Crime! Violence! Action! Police!

THAT’S IT, LONDON. I’ve reached my final straw. Oh dear readers, I have been the victim of a VIOLENT CRIME.

Assault? Stabbing? Gunshot wound to the ankle?

NO. WORSE.

On a cold and stormy night in a shadowy town away from the hustle and bustle of the city lights, an innocent and helpless redhead was the victim of a torturous and yet mysteriously painless PICKPOCKET.

Don’t gasp too hard, dear friends, I wouldn’t want the malevolence and shock of such a hate crime to carry over and burden you. Oh, it is enough for one such redhead alone, this is true.

The pain of recalling this incident is great; but the therapist says it will only help to talk my way through this crime. Warning to young and easily offended readers, to women and children and all whose thoughts are easily marred by the threat of such evil in this world, to bluebirds and rainbows and puppies and all whose characters are too delightful to be marked by such hatred: please, do not read the following account of the abhorrence and near-death which I have had to live through. Save yourselves! Save each other!!

(The following will be written in a third-person account to offer the most objective and unbiased retelling of events. There is no exaggeration, no conjecture here. Only, unfortunately, THE HARD AND COLD TRUTH.)

On a cold and stormy night in a shadowy… oh, wait, you’ve heard that before? Okay, fine.

A pretty, smart, funny, young redhead was off on an adventure to see a cutting-edge play in the south of London. It was an adaptation of Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, set in an old house/art center set up to look like a real, old, decrepit mansion (so Poe). The trick was that one went in and wandered about the house while the play went on around you (ooh). It took between 2 and 3 hours, depending on how long you wanted to stay, and promised to be pretty scary and pretty innovative theater-wise. Just up the redhead’s alley. Unfortunately, our bright-eyed young protagonist never got so far as to see those plans achieved, because the night took a dark, scary, unforeseen turn…

As the pretty, smart, funny, young redhead and her comrades put their names on the wait-list and then, ironically, waited, they headed to a local pub just up the street from the theater. While ordering a tall Irish cider to idle the time away, the redhead stood at the bar while the big, surly, American boys (read: scrawny English major #1 and scrawnier Theater major #2) found a table. She craned her neck to see where her bodyguards—er, friends—had gone, and after a minute or two, saw them and met them at the table. The three chatted and laughed about life, love, the pursuit of happiness, and other such worthy subjects (no, not gossip about their British friends or last week’s party, of course not) for a measly 40 minutes or so, at which point the redhead jetted to the restroom, leaving her big intimidating male friends to watch her things, and then returned ready to head to the thea-tah.

All of a sudden, the cheery, loud pub quieted, while dark, thunderous clouds rolled in and bolts of lighting began striking the tables around them. Shrieks of fear could be heard for miles!

The pretty, smart, funny, young redhead whirled around and threw out her arms,

“WAIT!” She cried helplessly. “Help!” She cried, well, even more helplessly.

But it was too late, and she knew it. The purse, which she had kept so carefully hidden on the back of her chair beneath her big, bulky, warm winter coat, was, I dare say it, an embarrasing three pounds lighter than it had been when they walked into that very pub!

The SWAT team was called, the place was searched, the bomb-sniffing dogs were all sniffed-out, but alas, there was no sign of the precious black wallet that was a beloved Christmas gift from just one year ago! The wallet, it seemed, along with our lovely young redhead’s pride, hope, dignity, innocence, and very happiness, were GONE.

Now, the pretty, smart, funny, young redhead sits alone, walletless once again (yes, for the second time in ten days) and awaits the Detectives and Investigators and Secret Service as they comb the European country side in search of her entire identity. “It doesn’t look pretty,” said the President as he phoned from the Oval Office earlier. “I know,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster, “I know.”

The tale of the fair young maiden and the virility of the crimes against humanity that she suffered should serve as a warning to all who seek to believe in the good of the world: when faced with the choice to go to a nightclub dressed in weird Euro clothes, or to go to a groundbreaking theater performance like the nerd you think you are, well, choose wisely dear friends. That choice might just be your last.

Pray for her soul! Praise God!!