The Butter Thief, Chapter Three

“So?” Jenny asked. “Will you do it?”

“You know what you’re asking is insanely difficult,” the slightly obese, balding man told her in his heavy New Jersey accent.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Look,” he advised, “I can’t help you, but I know someone who can. They call her the Butter Thief. A thief among thieves, she is. Almost a legend, ya know? I mean, getting’ to her might be hard, but she can handle this, easy.”

“I don’t usually work with women,” Jenny said. “I find them… deceitful.”

The man laughed at this. “Well, then you’re straight outta luck. She’s the only one I know of who could do this.”

“Maybe. How can I get in touch?”

“Oh, honey,” he guffawed. “I don’t know the women! Don’t know anyone who do. Although, if you’re desperate…” He observed her.

“Fine,” Jenny resigned. “It’s a big job. Lots of money at stake.”

“Hang on,” he told her. “I’ve got to get my computer to show you.” He walked into the back room of the dusty pawn shop. A minute later he returned, holding a laptop. “Lemme just… One minute, okay? Slow internet… And there you go.” He swiveled the laptop on the counter to face her. “It’s a news thing from yesterday,” he said.

A news anchor woman stared at Jenny from the video playing. “Two weeks ago, a man, Jeremy Hendricks, who went by the aliases of Liam Johnson and Ben Warrington, was arrested for stealing a large collection of coins six months ago that are valued at three million dollars. He has since been charged of other thefts, as well as being the accomplice in a murder. The most recent theft, which also involved the murder, happened a mere sixteen days ago. The investigation into that crime unearthed a massive slavery ring. He almost always had partners to assist him, and he has turned them all in. All but one, that is. The police have released a statement saying, “He calls her the Butter Thief. He will not name her out of fear for his life. We believe that this is a valid claim because he has been otherwise cooperative. This woman is a high-profile criminal. We have been investigating into the matter, and will continue to do so.” If you have any information about this woman, please call-”

Jenny stopped the video. She glanced at the grinning man and back at the computer. “And that’s the only person you know of?”

“The only one,” he replied.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep searching.”

“No! Don’t you get it?” he asked. “This Jeremy guy, he might be able to tell you.”

“I’m afraid that even if he did, it wouldn’t help me. The Butter Thief,” she said, stifling a laugh, “is someone who I’ve already asked. Sure, she can do it, but she’s occupied for the moment. Thanks for your time, though.”

Jenny walked along the street, thinking about how odd it was that now the whole world knew her name, instead of only the exemplary thieves the had at one point collaborated with.

