Holy Hell, One Thing After Another

Chapter 7 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Hunger

When Up de Graff was at the deserted shack, abandoned by the Yumbos, he concluded that the people of the Amazon country are full of surprises, in this case the old disappearing trick. He told Jack, but all the complaining in the world wouldn't help them. They took action instead, packing and heading back to the canoe. By evening they'd arrived and weren't surprised to see the canoe gone. Come on, Yumbos, sometimes life calls for a little consideration!

They thought it over in the morning, the penalties there for stealing canoes, and found it wisely abandoned not too far downstream. Up de Graff considered this a period of suffering, with too much dependence on the Yumbos, and except for a stroke of fortune they might not have saved themselves. They headed back upstream in search of them. But they didn't make the same rapid progress as they'd made with them, although they learned bit by bit how to pick up speed. My brother taught me a lesson like this once on how to ice skate faster, "Run on your tippy tip toes!" Which is great till you crash and burn.

Suddenly they noticed a dead alligator, which meant something bigger was near. Jack called out, "Let's get out of here!" That's when they saw the biggest anaconda they'd ever imagined. The estimated length was between 50 and 60 feet. Up de Graff, in the stern and out of reach of the rifles, called to Jack to shoot. The noise of getting to his gun alarmed the snake, and as it twisted in the water and quickly vanished, the boat was nearly wrecked in the waves. Snakes like that, what can you say, they're too big for their britches. Like trying to put an 18-wheeler in the downtown parking garage.

One other night they'd tied the canoe to an overhanging branch. After supper they put their things back in it. It was close by as they slept, but something bad was about to happen. Up de Graff writes, "Hour after hour the water fell away, hour after hour the rope tightened. For a long time the stores must have resisted the gradually increasing pull of gravity as the canoe little by little approached the perpendicular, having long since reached the rope's limit." Then, early in the morning, everything they had except two machetes and some molasses slipped "in a fateful avalanche" into the water. No one likes "I told you so," but I would've insisted on fitting anything in the tent we couldn't afford to lose.

They were now 60 days up river from the nearest post without food or the means of getting it. Jack muttered, "Holy Hell." That's right, Holy Hell. I would've cussed a blue streak worse than that -- all the usual words -- for whatever good it might've done. It steels your resolve, I think. It brings your emotion to the fore and you feel your determination mount. That's the answer to any do-gooder who gets on your case for cussing.

Chiseling Wives -- What Will She Steal Tonight?

I had to laugh when a dear friend recently told me of his terrible suspicions that his wife was chiseling him out of money. Certainly it’d be pocket change -- I don't know, there might've been bills, if I had to guess I'd say yes. I laughed because this is a problem that goes way back. I'm getting up there in age, and so many times when I was a kid I'd hear guys complaining about their chiseling wives. (I've had more than one offer, as an old man now, to record an oral history of the past. But it's so sad, every time I start in, I break down something fierce. So I restrict myself to articles here -- exposés? -- because if I start crying and it's just me I'm not quite as embarrassed.)

But I'm not embarrassed by what I'm going to call these gals: Damned chiseling women. OK, how you like them berries? Just calling it the way I see it, the way it is. Again, a story as old as the ages and a story as new as tomorrow, when, a'rising from what he thinks was a good night's sleep, there's a poor guy who's going to learn one of life's important lessons: You should definitely have had a vault, somewhere to keep your valuables. Otherwise -- it's sad but true -- you'll be wondering, What happened to X, Y, and Z? Then there she is, still fast asleep. Wonder why she always seems to sleep in? Could it be she was up half the night, chiseling, stealing, creatively nibbling around the edges of things to the point that ... oops, they're gone?

Then there's another case, which I can't vouch for, but I heard it from a friend, who himself heard it from a friend. If you ask me did I see it? No, I didn't. But if you ask me do I believe it? I'd have to say, Yes, I absolutely do. While it's brazen and for that reason barely believable, there's the aspect of performance art to it, and thus it's perhaps (wink wink) taken as a joke, so although it's done in front of a host of witnesses, it's not thrown in the groom's face by witnesses:

A couple was being married. He and she had written their own vows, and as they're repeating them, suddenly he's lightheaded and passes out. Right then, as part of the vows, she was supposed to vow not to chisel money or anything else from him, apparently as his mother had done against his father. So he passes out, that part of the service gets left out, and when he comes to moments later, the minister is pronouncing them husband and wife. Husbands naturally being tough-guys, he didn't say anything about the apparent lapse. (And the video was edited with footage from the rehearsal filling in the blanks.)

