Hey, You!

Peninsula: from the Latin paene (almost) and insula (island). My island. You and your buddies busted a window on Newport Boulevard and scampered off giggling. But you weren't counting on Balboa's drunken degenerate Batman. For five or six blocks, I trailed you from a distance, tried to look nonchalant, puffed on a cigarette, and sat in an empty carport while you morons took a break to incriminate yourselves by shouting about how you "fucking broke that fucking window." I thought I'd lost you at one point, but when I asked some barflies on the corner if they'd seen two guys run by, one guy replied without prompting, "Yeah, what'd they do?" Suspicious-actin' bastards.

Then came a parking lot with plenty of folk milling, but only two had baseball caps; only two weren't smiling, swaying, relaxed and drunk; only two stood there whispering to each other and twitching. After you ran to your truck, it took me two tries, but I got a cop to check you out. After they carted you off, I told the cop I hadn't actually seen you bust the window, how I kinda lost you for a bit; basically, I might have fingered the wrong perps. But you had already confessed to the cop—right after he asked why your fist was covered in blood.

To sum up today's lesson: don't run from the scene, don't talk loudly about your crimes, don't forget to wash up, and don't ever come down and fuck with my peninsula again. Soy Batman, bitches.

Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at letters@ocweekly.com.


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