HoboCon 2011

     Yesterday was a grand day. Yesterday was… HoboCon 2011!!!
     We three hoboes were reunited. It was a touching moment, filled with excited blabbering, awkward hugs (from me, the only person who could ever rival Voldemort), multiple outbursts of violent fake-fencing, and bickering. Ah, you would have cried!
     Not only did Bebo and Hugo come over to my beautiful box, but so did Lenard! As well as two other, as yet unnamed individuals. I expect that you will know them quite soon. The only exception at this glorious festival was the Dancing Dwarf, who was doing something…. Maybe that thing?
     Might I say that Bebo and Hugo are terrible at croquet. I believe Bebo only succeeded in not losing to his Hugoian counterpart because of his having cheated. Twice (that I’m aware of). And this was the easy course. Dear goodness, if I had set up the usual extreme course I like to play with my family, I am firm in my belief that those two would still be out there, probably at the third… loopy-stuck-in-the-ground thing… My, aren’t I articulate?
     Oh, yes! Speaking of family, my sister was in attendance. She would probably prefer to go unnamed as she was a bit surprised at the shocking lack of decorum and direction in what we said. But, HA! Oh, just believe me when I say, she was thoroughly entertained. At one point I left her with Hugo in the kitchen to show Lenard and company a story I was writing about our adventures we’ve had. After roughly ten minutes, I jolted up in my bed, realizing I had left those two alone! Needless to say, we all rushed back to them to unexpectedly find that they were doing just fine without us. But before that, it was a chaotic, scary moment… 
     At one point Hugo played a beautiful piano piece he himself composed. He’s a hobo of all trades…
     Sadly, Bebo and company had to leave early due to animal things. Then, a couple hours later, after eating a plentiful dinner, Hugo too left. After a game of badminton, my sister left to play a rambunctious game called soccer, or futbol in other places. Yes, that sport. How I long to play… Soon after, I grabbed my magical camera, and began taking pictures of Lenard and company on the rope swing. How I wish I had grabbed it sooner… Did you know that a rope swing in motion, with someone on it is a prime target for photographing? It is. Even I looked rather debonair and dashing in a couple pictures, if I do say so myself. And Lenard? Far too photographic. He should be a model… A newspaper model! Yes, I will have to speak to him about that… Oh, and then those two left. It’s not like they’re still here, or anything… I hope… With that big, scary, unmarked van…
     Ah, the rope swing. Not only is it great for photos, but it also works well when one wants to get in an exercise. I’m still sore! Either that or…
     BEBO, YOU ARE DEAD IF YOU GAVE ME THAT PESKY FLUENZA!
     Hope you’re all not dying in this heat like I am (and no one else seems to be…).
     Awkward hugs and kickses,
   Joe
     P.S. I’ve been told to post ahead of those lazy bums. So I’ll get to that soon. Honestly, I don’t know how they even function without me…

The Butter Thief, Chapter Two

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

            “I’m not happy, Liam,” she said.
            “You’re funeral was poorly attended,” Liam said, facing the same direction as her, looking out at the sun setting on the edge of the Pacific ocean. 
            “I wasn’t expecting anything else.”
            “Charlotte,” Liam began, but the young woman cut him off.
            “Charlotte Wilson is dead,” she said without emotion. “Don’t forget that.”
            “Who are you, then?”
            “For now, I will be Jenny Hark. She’s only wanted in France and Armenia.”
            “False identities get confusing,” Liam groaned. 
            Jenny turned on him and said sharply, “Don’t you dare complain about false identities! I had to kill someone today because your plan was full of holes!”
            “And I’m sorry about that,” he said, “but you still got away! And what does it matter? It’s not like he’s your first.”
            “I’m not an assassin, Liam! I am a thief. I only ever use a gun if it’s in the plan, and only if I  approve it.”
            “You’re right,” he sighed.
            “Of course I am. And that, Liam, is why I am going to have to leave you.”
            “Char-Jenny!” Liam exclaimed. “I’m your partner! You can’t just leave me!”
            “Of course I can,” she said, bending down to grab two backpacks. “Here’s your half of the money.”

“So that’s it?” Liam asked. “We just go our separate ways?”

“Yes. I can’t risk being a part of your lopsided plans anymore, or your inane excuses,” Jenny told him. “Don’t ever let me see you again.” She tossed him one of the backpacks, then walked off.

*

Two weeks had passed since Jenny had departed ways with Liam. In the short span of time, Jenny had traveled across the country to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and had begun research on a new heist. Of course, she still had to find a partner to help as the job was a bit more complex, but that would not be a problem for her. She knew a guy who knew a guy who would be perfect for the job and who could really use the money she could offer him. If things went according to plan, she would be on a plane to Belize in another week.

*

Liam sighed to himself. He had always done things haphazardly. Even though his plans were not always terribly good ones, he had gotten away with every singe one, until that night, at least. Perhaps Jenny had been smart in leaving him, although at the time he believed that it had been because she had to kill a man, albeit a very corrupt one who was heavily involved with slavery. No, she had left him because the man’s murder was not in her plans, and if things could go askew like that, she had realized that she might one day get caught, just like he had.

“Please, Liam,” the policeman said calmly. “Any help you can give us about your past partner would greatly help your case.”

“Even if I felt like cooperating,” Liam laughed, “I’d be in danger. My... partner has a lot of power.”