Next thing you know, his pockets were being rifled, change from the dresser was missing, and even a few old, very old, 1897 silver dollars his grandfather had given him were gone. Truth be told, his wife used them for bus fare! True story! But he refused to believe the facts, even though they were staring him in the face, until it was too late. One day he woke up and the bed was missing, and suddenly the evidence was unmistakable: She was a chiseler. Stealing everything in sight! Even his clothes. He went to work that day in nothing but a jock strap, and when he came home -- having had to work overtime as punishment for violating the company dress-code -- the house was gone! (To her credit, the wallpaper was neatly rolled up and waiting for him on the curb.)

My personal recommendation would be, Don't jump into a marriage you may regret. Get to know the woman. Listen and observe carefully. Does she seem to be overly materialistic? When she's at your home, is she carrying a clipboard and does she seem to be taking inventory more often and more diligently than would be normal for insurance purposes? Does she seem to have rental agreements lying about for warehouse properties? Does she have an all-consuming interest in online auction sites? Have you overheard her pricing major railroad shipments? The picture she gave you and you kept on your bed stand, does it have both a front and side view? These are telltale signs worth noting.

OK, here's one of my throwback stories from a long time ago, 1970-71, about a guy I knew named Mr. Stanley. I'm withholding his first name. I don't want any trouble from his heirs. Mr. Stanley married, then woke up one night to find that his wife was a chiseler. She was rifling through his pockets. With the worst thing about her habit, sometime along the way she made off with his valuable pocket watch that he had from when he worked on the railroad. Long story short, their marriage was over. Whether he ever got the watch back, I'm just going to say he didn't. Otherwise, why would he have still been so pissed? And why did he lapse from English to complete horseshit gibberish every time he spoke of her?

Be careful, guys. Sleep with your eyes open -- one eye at least -- if you can.

Newsletter -- The Peace of a Thief

Yesterday, I lifted up one of my staff members, Stan "Tipsy" White, as a great example of the glories of drunkenness, and got a lot of nice comments, so I thought today I'd highlight another member I sincerely admire, Dashing Danny Whfrf.

Danny's a traditionalist, and I like that, a traditional thief. He's not into new crime like computer hacking or carjackings, which of course have their place; he's into what has to be one of the oldest criminal activities of all, thievery, stealing. It's so old there's even a 10 Commandment about it! Fortunately Danny doesn't live in some backward country where they cut your hands off for stealing, because he'd be out of work then, needing as he does his hands for holding the gun and carrying stuff off.

Of course in these days where every field seems to have succumbed to modernism -- and I'd complain, "Modernism for modernism's sake!" -- it's rare to find traditional craftsmen, working not only with their hands but with their wits. When you work with your wits, you need wisdom, and that's what Danny uses to scope out a situation, see where the goods are, where the exits are, and what it's going to take to get him in and out in one piece. Part of one's wits also entail foreseeing the unforeseeable, if we can put it like that, having the foresight and intelligence to roll with the flow. Danny's not afraid to change his plans on the fly, such as his route of escape. He says he's dove out of more second story windows than he cares to remember!

Damn the luck, though! He's currently doing a little prison stretch that's sidelined him, but he's proven himself an honorable and worthy fellow in demonstrating "good behavior." Plus, he went beyond the call of duty when he ratted on a couple rat-finks in the clink, who were planning to knife a guy simply for not sharing a Playboy magazine his sister smuggled in to him. And that put Danny in good with a few higher-ups, who then put him on the fast track to eventual release by sending him to the local work release farm. From there he was let him out to help me as a staff member on my upcoming newsletter.

I've been happy with Danny's work ethic. He's very bright-eyed, looking at all the angles. Which is even more amazing given the late hours he keeps after a full day. I bet he's explored every part of our town. I sometimes wonder what discoveries he's making -- our town's a fascinating and hospitable place, and I believe he's found that to be true. But he's not one to show a lot of emotion; he's reluctant to get sentimental about civic pride because he might break down and cry. And once you've been in the pen, that's a big no no.

