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.
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