The officer frowned. “I can’t promise anything, but it might be possible for you to enter Witness Protection.”

Liam smirked. The day he met Jenny, she had threatened to hunt him down if he ever talked to authorities about her hobbies. About a week later, when they were a bit closer, they were relating past stories. She had told him about a past villain she had faced who tried to testify against a past partner of hers. He was well protected by Witness Protection. On the car ride to the courthouse, he had mysteriously disappeared, only to turn up a couple months later, refusing to go onto the stand.

“I’d rather not,” Liam answered. “Not only do I know that she would find and slaughter me, but I have too much respect for her. Here’s what I can tell you: in a very small ring of the more elite thieves, she is known as the Butter Thief.”

Of Murdering Dead Bodies

  Some things truly boggle the mind.  There are, of course, different levels of bogglement; for instance, the brutal murder of an innocent gummy bear is a very innocuous and easily discerned bogglement:  after all, the gummy bear is stupendously delicious, and one cannot really prevent oneself from finding it irresistible to the palate. Other things, however, fall into (or rise onto?) the very highest levels of bogglement.  The foggiest, most boggling and bewildering event which has ever befallen me, your humble servant (or would I be an informant?), was unquestionably the circumstance which precipitated me into my present condition of lifelong imprisonment. 

  "It is she!"  the butler shrieked as I quietly entered the drawing room in which my mother's half brother's youngest son's household was gathered.  I was rather taken aback by his hysterical mein--the poor man had left off his usual quiet butling and was standing dramatically in the center of the room with his clothes askew, his hair straggling limply past his ears, his face blanched, and a smashed teapot clutched in his left hand--but I am well-known for my ability to remain polite under the most adverse of circumstances.

  "Yes, James," I agreed pleasantly.  "It is I."

  This reassuring and eminently genteel speech apparently had the opposite effect than I had intended it to, for no sooner had I uttered it than James collapsed onto the expensive burgundy rug with a loud thump and a strangled squawk, and lay there unmoving during all that followed.  I turned in utter bewilderment to the assembled family of--for the sake of convenience, let us call him--my cousin, who had been sitting like a waxwork display of a socio-economically fortunate English family dressed in mourning captured in a moment of horror and consternation.  Since the entire lot of them looked rather gormless with--whatever emotion they were gormless with--and not one had made a move to help the stricken man, I chose to ignore them, and bustled forward and knelt beside James to ascertain the cause of his infirmity.  My motion broke the spell of immobility that lay upon the socio-economically fortunate waxworks exhibit, and they stirred with life.

  "Do not touch him, you fiend of Satan!"  This odd and rather offensive remark was made by my cousin, Sir Diggory Wallace Crimswaggle IV, and, although none could ever say that he was an intelligent man, he certainly had excellent manners and a very kind and social (and not terribly religious) heart, and we had always been on the best of terms; therefore, I was exceeding astonished that he should make such an aggressively antagonizing remark, and, perhaps, even more astonished that it would be addressed to me.  At first I believed that he had been addressing another.

   Next moment, however, Sir Diggory's wife, the Honourable Lady Blanche-Maria Rivershall Crimswaggle, removed all doubt that my own cousin, whom I loved like a simpleminded younger brother, had just called me a fiend of Satan.  Although Milady was just as simple as her husband, she had rather more imagination, due to spending all of her waking hours not devoted to pleasant social engagements and the arrangement of her elaborate toilette in reading lurid Gothic novels.

  "Indeed, Miss Dorice Perywinsel!"  Her voice was a soprano scream, edged with hysteria and a hint of vindictiveness.  "Have the pits of Hades grown dull to you?  Must you now come and steal away all of our loved ones?"  So saying, she theatrically turned on her youngest child, a very small lad of ten summers, and clasped him to her capacious bosom.

  An inkling of the truth began to dawn on me. "Why, Blanche-Maria," I began.

