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Doomed: Chapter 3

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Joined: 16 Feb 2005
Posts: 61
Location: I'd tell you if I knew
Doomed: Chapter 3  Reply with quote  

I completely re-wrote this chapter this morning, please tell me what ya think of it

Chapter 3: Theft Can Be A Way Of Life If You Plan It Right

It's been about eight hours, the car is running on fumes and so am I. I can't go home, I know he'll be there. Sitting and grinning, in a fog of pathetic pride, his bragging tangible and oozing from his arrogant little mouth. I don't know if I am better or worse then him; his pickup lines may reek of desperation, but at least he tries. My pride is stronger then my desperation, for now. I'm gonna have to ditch this car, this car is dying.

The only parking lot for miles is a damn Wal-Mart! I don't know about you, but I can't see myself behind the wheel of a friggin' mini-van, let alone stealing one. Since I'm here, I might as well go in and steal some stuff, I'm not gonna shop lift, if that is what you are thinking. Shop lifting is so juvenile. Don't get me wrong, I've lifted a shit-load of product in my day. But it takes too long, all the waiting for the perfect moment. The way I do it these days is just so much easier. What I do is fish thru trash cans for receipts, then I go into the store and find the product, open it, remove some of the packaging and bring it to the return desk. If your lucky, you can find receipts for TV's, Stereo's or some other big ticket item. Each receipt is a winning lottery ticket. I know it's not original, but what ever brings money my way is good enough for me. All I can find is a few receipts for some clothes, it's better than nothing, it's good for about fifty bucks.

But as I sift thru the receipts, I find that they are all for women's clothing. Now they're all going to think I'm some sort of cross-dressing pervert. Every time I leave my home, the real world screws with my sexuality. I pitifully mope my way thru the automatic doors and into the white bright blandness that is every single Wal-Mart on the face of the planet. I wonder if there's Wal-Marts in third world countries, it would make Wal-Mart's shipping a lot faster and cheaper. Hunched and trying to keep as low a profile as possible, I make my way over to the women's clothing department and nervously meander thru the various frilly sections. I retrieve the receipts from my pocket and look closer to see what articles of clothing I need. As always fate shows me that no matter how bad or uncomfortable a situation is, it can always get worse. All the receipts are for lingerie, plus sized lingerie that would be a perfect fit for any man. The receipts have the sizes of the garments because plus sizes cost extra; god damn penny pinchers. I can't even get these frilly fucking things too small for me so it will at least make it appear I'm returning them for someone else. I hate my life!

With my back hunched and looking like the pervert everybody thinks of me as, I wander towards the lingerie district with its various degrees of lacy frills and overly feminine pinks, purples and ivories on glossy satins and soft silks. I look up over the racks and displays to see a variety of female employees and costumers leering at me with cocked eyebrows and uncomfortable stares as I thumb thru the dainty selection of lace teddies, satin babydolls, silk gowns, cotton pink thongs and DD support bras. I sift through the smooth soft underwear and find all the necessary items, in all the unfortunately man sized sizes. I fold them one after the other over my left arm until I have four items in total.

