A kleptomaniac is a person who can’t help but steal and they could almost be forgiven for it. Me, well, I’m a thieving bastard. I don’t have to steal, I don’t need to, but I like to. I don’t have any excuses ether. An excuse would suggest that i felt in some way guilty, which I don’t. Not me, if a shop or store doesn’t have the right security or some sod doesn’t have his wallet in his inside pocket, well they pay stupid tax. About 3 years ago, was taking a walk along the high street when I noticed a new shop had opened. It was a small brick’a’abrak shop full of the normal old furniture, paintings time pieces and old coins you would expect to find in such a place. Walking in I noted only one old man behind the desk and after a few minutes, concluded he was the entirety of the staff.
It was time for me to have a little fun. I found a small pocket watch which felt old, cast iron and almost industrious. “That will do” I thought turning to see that the lone shop keep was even kind enough to have his back to me.
Think about it here he is. He’s new in town, just opened shop and won’t even acknowledge his first customer. Well his tuff luck I thought as I pocketed the watch and calmly strolled to the door.
I think the phrase is blunt force trauma, but I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that getting a big oak table leg wrapped round the back of my head was both blunt and more than a bit traumatic.
I was probably only down for a minute or two but by the time I was back on my feet and bit more with it , the shop owner was between me and the door, holding the biggest soding knife I’ve ever seen.
“lad, you wanna make sure you know who you’re stealing from before you try. You out that watch in your pocket in clear sight of my little camera here “he pointed to where he had previously stood when, I thought, he could not see me. Pointing at the wall he revealed a security camera pointing right at the spot ware I had pocketed the watch.
“You even walked slow enough for me to turn the camera off and grab something to lump you with, you silly little git”
I was caught, good and proper. I asked the shop owner in, I must confess, a very pathetic voice, if he had called the police. He replied in a softer voice this time
“Son, I’ve got you red handed and on tape. Here’s the deal son. I have a close friend who is the parish priest of the church up the top of the high street. What I want you to do is to go to confession. Tell him, not just about today but about all you’re sins and carry out you’re pennants. I will call him to sat he should expect you there tonight at nine.”
The shop keeper, an old greying man, but being over six five with a big frame and also a massive knife, had given me a pass. All I had to do was go to confession, tell the priest my sins and knock out a few hail marry. Well I agreed, we amazingly exchanged a polite good bye and I was out.
Thinking about what happened made me laugh as I walked home. It had been just under a year since the last time I was caught and, instead of spending a few months all expenses paid in one of her majesty’s lovely prisons all I had to do was an evening down the church.
Nine O’clock rolled round and I found myself sitting in the small confession booth. It took priesty boy forever to begin… well for ten minutes at least I could feel his gaze through the crosshatched patrician in the booth. I’ll be honest, it was a little unnerving.
Eventually, he spoke.
“You may begin when you are ready my son” at that moment in time for some reason, the shop owner’s words came to my mind and I decided to have some fun.
“Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been 18 years since my last confession.” At the 20 minute mark I could tell old priesty boy was getting more and more inpatient for me to finish confessing in vivid detail every time I had stolen.
I ended at the 80 minute mark, feeling quite content at being able to gloat, sorry, confess about all my sins to someone who was duty bound to sit and listen.
“Is that all my son?” he spat out in a far less content voice.
“Yes father it is” I replied in a chirpy smug voice. “Now how many prayers is all that gonna set me back?” I asked.
And well mate, that’s when it all went a bit mental. The priest opened the patrician and stared at me for a minute or so, eyes squinting and face screwed up in, what I thought was temper. He held out his right hand and said
“Take this my son” handing me a black stoned rosary.
“Your pennants are within these beads and will take you five years”
I laughed, counting that there were 60 beads and what I guess was supposed to be our Jesus at the bottom.
“So what, I have to say one prayer a month or 60 prayers a day? What prayers am I meant to say any way, the our father hail marry, the glory be?” I asked the priest putting the rosary on around my neck.
Old priesty boy’s face slowly began to unscrew and his eyes began to widen. His mouth turned from a scowl into a grin and it scared me to my very soul.
The priest, now adopting a sarcastically quizzical tone said.
“Glory be? hail marry? No no no my son. Prayer has no place here nor does the virgin mother the saints the savour or the father.” As the words left his, out hi began to feel the beads of the rosary became coarse they I, in vain, tried to remove the now stuck fast chain.
“The trinity and its angels and there prayer and there mercy are no longer for you my son.”
Have you ever felt so scared that it felt almost like a fire spreading up through your veins from your chest out to your limbs, the bass line shot of terror that hits you in an instant of shock but instead of fading holds tight its grip on you, almost pushing your blood vessels to burst under the pressure? Well that’s how I felt. Fighting the bile, courting the base of my throat I managed to ask.
“So… what are my pennants?” The priest coldly put his hand on my shoulder.
“Once a month you must kill somebody. And not just anybody, it must be someone who has shown you kindness. You must kill them and bring me their hart”
Now maybe my fear hit critical mass, maybe my survival instincts began to kick in or maybe I am in deed just a bastard but after he told me this I began to think in a logical ,sadistic, but logical way. I was still scared but my logical thoughts were telling me I was in no position to get myself out of this, if the ever burning feeling on my chest coming from the beads were as immovable as they felt.
And with that being the case I thought I’d better get the ground rules for this set up clear.
I took a deep, laboured breath and began to ask priesty boy a few questions.
Four questions to be exact.
My first question was “what what would constitute an act of kindness?” the priest answered that it could be anything from a doctors treatment to a kind word.