  "Lady Crimswaggle to you!" she howled over the blonde head of the child she was affectionately suffocating.  He kept making little mews of distress and struggling futilely to free himself, but she was too occupied with glaring at me ferociously to notice these signs of discomfort.

  I rolled my eyes.  "Well, then, Lady Crimswaggle, I am afraid that you are labouring under a misapprehension.  Your dear late father-in-law had already--ah--passed on when I arrived here last night.  In fact, he had, if you will recall, been dead for two days.  Therefore, this accusation on your part, that I am robbing you of your loved ones, is entirely misplaced."

  Milady stared enraged daggers at me, her pleasant, round face contorted, her cosmetics streaked with passionate tears, her double chins quivering.  Pushing away her squirming, red-faced child (little William flopped over and lay gratefully gasping on the divan), she struggled to extricate herself and her skirts from her seat, and, succeeding, rose and took a step toward me.  I rose as well, to take full advantage of the difference in our heights (I am nearly six feet tall, and Milady is only five foot four), as well as to mitigate the awkwardness of holding a discussion while kneeling beside the supine form of an unconscious butler.  We stood beside the fallen body of poor James, toe-to-toe, two middle-aged women dressed in jetty garments, like provincial performers playing before an audience of statues.  Gormless, breathing statues.

  Then, Milady threw down the cause of all my present mind-boggling grief, the accusation which led to such unbelievably senseless suffering.

  "Oh, you can't fool me with that glib tongue of yours.  You think that you are so much better than we, with your education and your sophisticated literary tastes.  Well, you haven't fooled us.  We have seen through your lies.  We know that you killed Papa after he was dead."

 

~Hugo

Of secrets....

Nobody should know this. Not even you. Then why do I tell you? You know the reason. You know that demise will surely follow all confessions I let fill your ears, and it is because of this, you do not attempt to escape. Ah, my secrets. So many of them, all a different shade of black or grey. I can see them now as they dance out of my mouth, filling the room with a kaleidolscope of tormented colors. I would close my eyes if I thought you would not try to escape, and just revel in this freedom. I find that I can breathe. I CAN breathe. It has been so long, but now...Without the burden of choking down my secrets, I find that air is once again my friend. I hate to do this to you. Through your restraintment, I have found independance. But you know. The privaledged information that fled my lips has entered your ears, and that cannot be undone. If only I could let you fly like a bird freed from its cage, and not have to worry that you would betray my confidence, I would set you free. But it is too late to even think of such things. How dare you force me to contemplate letting you jepordize all I have worked for? You have tricked me! With your quiet stillness, it had seemed that even my very heart that stopped beating for a moment. But now it beats again, pumping my hatred through my veins once more. Where are my plans? Dancing in the rays of sunlight that stream through the crack in the wall. Call them back! Return to me, oh my dark anticipations. Come, let us join forces once more. The war can begin again!

With a loud battle cry, the man picked up the gummy bear and bit its head off. It did not scream, struggle. How easy that was, thought the man, now no one will ever know my secrets.....

I really hate to sign my name here
bebo

The Butter Thief

    “It all started with butter,” she told the man. “I was very young when this all began. I was but two years of age. I was the first grandchild on my father’s side. As such, I was treated like a porcelain doll. I was a rather smart child, you know. I could see that what baby wanted, baby got, one way or the other. I was manipulative, even in the age of innocence. I pushed the limits further than most would even dream of doing! Oh, I was living life to perfection. But before I perfected my methods, my life, I had to realize I had it in me to do such rash, conniving things.
    “Butter was my favorite thing as a little girl. It was so creamy and scrumptious. I would eat it plain if I could. I would lick it off of my toast, or scrape it off of my potatoes. One day I had a delightful idea. I would just sneak into the dining room, and snatch the whole cube of butter of the table! It took me a few tries, but in the end, I was successful. Five or so minutes later, from a hiding spot in the living room, I heard some confusion coming from the dining room. My parents were flabbergasted.

Where did the butter go? Mommy dearest asked.