Yes, the thought's crossed my mind that he might be pulling a few jobs around town. He always goes armed, which he sees as a fundamental constitutional right, and it could be he sees things he likes that he honestly can't afford, since the state's only giving him 12 cents an hour. That's not much money for a full day's work! I've chipped in a few cents to make it 15 cents, but even that's only marginally better. You could literally blow through a whole day's pay on an unfrosted cupcake. Fortunate for him, we have little joint downtown that'll sell you a single cigarette or he'd be completely lost.

If he is pulling jobs, more power to him, right? If he's at peace with it, who am I to raise a ruckus and mess up his thinking? He tells me his mama never raised no fool, and I confess I'd say the same thing about my mama. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Danny's got it. And even if he didn't have it he'd know where to find it, which is reassuring.

Messing up his thinking would be the same as messing with his peace of mind. And that's something I'd never do. Danny's got what a lot of us haven't got, the native sense that God gives thieves, who believe, "The whole world belongs to me. What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine." There's such a beautiful innocence in that, like a baby reaching out and picking a piece of food off his daddy's plate. Daddy just sits there and laughs, "You're such a good boy!" The amazing thing, then, is to carry that attitude through your whole life; what's out there is like the air, it's your environment, your enchilada, and completely free for the taking. It don't get no easier than that!

Bait Wagon

NOTE: If you're a fan of the TruTV show "Bait Car," you'll like this. If you don't know the show, it features metro police luring people into stealing cars. The objective is to prevent car theft. It makes a certain amount of sense, if you cross your eyes and think about it really hard. You know they're going to steal it, the police are rooting for success, and finally ... "There they go! Shut it down!" ... They shut the car off by remote control and arrest the perps.

There's been a rash of wagon thefts recently in my town. It used to be you could take your kid to the park, take them to the restroom, and come back out to your wagon still there. Those days seem long gone, with the many crimes leading to parents being extremely mad, and kids upset they took so long in the bathroom.

It's been crazy. Everyone knows a kid who's lost a wagon, and everyone knows a parent who's mad at life-in-general and everyone in it. Gun sales are way up, as well as heavy artillery, mortars, bombs, and jet fighters. The biggest course at adult education is on assembling IEDs. Folks have even shown up at the police department threatening officers with death if they didn't put a stop to the thefts. And, as it turns out, they meant business.

That's where I come in. I've been working with the police, part-time, training officers in public relations, using some of the principles of group dynamics as well as other people skills. One day, I was just wrapping up a session on "You Need to Go Along to Get Along" -- on knowing when the passive side of passive-aggressiveness is indicated -- right when a parental militia burst in and took out two of our best men. When the excitement died down, I concluded, "This time aggression was indicated, but don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

Another principle we're working on is "Digging Down to the Root of Any Dilemma." "Why treat the symptoms if the cancer's still there?" I asked rhetorically. "These senseless police killings won't stop till we address the real problem, the theft of these dam-- darned wagons." That's when I came up with the Bait Wagon program, modeled on the TV show. We would trick out normal wagons, pimp 'em up real "bad", so "bad" no self-respecting wagon thief could resist. Then put them in parks ... and wait.

But on our way with the very first wagon, we found ourselves fighting an entirely different parental militia, these ones coming in from the air. One officer -- Sgt. Smith -- said, "I've heard of helicopter parents, but this is ridiculous!" Those were his last words, as a mortar sped through the car window and impaled him. I helped the others drag the Bait Wagon to safety just as the car blew into a million pieces.

Fortunately, the park was near. With a wary eye, we quickly set up the Bait Wagon, leaving the handle right in plain sight, then hid in the bushes. It didn't take long till we had lots of browsers, lots of interest, little kids, parents, and a few juvies -- kids with tattoos. By now we were silently praying, moving our lips, "Somebody, please, take it for a spin!" At last a couple of good-time "bruthas" milled around it a bit too much, dicking with the handle and looking around. I checked the laminated profile guide Sgt. Smith bequeathed to Lt. Rutger and found them ... looking pretty close to these actual guys!

Almost immediately, true to form, the "bruthas" attached the handle to the mainframe and took off running down the hill, predictably picking up speed as they went. Likewise, we sped out from the bush. But our timing was unfortunate, as a parental militia just then came into sight on our rear flank and took position. We took incoming, with their first lucky shot taking off Rutger's leg, and the second the rest of him. I wasn't completely spared; shrapnel nicked the leather on one of my shoes, but it was on the back where it's not as noticeable.