Then I head for the return desk at the other end of the store removing the hangers as I go and stuffing them behind kids toys and candy displays. Pointing laughing fingers from every man I cross and disturbed stares from every women that tares their gazes long enough to see me from fawning over some pathetic sale on maxi-pads and yeast infection treatment kits. I finally arrive at the return desk, and to drive it all home, the clerk is a particularly hot chick. It's as if fate itself asked: "what would you like first, the insult or the injury?" So I swallow what remains of my pride and march on over to her. The return counter is behind all the check-out counters, it is a indent into the wall with big blue letters over top of it that say "Return Desk". The desk is about fifteen feet long and made of cheap fake plastic wood. Piles of returned products sit just behind the hot looking clerk. The clerk herself can't be any older than eighteen, with a pink power puff girl clip in her long blond hair. Her pale pink blouse lined with hot pink edges peeks through her blue Wal-Mart smock. This girl is so pink she makes me sick. Her pink glossy painted fingernails sparkle in the white fluorescent glow of the dozens of thousand watt bulbs hanging thirty feet above us, each of those thousand watt lamps would make any pot grower proud to own one. The pink obsessed girl glares at me as I approach her hauling an armful dainty-frilly women's under-things. I plop the heap of feminine silks and satins on the counter with a guilty nervous posture, while she stares at me like I'm a criminal.
"I'd like to return these." I blurted with a nervous squeaky voice. She eyes me a little awhile. Her face abruptly changes from a glaring scowl to a lukewarm smile.
"Certainly sir, all I need is the receipt." her voice has an almost artificial feel to it, I guess the only way she can hide her disgust of me is to shut off her emotions all together. Shutting off one's emotions is usually a man's trick, but we do live in progressive times. I reach into my pocket and dig out the wrinkled receipts and place them into her outstretched, over manicured hand. She eyes me again for a second. Then she starts copying the serial numbers off the receipts into her computer. Her blurred hands frantically typing, stop suddenly and she looks at me with an accusing eye.
"What is the reason for returning these?"
"They are too small... for my girlfriend!" I said desperately overdone and so loud the entire store stops what they are doing to gawk at me.
"If they are too small, for your, ah girlfriend, you can go back and get a bigger size." Implications and accusations fly out from many cracks in her attempt at an emotionless guise. I bet Wal-Mart doesn't get a lot of returns by married men because of this very thing that I am forced to endure for a meager fifty bucks.
"These are the biggest sizes that you have in the store, ma'am." I put all my hatred of this encounter at this opinionated bitch into that last four letter word; I growled ma'am more than said it. I had memorized a good insult book for just such an occasion, I wanted to lob one word bomb after another at her and leap over the counter and strangle her with the silk spaghetti strap of a pink camisole until her head popped off. But than I wouldn't get my money that I am working very hard for, and besides I will have more than enough trouble with the law soon enough, I don't need to rush things.
"Very well, sir. I'm sorry we couldn't help you today." What she really meant was either, I'm sorry you are a sick pervert and if you touch me I'm going to have security cut your balls off and flush em down the toilet, or I'm sorry your girlfriend is the fattest fucking whale on the face of the planet.

She hides her complete disgust of me with a cheap smile while she hands over a neat but small pile of twenties. I keep up the act of not wanting to slit her throat and dance around her gushing neck wound like a gory Mexican hat dance until I'm out of sight and almost out the door. Than I scream back into the store with cupped hands over my mouth to attain maximum volume.
"FUCKING BITCH, I hope you burn in FUCKING HELL." For a little closure. Then I gingerly walk out past the automatic doors and into the blaring heat of the midday sun. I don't bother looking back to see the store occupants reactions, it just wouldn't be as satisfying as imagining what the reactions were. Nothing can ever be as good as you can imagine it.

I hate the sun, it's like god is gloating over an accomplishment that shouldn't be flaunted. I scan the parking-lot to see a sea of mini-vans and S.U.V's. I wish at least some of these families could think of quality instead quantity. I fucking hate god damn mini-vans! At the corner of the lot I spot a car, a glorious car, not a van nor an S.U.V, a car!

I run over to it, being so lucky to find a car in this sea of gas guzzling monstrosities. But as I come closer, I find I'm not lucky, just cursed. It's a rusted out, piss yellow Gremlin. I shrug my shoulders and say to myself, at least it's not a mini-van.

Besides, the older a car is, the easier it is to steal. To all those who have crappy cars who think because their car is such a rust-bucket no one will bother stealing it; remember third-class driving is still better than first-class walking.

The driver-side door isn't even locked. I slide into the driver's seat, the veinal is cracked and torn, bits of yellow foam poke out from countless holes and cracks. The car reeks of tobacco and half eaten junk food that has gone bad. It's still better than a mini-van. The plastic housing over the ignition is scratched and cracked. The car is probably already stolen and that just makes my job easier. I turn the keyless ignition and the engine sputters to life.
"Thought so." I say aloud. This car is definitely stolen. The owner probably didn't even report it stolen. It's not worth the higher insurance rates. Life is all about risk versus gain.

These days, the only way to steal a new car is to steal the keys. But that's no trouble. People usually keep their keys on a hook right next to their front door. If you can pick a simple door lock, you can have any car your twisted little heart desires.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite government program.

Post Fri Dec 30, 2005 4:14 am   View user's profile Send private message
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