Post Number Four

“White Collar Crime Wave”

After visiting that notorious international smuggler of sausagery, Michelangelo (“Mike”) Spilligan, a short while ago, my mind has wandered into wondering about who the REAL criminals are in this land of Yours and Mine. The thing that got me puzzling over this topic was an incident on the train coming back from that unwanted (by me) visit the other day. It was… nngh! (stifles a sob)

Whew, I’m… getting a bit emotional here… Just give me a tick to compose myself… before I dictate any more into this… this Blogophone… ‘Cause I really should breathe in… huhhhhh… and out… hooooo.

Done.

I think I’m ready.

See, the reason for my uncharacteristic emotions is because I was– NNGH!!  (chokes a bit) Give me another minute. (Pause) Okay… Woo! How do I… how do I start? I was a vuh… a vuh… a victim– No: a SURVIVOR– of a terrible crime on that very same train (which may as well have been called the Oriental Express, for all the murdering {more or less} that went on there). This was not just any ol’ terrible crime, either. No. This was a White Collar Crime. (That’s right. We thought we’d stamped ’em out, but they’re back.) I was shamefully dealt with by a corporate criminal who bumped me in the thigh with his brief-case. Oh, sure, he sneered a half-hearted “apology”, but by then the bruising was done.

Availing myself of that quarter of a season of amateur sporting I did as a junior, whereat I learnt the Art of Diving (I’m actually talkin’ about soccer here, not water sports), I collapsed onto the floor of the Pain Train, writhing and a-squawkin’ with agony so real that even I convinced myself that I was really wounded. So much so that I passed out.

Died, actually.

Mm-hm. Right then and there I carked it. My heart fully stopped– and it wasn’t just once, oh no. It was TWO TIMES, baby! A Doctor on the Pain Train said so (before he disembarked). Of course, I may have also died a couple more times after he disembarked, but he wasn’t there to diagnose that, so I’ll prob’ly never know.

One thing I prob’ly do know, though, is this: “Death” (for want of a better word) is not the end. Or the beginning. It’s just a vast expanse of MIDDLE. Yes, Reader, Death is nothing but MIDDLE as far as the dead person’s eye can see. I know this now, from personal experience, back in the Good Ol’ Days (or “Day”. As in, a couple days ago) at a moment when I myself was a dead person. Grab a pen an’ take notes because this is what I saw on The Other Side:

  • a Tunnel of Love;
  • a Gaggle of Relatives (many of whom, okay, aren’t actually “dead” yet);
  • the Music of the Spheres (with a few Triangles and Cylinders thrown in. For percussion);
  • and best of all, a flock of shiny-faced humanoids with wings ‘n’ haloes, who I knew by the words they spake unto me to be only one type of creature: LAWYERS.

 

And the Words (or “Word”, singular) they did speak unto me was this’n: “SUE.”

“Who’s she?” I replied unto the Word.

“It’s not a noun, dickhead,” the Golden, Heavenly Voice replied back. “It’s a verb.”

Then– because of my injury– there was a brief lull as I tried manually to get some sort of “life-before-my-eyes” flashback happening, so that I could, maybe, pause it on a school blackboard from Grade Three (or Four) where I might find out if–

“A noun is a NAMING word,” interrupted the Heavenly (and yet also rather rude) Voice, “and a verb is a DOING word.”

Of course, I would’a known that if I were in my normal, non-dead state of mind (see skilful use of word “singular” above), but in this dimension I was going through a mandatory period of brain-deadness. I gazed up at the shiny faces o’ them Legal Guardian Angels, basking in the warm glow of their shiny-ness, and said (re: the lawsuit proposal):

“Will youse guys represent me?”

To which they replied: “Course not, fuck-knuckle! We’re ANGELS.”

“Well!” I sniffed, quietly. “Don’t lawyers have a high opinion of ’emselves these days?”

It was (approximately) at this point that I came spinning back into my flesh body, waking up (roughly) where I’d fallen down temporarily dead. When I lifted my head and looked around, what I saw was a flock of strange new humanoid faces, completely unlike the strange old ones that were on the train before I died. I was feelin’ mighty uneasy about this. I mean, the old passengers I saw pre-death were strangers– but they’d been strangers to me for longer than the new passengers. Which meant I felt as though I didn’t know them less than how much I didn’t know the new strangers. Worst of all was the absence of one particular stranger: namely, the CORPO-CRIM (whatever his name was) who (briefly) murdered me with his brief-case. Where on this– or any other– Earth did that white collar hoodlum go?

The word on the train was that he “alighted” on some platform– which, if true, means we can add ARSON to his rap sheet! The man was clearly a serial offender because– right before his act of arson about the platform– he bumped and ran, leaving me there amongst a newer, stranger bunch’a strangers, who it seems had no interest at all in Vigilante Justice. I discovered their apathy when I tried organizing those passengers into a posse, then having them spread out at each stop along the Whipping-Norton Line for the rest of the day, but the DIS-organized rabble just got off the train, seemingly at random.

Try as I may, I just couldn’t convince those commuters that a dangerous Crim like him should ever be allowed to roam free. And certainly not when he’s brandishing a weapon of thigh-torture like that brief-case. Oh yes, I’m happy to admit this now: the word “lynching” did get bandied about (by me). Too harsh? Well, if you need a bit of Thigh Witness Evidence, then I can show you a seriously big bruise I’m now sporting on that particular body part. Once you’ve seen that, you might not be so quick to play Judge ‘n’ Jury when it comes to my vigilante-ism! Because the evidence I mentioned (above) would strongly suggest that baggage like his brief-case definitely can (wait for it)– PACK– a punch!!

¡OLÉ!

But seriously, I think if society is to do something about the White Collar Crime Wave these days, then we really have to make sure that not just anyone can get his hands on a brief-case.

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