But first things first! The "bruthas" were getting away with the Bait Wagon! I gave the order to the others: "Pull out!" (I actually didn't have any authority, but this is an old group dynamics trick I teach at my seminars: Anyone who "takes charge" is at least temporarily respected till folks have time to think it over. Most assume you know what you're doing.)

Now, each Bait Wagon is equipped with a remote-controlled brake to lock both back wheels tight. I ran back to Lt. Rutger and snatched the controls from his holster. Then we approached the befuddled "bruthas" -- now on the sidewalk, almost to the grocery store, struggling to make the wagon go. I gave the order and we rushed in from three directions, which would've been four had we avoided that last casualty.

Anyway, it turned out these were the guys behind all the recent wagon thefts. We think. We never actually found all the wagons, and they didn't have time to confess. But, you know, the laminated profile sheet and all ... it stands to reason. "Bruthas." It's a human tragedy.

But the real tragedy in this whole stinking affair was our failure to get this news out to the parents in time. All of a sudden, three jets came over the horizon in formation, strafing the whole scene for miles around, killing not only the remaining officers, but the "bruthas," and quite a number of innocent bystanders, including a white guy unrelated to this case running by with a different hot wagon. As for me, I barely managed to survive, not being hit but halfway scared out of my everlovin' wits.

Having nothing more to do -- my job was done -- I continued on to the grocery store, filled the wagon with a few essentials and went home. Saved a little gas -- did my best to save the planet -- and got in some exercise.

Honoring Ned Hogan, Great Criminal

Today, we're honoring one of the great criminals of the past, Ned Hogan. When pictured here peeling potatoes at the end of 1922, he had been in jail in Milwaukee a record 117 times.*

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward writing in honor of our fine brother in crime, Mr. Ned Hogan, 76 years old in the picture, and a native of Milwaukee.

As you will see in this brief tribute, Ned was so often drunk that he couldn't handle his affairs and needed a place to flop. That may not sound like great crime, but we honor it, because it is likely that Ned tied up the system enough -- taking the time of jailers, judges, and the cops -- that other criminals had freer rein.

The Milwaukee Sentinel of Dec. 24, 1922, (easily found on Google) profiled Ned, calling him a bum, derelict, and prohibition fighter. In addition, they said he was a vague and shadowy character.

In earlier times, he worked at the circus grounds in Milwaukee, and also did any odd jobs that would bring him a dollar. But the paper said the nearest thing to a regular occupation he ever had was unloading coal boats. Ned was what they called a dock walloper. It sounds like honest work, but we're very glad he left it, or we wouldn't be honoring him today. Since we don't care about dock walloping.

Alfred O. Wilmot, court reporter at the time, who knew Ned when he, Alfred, was a kid, remembers that Ned was all right when he was sober. The newspaper paraphrases Alfred: "Unless he was waylaid down in the lumber yards and got a pony of beer, he took his savings home to his old mother. He is not a thief. With all his arrests, he has never committed a real crime."

It was after Ned stole a tire that Alfred said, "Except for his lack of culture, Ned was a gentleman. I have heard him give a fellow a lecture for insulting a woman on the street. He was never brought in on a charge of anything but vagrancy until this last time. And this larceny charge was just a ruse of Ned's. He didn't want to steal. He had no use for the automobile tire that he walked off from a garage up near Eighth and Wells street. He only took it so as to furnish an excuse to get arrested. He went right down to the Rescue Mission with it and sat there until the police came."

Ned greeted the officer by saying, "Well, it took me two hours to get arrested this time." At first he had tried to get arrested by taking some bandana handkerchiefs from a dry goods store. There were even hanging out of his pockets in the store. But that plan failed, so he resorted to taking the tire.

Of course all the old cops knew Ned. When he wanted to be taken in, they accommodated him. Younger cops weren't so nice, saying, "Get about your business. You haven't done anything for me to take you in." To which Ned would retort, "You better take me in. If you don't I'll do something so you will have to pinch me." Ned's oldest friend on the force, Ed Baivier, chuckled, "He would, too. He has been known to pick up a brick and heave it through a window when the patrolman was stubborn."

