You never expect to grow up and become 'that really creepy guy across the road who likes to steal hats' but occasionally these things are inevitable. It partially had to do with my inherent creepiness, and the fact that I lived across the road, with a view to my inclination for stealing people's trilbies. And stetsons. And bowlers. And mortarboards. But not fedoras, because fuck fedoras. It's not that I like to wear them, it's just that they're very expensive and my doctor assures me I'm suffering from a pretty serious hat deficiency and refused to give me a tricorn on prescription.
Some time last Tuesday, or it might have been Wednesday, or Christmas, or lunchtime, a young man knocked on my door and asked if he might come in. He sat down on a top hat and began to cry.
“Stop it. Don't make me kick you,” I said comfortingly while brandishing a chair over his head. He wiped away his tears and began to speak in a quiet voice.
“I'm sorry, it's just...I've lived on the street for three years now and....and...”
“And what?” I asked, jabbing him in the eyeball with the chair leg.
“You....you have never stolen my hat,” he replied, bursting into a fresh stream of tears. I put the chair down with a hand to my heart and began to apologise profusely, but then the man reached into his bag and pulled out a battered fedora.
“Oh,” I said.
“It's a fedora.”
“I don't steal fedoras.”
“Because people who wear fedoras are terrorists. I saw it on the news. Or possibly I dreamt it. Either way, it's true.”
“I'm not a terrorist,” the man said sadly, weeping salty, salty tears into his treasonous hat. “I watch sports and smile at kittens and occasionally do penis-related things to ladyfolk.”
“What else do you do?” I asked, intrigued.
“I sometimes convert orally inserted liquids into urine, and once I inserted aforementioned urine into a beverage container that was subsequently consumed by a friend of mine. Oh mirth! What fun we had. Except he actually died fairly rapidly since the only things I consume are scotch, Pop-Tarts and the lugubriousness of small children.”
“You know man.” I said, taking the fedora from him and stapling it to my crotch for emphasis. “I was really wrong about you.”
Bio: Danica Green lives in a cramped attic. In a tent. With no sandwiches. She spends most of her time reading, playing video games and writing things that either make no sense or are horribly, horribly depressing, though she assures you she's quite a smiley person. If you need her, you'll find her in the aforementioned attic rubbing her Dreamcast affectionately on her face or screaming obscenities at her cat. Bring sandwiches.
If you find yourself wondering about her writing, this link is probably very helpful: http://danicagreen.webs.com/ If you don't find yourself wondering about her writing, she promises she won't be too mad. And she'll forgive you. If you bring sandwiches.