As if I would know. You know that I’m lactose intolerant! Father exclaimed.

Then there was silence. I knew they had figured it out. So, like any intelligent child would do, I crawled out of my secret spot, sat down on a miniature chair, wiped some of the butter around my face, and put on a giant smile.

Oh, how adorable! Mother cooed.

She’s definitely your daughter, Dad laughed.

“I repeated the incident at different establishments. No one suspected that I was capable of planning such a thing! No, see, I was the good, absolutely adorable, little girl. That was the trick. I didn’t look like a mastermind. No one knew of my devious  ways. I was about seven before my parents realized what I had been doing. That I had manipulated them throughout childhood. After that, they became a lot more intelligent about my games. I was watched closely, yet they never knew that they were wrapped around my finger. My every whim was their delight. Sadly, everything must come to an end. When I left for college, an ex boyfriend of mine informed my parents of my ways. We have rarely talked to each other since. And now, Mr. Holloway, I must inform you that you too have an end. Goodbye, Mr. Holloway,” she said.

“No, wait!” he cried out. “Plea-”

She pulled the trigger. “The end.”

Joe

Attempt the Second

    Guess who lost the blog post that he attempted to post on Thursday but failed dismally in so doing?  Yep!  That's right!  Your accuity, O Readers of this frivolous blog, is truly a wondrous thing.  Yes, I, Hugo of Horrible character, temperament, and manners, am the guilty party.  And guess what else?  Wow!  Right again!  You are absolutely correct: you will never know what that lost blog post said, because I have forgotten most of it.  Oh, I know, I  know, you don't have to tell me that I am simply the most talented and  skillful hobo blogger alive.  I've known it for years.
    On Thursday (NOT to change the subject or anything), the very day of the fateful Lost Post, my kitten, the Fiend, experienced her very first birthday.  I would say "celebrated her very first birthday," but that might be a bit of a stretch...  At any rate, she is now one year old.  We are all astonished!  That my little Evil One should actually live that long, despite her personality, friends, psychological irregularities, and rather deranged tendencies, is wonderful!  Amazing!  Extraordinary!  She doesn't seem to think so, however, and I must admit that her behavior has not altered in the slightest (although she DID lick my ankles the other evening when I was about to get out of bed, and that was odd, but it was not any odder than her usual oddity, so I don't think that it counts). 
    The other day (don't you think that my transitions are stunning?  I think that I deserve a reward of some sort, and perhaps an honorary title such as "The Great Hobo-Father of Remarkably Smooth Transitions" or "He Who Makes the Post Flow Well" or some such thing), I realized why I love being a hobo so much: it is very like being a hobbit.  Since I am fairly certain that the Dancing Dwarf is the only one of my Readers who has Read The Lord of the Rings, this will be over most of y'all's heads.  Unless you have Read The Hobbit.  At any rate, I have wanted to be a hobbit for a very long time.  The idea of living in a hobbit-hole, going barefoot all the time, and being about three feet tall just makes me grin with delight.  Who doesn't want to be a hobbit?  Even hobos could have fun as hobbits.  After all, three feet is just the most handy height.  It is definitely better than the caterpillar's three inches in Alice in Wonderland... 
    Speaking of Alice in Wonderland, I recently re-read it, as well as its companion, Through the Looking Glass.  I began at the beginning, and went on until I came to the end, but then I did not stop, because I was too busy laughing over the passage in Through the Looking Glass where the White King says, "I did not say that there is nothing better [than eating hay when one is faint].  I said that there is nothing like it." Wonderful!  They are the sort of stories that just get funnier the more often you read them.  And if, like me, you find that to be tear-jerkingly hilarious (some of you will get that later), you really ought to read The Hunting of the Snark:  "And he softly and silently vanished away, For the Snark was a Boojum, you see."  Ah, me.
    Anyway.  What was I saying?  Oh, well, it doesn't matter.  I have a paper to write for Economics.
~Hugo