Milwaukee's Judge Page said, "Ned is an old figure around here. He is getting old now, must be nearly 70. He manages, by sleeping on park benches, to get along in the summer, but when cold weather comes he needs a more comfortable place. As sure as the thermometer drops we can expect to see Ned in the bull pen next morning. As you know, it was pretty chilly the night before his last arrest a few weeks ago."

Roy E. Briggs, assistant superintendent of the Rescue Mission, said of him, "His mind is so run down from drink that he is 'rum dumb' as one of our men puts it. He has lost control of his power to think, but retained enough mind to know it. He wants to go right but can't quite reason out the way if left to himself. So he voluntarily puts himself where someone will make him do what he should."

So there you have it! We proudly honor Mr. Ned Hogan, one of the great criminals of the past. To summarize, he got drunk a lot, broke windows, and stole a few bandana handkerchiefs and a tire.

Diamond Heist Yields Millions In Diamonds

Oh boy! This was a biggie! And I'm happy to say it was all my idea! Thank God for the devious subconscious, because that had to be where it came from! I was really worried for my reputation after my plan to fix the pro wrestling match failed. So I'm thinking about that, that my ascension in the realms of the criminal glitterati was stymied, when I came up with a great idea. To stage a diamond heist! And it turned out better than I could ever imagine!

My brainchild was, Why not create a diversion? Then while a few police officers, the active patrol at that moment, checked it out, we would use what could only realistically be a 10-minute window to rob one of the local jewelry stores. I thought we would have to work fast, because the city's finest would quickly deal with the diversion and be back on patrol in no time. But I also had this crazy idea that we might get more...

I went with this psychology: A huge diversion would point to a huge crime taking place. But a small diversion might not even seem like a diversion. But it'd still be enough to keep the few guys on patrol busy, and even complacent. So it was very small, a normal sized garbage can with a few gasoline-doused rags afire in it, squarely in the middle of a large parking lot, adjoined to a defunct grocery store, absolutely no danger to anyone. With a guy watching from behind the trees on a nearby hill, telling us what's going on with a walkie-talkie app on our phones. Complete with cool bursts of static sound effects between transmissions.

He lit the rags and went to his place. Someone called the cops, then they started showing up. At that point, the rest of us were at the jewelry store. We busted in and started shooting the place up, obviously scaring the crap out of everyone. I saw my phone light up and called for quiet. "Shut up, youse guys!" I commanded. I took the walkie-talkie call, and it was amazing: It wasn't just a few officers on the scene. It looked like the entire police force was out there to investigate the little fire, including what looked like every emergency vehicle in town!

We were still working with some urgency, because Who knows?! And then -- oh no! -- I thought we were done for; I heard sirens and pressed my nose up against the glass. A string of police cars (black and white with a cherry on top) came into view, but, thank God, they were speeding by, heading west. With civilians along as well! I got a call later that confirmed it. Police headquarters had apparently emptied out, including all the secretaries and even the dispatchers! What a scene it must've been, 50-75 unnecessary personnel gathered around a (by now) smoldering garbage can!

It seemed like we had all the time in the world! We bound up the jewelry store guy, his wife, his kids, and the rest of his staff. They watched us move around the store with impunity, emptying out the place right down to the wall. Then we had an unexpected windfall: A delivery truck pulled up in back, with diamonds and other jewelry not just for that store but for every store in the area. We opened the door, bound that guy too, and started carrying his load to our own vehicles. This was diamonds in big buckets, heaping over, a huge payday! At one point I had one big bucket in one hand, another in the other, and a smaller, daintier bucket held in my teeth!

Our guy called on the walkie-talkie and said no one was leaving. It appeared they figured it was close enough to 5:00 that they might as well close out their shift socializing. Although there was some official business at the scene, with forensics carefully measuring the distance from the empty store to the garbage can. And it seemed important to dust the unburnt pieces of rags for prints.

We had everything out of the store, everything out of the truck, and time to spare. And here's where it gets good. I stepped out and saw a young kid with tattoos. I knew he had to be a delinquent, so I called him over. I said, "Do you know where the police department is?" He says, "You mean the cop shop?" I said, like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, "Good boy, delightful boy!" I told him I'd give him 10 bucks if he'd run over and take a piss on the police chief's desk. And a hundred bucks if he really had to go! The youngster let a fart, which I took as a promise. So I was better than my word: I gave him a hundred bucks and a bucket of diamonds and sent him on his way...

