Hurtling through the automatic doors of the convenience store on a mission for salty snacks and any other munchies which would ease my wheezing body along to it’s inevitably cholesterolic climax, I immediately collided with a character who looked like he was ready to rape me with the bottle of Coke grasped in his left hand.
‘Crap,’ I apologised. ‘Sorry, man.’ He frowned at me, as if judging the authenticity of my remark, then lurked off towards the corner of the store which housed congealed hot dogs and the like.
As I navigated towards the rear of the store in search of lemonade, the man continued to scuttle around the store with no apparent destination. As he scooted past me, I noticed with alarm that he was wearing a tie-dyed pair of white jeans. With a shirt and tie. Still, the nineties were just the sixties turned upside down, so this may have been a performance artist at work.
Hoping he’d urinate on something to confirm my artistic suspicions, I curiously followed him around into to the newspaper area. Unfortunately, no bodily fluids were forthcoming.
As he conducted an imitation of a small dove being released into the wilderness, flying headlong into the Microwavable Meals area and embracing it with arms flung open; the elderly lady manning the cash register motioned urgently at me with a wrinkled finger. Her arthritis caused her finger to click each time she motioned at me, causing an effect which sounded not entirely dissimilar to the beat of a Craig David song.
Suspiciously, I approached her. She crouched down underneath a festive-looking Chupa Chups display, utilising her jowls to camouflage herself as a confectionery-enhanced frilled neck lizard.
‘That guy over there,’ she nodded towards the suspicious fellow darting around the store, who now appeared to be intently studying a large pack of marshmallows. ‘He’s up to no good. Can you keep an eye on him? Our closed circuit TV is, uh… temporarily inoperational,’ she whispered.
‘Oh?’ I replied, having intended to enter the store without being required to utilise my detective skills. Those childhood hours whiled away on What The Fuck Is Carmen Sandiego Nicking Now? had at last become fruitful, I realised.
‘I can see most aisles from that reflective mirror on the top of the far wall,’ she explained. ‘I just don’t have fantastic vision. If he’s doing anything suspicious, give me a wave.’ Sure, and then you can bring him to his knees with a swift roundhouse, I thought.
‘No problem, ma’am,’ I had intended to reply confidently in a booming masculine voice. As tends to happen in moments such as these, my throat dried up and all I could manage was a quiet ‘meep’. Hanson was falling to pieces without me at that very moment.
Noticing the dodgy man dart into an area stocked with biscuits, I immediately composed myself into the pretence of shopping for Kingstons. The dodgy man was eyeing a pack of Iced Vo-Vo’s and reached into the shelf, then swiftly inserted it down his pant leg in one swift practised movement.
Urgently, I swung around to the mirror and motioned wildly towards the lady at the counter. Frowning, she shrugged in confusion.
Pointing at the man, I then directed her attention towards his trousers. Looking back at me, she continued her puzzled look, obviously not having realised the man had begun his stealing so quickly.
I motioned towards my crotch, slapping it with both hands. This caused her face to darken and purse her lips in anger. I shook my head, pointed at the back of the man in the biscuit aisle, then to my inner thigh, then the biscuits.
‘That’s disgusting!’ she cried out loud.
‘Iced Vo-Vo’s!’ I shrieked in protest, and prepared to scamper away from the character in the aisle next to me. The fruit and veg section looked as if it could offer some protection.
The lady at the counter made an understanding ‘Oooh’ sound in realisation, and whacked a button underneath her desk. A loud siren commenced wailing.
Scampering towards the stunned character in the biscuit aisle, she applied pressure to his neck and immediately brought him to his knees. I was most impressed. ‘Give up the biscuits!’ she shrieked, and the man withdrew a slightly folded pack of Iced Vo-Vos along with a large amount of confectionery from his sweaty trousers.
‘Thank you,’ she nodded to me. ‘Have some Iced Vo-Vo’s on the house,’ she awarded.
Looking at the marshmellowesque, biscuity mess which had melted inside the man’s jeans, I thought it best to decline her offer.
Leaving the store, I strode down the pavement for fifteen minutes in full confidence that I’d saved the day. It was when my stomach began complaining that I realised I’d forgotten to purchase my lunch. By now, it was too late – but such is the life of a petty crimefighter.