally, I once had a breakdown on the escalator trying to get to the subterranean luggage dept. Will someone please tell me when, oh, when will I learn to avoid the scene of the crime? Vibes, karma, I don’t know what it is--some places are just bad news and there t’ain’t no amount of time or greenbacks that’s going to change it. But here’s the rub-a-dub, party people: I got tapped and brought down to the in-store clink (metal tables, cloth handcuffs, psych ward style) even though I didn’t take shit (sheizzer). For real, honest-to-goodness, I swear on my biz class (you know how we do) plane ticket to NYC. All I did was peel off a hologram sticker from the lid of a New Era cap (BoSox, whatimsayin) to replace the one that fell off my recently PURCHASED (OK, not from Selfridges, but the point is I BOUGHT IT) throwback Detroit Tigers cap. What’s the point of rocking a brand new hat if it’s missing the sticker? I thought I could hold off until I got to NYC, but when I got high last night that bare ass lid looked back at me in the mirror, bringing tears of shame to my eyes, so that I had to say “enough”.
Party people, you know how it is. Sometimes you just gotta say “enough”.
They pulled the sticker out of my sweaty palm. They brought me swiftly downstairs and put me through the paces. They called me by the name in my passport. They claimed to have no understanding as to why I might want to take a sticker but not the hat.
“Look,” I said, “I’m willing to buy the sticker. How much does it cost, 50p?”
The undercover frowned. He rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes.
“The point is not the cost.”
His partner scrawled something on a sheet of paper and placed it in a folder.
“The point we're concerned with,” he said, his South London accent infused with all sorts of moviecop bullshit, “is how you're going to pay for it.”
kevyn malone
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