We left then, headed back to the hotel, and took our time getting the loot up to our rooms. After splitting it between us, I went back to my room, took a shower and nap, watched Jeopardy, and went over to the corner for a milkshake. It wasn't till then that I saw the police cars come speeding back into town, sirens full blast, headed for the jewelry store.

Beggars Have No Choice

SUMMARY: Looking at the phrase, "Beggars can't be choosers."

I'm sitting here contemplating the implications of this, and it's blowing my mind. In my thoughts I'm taking it all the way from the simple choices we all make to metaphysical questions of free will period.

Did I make the choice to write this post? Or is some higher power, with too much time on its hands, compelling me? If times, events, and circumstances are all set in stone, am I simply a marionette, a wooden-headed dummy dancing to the pulled strings?

Hmm. See what I mean? I've got myself tied in knots, or if there's no choice in the matter, the strings have themselves tangled inexorably around me and I'm stranded, no recourse to the life I prefer or even a more interesting imprisonment. At least add a sexual component to my misery!

And it's all because I started thinking of beggars. I saw one and this whole conundrum was triggered in me, and now I'm bound! But still -- thankfully -- I feel subjectively like I'm making choices. I'm at least sitting here apparently writing this out of my own head. As bad off as I feel right now, I don't feel I'm completely in the beggar's position, having no choice. Because, as they say, "Beggars can't be choosers."

OK, assuming the rest of us do have some power of choosing, at least for the sake of argument, we are so fortunate that we're not beggars, who have no choice. Wouldn't that be bad?

I'm wondering how it must be for them, no choice. Wow! When did it start? Obviously when they started begging. Up till then, it would seem they had a choice, but once they crossed that magical divide -- whether in the decision to become a beggar or in the first instance of actual begging -- all choice was lost. From then on, life for them became absolute compulsion.

I feel that the implications of this are staggering. Why, of all the experiences in humanity, would begging carry what appears to be a singular penalty? And how would the determination (or verdict) be rendered so swiftly, especially if it's imposed at the decisive moment rather than with the first behavioral instance? It would have to be a special decree of karma, one that uniquely presents no delay or variance. Astonishing!

Personally, I don't think it could come at the moment of decision, at the mere thought of begging. Think of it, the intention is there to be acted upon, but at that point he has not yet begged, making him something less than a beggar. It doesn't say, "Near-beggars can't be choosers." So there's still time to turn back. O, if near-beggars only knew this, they'd turn back before it was too late!

But the moment for some, alas, does come! The cardboard sign is scrawled, the hand is outstretched. The sky suddenly darkens, distant thunder is heard, one's personal star falls into the pitch-black sea, and the brain mysteriously twists and cuts off whatever avenues of choice were once free and clear. It's as though a film covers the eyes. What darkness it must be to have absolutely no choice!

And how about this? Now, he cannot even choose not to be a beggar. Because beggars can't be choosers, the word can't being a contraction of the longer cannot, meaning something that is an absolute impossibility. Destiny will cut him no more breaks, no matter how much he begs. But, on a more cheerful note, perhaps there is only a dull realization, or no realization, of this fate, so that he never mourns it, being unconscious of any other life previous to that of begging. That would be the sweet elixir of forgetfulness, a gracious cloud!

But what about all the other day-to-day choices, which side of the street to beg on, whether to keep begging or go home, whether to go to the bathroom when he needs to, etc.? The choice to put on warm clothing if it's cold, or to strip down if it's cool? To sit in the sun or move to the shade? To eat, not to eat? To thank people or just grunt? These too would be choices, would they not? If he has no choice, thank heaven some force -- beneficent existence itself -- is guiding at least non-conscious actions!

The lesson here is, Whatever you do, friends, don't beg. Treasure your freedom as long as you can. Steal instead.

The $700 Gun Case

November 2011:

MR. ANDERSON -- How would you like a $700 gun safe for Christmas, dear?

MRS. ANDERSON [sarcastically] -- Yeah, heh heh, that'd be great.


November 2016, Eyewitness Action News 9:

JOVIAL MALE NEWSCASTER -- Mrs. Anderson of the city has a real story to tell!

FEMALE CO-ANCHOR -- That's right, she doesn't own a gun but has repeatedly been the victim of gun thieves.