My second question was “who exactly is the figure on the base of the rosary as I’m pretty sure by now it’s not Jesus”. The priest answered “that son is your new lord. Our lord and you would do well to hold him in reverence. The third question I asked was “what happens to me if I fail?” his eyes lit up with sadistic glee as he answered. “each of the beads on your chest are as you by now are aware of , are now embedded to your chest, they will continue to embed themselves further and further into your chest until they reach your hart and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what will happen when they do. Not to worry too much so my son. They will take five years to reach your hart but for every hart you bring to me one of the beads will drop out of the chain and out of your chest harmlessly. The chain and the symbol of our lord however will remain. Harmless but forever with you. And my son to answer your question. If you should fail than you will be before the lord himself and will have to answer to him. Let me warn you my son our lord has no time for compassion or second chances.
Well that sure as hell cleared that up didn’t it? For a minute or two I stood before the priest and simply wept. Wept of the hopeless of my situation. Cried for my fate. Hot wet tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of the fate that awaited me should I fail in this horrid hellish task. After that though I think I must had cracked. I felt hopeless, resigned to my fate and the only thought left in my head was ‘I’m sure I can make something from this’ with this thought I asked my last question “So, if you just want the heart, can I have the rest? Their money, valuables and all that?”
Old priesty boy smiled and said “my son, all I want is the hart, once I have that investigate their death, or even remember the wretched soul, so by all means take what you want.”
The priest gave to me a small wooden box. The box was ebony and had a latched lock, a red velvet lining and a plain wooden handled knife inside. My last instructions before I left were that I was to return within four weeks with a human hart within the box, the hart had to be cut from the body with this knife and this knife alone. Old priesty boy assured me that once the hart was in his possession then there would be no repercussions for the murder and as he stated before, what I did with the human and material remains were of no interest to him.
The first one was hard. I had to keep my, now counterproductive, humanity in check whist I found someone to be kind enough to me that would allow me to kill them. It took me two weeks of thinking and nerve building to do my first.
Homes shelter. I arrived unshaven, cloths ripped and stinking to high heaven. The man at the desk asked if I needed any help and was more than kind enough to show me to where I could bed for the night. I slept in the shelter for three nights, in the stench and the lowliness of humanity’s wretches. I hated them. Too stupid or too proud to steal but pathetic enough to beg at some masters table. Two days and nights I was there. That’s how long it took me to work out the desk workers shifts and where he parked his car. Two days to work out where he lived, I’m not bad at this.
He was an old short man; he had such a warm and caring smile. He folded like cheap lawn furniture when I belted him with the handle of my knife. He had just unlocked his door and was halfway through the thresh hold when I did it. Seconds it took before I was in inside door closed and locked behind us. Kicked him in the jaw first, couldn’t have him making noise now could I. After a few boots he passed out and I got the box open and ready. I cut his throat and left him to bleed out whilst I searched his house for money or something to fence. £300 and a gold watch. Not bad. Now if you think anything like me I’m sure you are thinking two questions and I will answer them both.
Firstly yes I did leave him to bleed out so the hart would not be beating and there would be less chance of botching the removal. Clever
Secondly, no I didn’t think to get his atm card and pin before I cut his throat. Stupid.
But it was only my first. I knew better for next time.
The second one. Gain a homeless shelter. This time I only had to endure the place for one night before following the nice young volunteer home. He must have been in his late twenties; I think mummy and daddy must had been paying his was for his whole life because he had a very smart flat that was within walking distance. Now I’m not having a pop at the little git for being a pampered rich kid. Hell it meant I got £700 cash from his flat and £2,100 from his atm card throughout the week. This second one got me thinking though. No not about the evil of it all, I’ve told you I don’t have excuses, if people don’t check behind them when they unlock there door or don’t know how to disarm a man with a knife, well, they pay stupid tax. No it got me thinking that I should be hitting richer people, what the priest had told me about the lack or repercussions were right. I’m even still living in my 8th victims’ house as we speak typing this out. What I had to do was find a way of getting very well off people to be just, a little kind to me. Then i could cut out there hart and harvest their wealth
The answer was easey. Manners. People are so stupid for manners. Its can just be a “thank you” for holding a door open or getting on the bus with a crutch and somebody giving up there seat for me, although I’ll be honest, bus kills are not very profitable. But manly i hit the big posh hotels, or hospitals, alot of money in hospitals. Docters find it hard to refuse helping people. Doctors are the jackpot. 15 hr shift, follow them home and there far too tired to put up a fight. I love doctors so careing, so kind. So rich and easey and weak and as pathetic as the rest of them.
You may think I’m a bastard but you have to admit, I can make the most of a bad situation. Truth is now I wouldn’t change this life for the world. I get to steal, kill and never have to worry about the law even looking for me let alone catching me. Now i treat it like a job. But the kind of job you wake up in the morning and you can’t wait to get to. I love the feeling of cold steel piercing weak flesh, the gurgle in the throat and I’m so close to being able to look at the pathetic ‘why me’ expression on their faces without feeling hatred for them. Close but not there yet.
Now then I’m nearing the end of my little confession I will answer the question that by now you must be asking yourself. Why the confession. The answer is simple. Ego. I am now the words greatest thief…and NOBODY knows about it. But anyway that’s my cross to bear. We mustn’t grumble at life’s hardships now must we?
Thank you, by the way for, taking time out of your life to read my little chunk of memoirs.
It was very kind of you.
You have been.
Credit To – cockneypasta
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