MALE -- Eyewitness Action's Piper Klinebeck has the story:

PIPER -- Mrs. Anderson wouldn't know a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle from a Yamaha tuba, but that hasn't stopped gun thieves from targeting her home. In the last five years, she's been the victim of 10 break-ins, and every time the criminals were looking for guns in her gun safe. But all of them left empty-handed, because Mrs. Anderson has no guns. Why does she have a gun safe?

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- A few years ago, my husband asked me if I wanted a $700 gun safe, actually the furthest thing from my mind. I thought he was kidding. And when I said yes, I chuckled, and figured he knew I was kidding. Then when I saw a package 6 foot tall under the tree, I started having my doubts.

PIPER -- Her husband indeed gave her the gun safe, and by then what could she say? So there it's been, in her home for the last five years. Somehow then word got out that the Andersons had the safe, with everyone assuming that anyone who had a safe like that would also have some valuable guns. And obviously the wrong kind of people heard it as well. Mrs. Anderson says she was surprised to have so many troubles over the years.

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- I was surprised when the troubles started, the first break-in. No one was home, we weren't expecting it, and when we got back, there it was, standing wide open, completely pulled out from the wall and scratched.

PIPER -- That was the first break-in, but it was destined not to be the last. Since then, thieves have repeatedly visited the Anderson home, breaking into the safe and continuing to scratch it up, in some cases causing some considerable damage.

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- This huge scratch, my husband said they must have whacked it with a tire iron trying to get it open.

FEMALE ANCHOR -- Piper, you say Mrs. Anderson never kept guns in it?

PIPER -- That's right. Her husband got it for her more or less as a joke. Then when she got it, it took up so much room she needed to use it for something. Actually, what she keeps in it is her collection of vintage Bohemian Santa Clauses, all reproductions, not valuable at all, with only sentimental value. The safe has done its part in a good way, but with the break-ins, a few of the Santas of course have been broken. Piper Klinebeck, reporting for Eyewitness Action 9 News.

FEMALE ANCHOR -- It looks like the lesson for the Andersons is, "Live and learn."

PIPER -- True enough. But there is one sad side note to the story to share. Two years ago, Mr. Anderson was home and tried to prevent the thieves, who unfortunately bludgeoned him to death with one of their tire irons, also again scratching the safe. So it's not all good...

MALE ANCHOR -- That is a sad note to end on. Another lesson would have to be, "Next time, pick more practical gifts."

I've Got Free Meal Tickets For You!

I was down at the meal site today, as I am most days. Because of my disability (game toe), I qualify for free meals. Lately, I've been thinking of those more unfortunate than myself, and, somehow, I don't know how, four meal tickets mysteriously, miraculously, exited their perch on the cash register when the guy's back was turned and ended up in my pocket!

Seriously, I looked every direction and no one seemed to notice. Just like it was meant to be! I glanced up at the corners for video surveillance, but seeing none, I figured, Their loss, my gain! And guess what, this place has a sticker on the door advertising it's protected by some security service! Unfortunately, as we all know, most of those stickers are dummy stickers, or were genuine a long time ago until they quit the service.

I felt a little nervous leaving the facility, since it's when you exit the doors that they can actually do anything about it. Up to that point, you can plead ignorance, but for a smart guy like me, pleading ignorance isn't even believable. Anyway, I made it through the doors, shaking in my boots, my heart pounding like native drums, sweat running in rivulets down my forehead, and just for good measure I pissed my pants.

Once I got to the car, I prayed to the key, "Please start." It took a while, and I was restraining myself to keep from flooding it, but it finally rumbled into life. I kissed St. Christopher and told him I owed him one. Then it was a matter of getting out of the parking lot. I scooched down in the seat, trying to look inconspicuous. Then I was mortified to look up and see the guy from the cash register with four other disabled guys lined up against the building, frisking them. It would seem he noticed!

I didn't think I'd ever get home! Surely, I'd be pulled over and searched! But it didn't happen, thank the Lord. Speaking of whom, didn't the Lord liberate some little boy's lunch to feed the five thousand? Why, yes, He did, thank you very much!

So there they are, my hungry friends! Four liberated meal tickets! Easy as pie, which we might have tomorrow. All you have to do is print them on medium weight paper, maybe fudge the serial numbers a little, cut them out, and I'll see you there tomorrow.

But please, and I think this is important to stress, don't all of you show up tomorrow! We need to space it out and keep it on the QT, keep it on the down low, so they don't get suspicious and arrest us all!