over_here's photostream

Potentially dangerous scenario here:

Brainy, creative geezer snags Fuji S5200 at Can't Refuse price, and to his amazement, immediately knows, thanks to his fund of arcane, mythic knowledge, it is no camera at all, but the long-lost, fission-fueled, automorphing palpinghast of Frobus Flathead the Twisted, Great Suffering Potentate of the Ultra-Vulgates.

This is not good.

To be continued....

* * *
Update #1

As I surreptitiously observe the KosmodemoniK Kamera KiosK for one week, I determine that an egregiously overpriced Pentax K10D stands unattended on the display counter beside the exit at precisely 10:07 each day while the price-gouging sales KlerK pours her mid-morning java.

Since I'm passionate about saving maltreated K10Ds, I sneak in there at 10:07 on the eighth day, slip the camera into my backpack and effect a successful rescue!

Until the damn KlerK notices the camera's gone, that is.

"What happened to that Pentax?" she demands, banging down her coffee mug like a law of Jahooba.

Her iron tone freezes me in place like a snowman as I sidle toward the exit, six feet distant.

"I beg your pardon?" I respond, neutral.

"You heard me, old man. That K10D was right here. I turned my back for five seconds and it disappeared."

"Actually," I correct her, "you turned your back for precisely 11.7 seconds, including the time you took to stir the sugar and toxic chemical cream substitute into your coffee."

"Are you trying to be funny? An expensive DSLR is missing here."

"My goodness. Perhaps it fell into an interdimensional rift?"

"It fell into your backpack, more like."

"You're accusing me of thievery?"

"What do you think?" she says, reddening. "You've been hanging around for days like a bad odour, and right now you're the only other person present."

"It's my way of comparative shopping."

Recovering my muscle function, I step toward the exit.

"Stop right there!" she orders.

That iron voice.

I halt once more, involuntarily.

Will I ever escape?

"You stole that camera," she yells, jabbing her acquisitive finger across the countertop like a ripe carrot. "Admit it."

"I admit nothing."

She leans toward me now, snatching. "Give me that backpack."

I duck away. "Certainly not. As a practicing Jahoobite, I am beholden only to Jahooba."

Breathing hard, she leans back and raps the display case hard with her knuckles.

bap bap.

Then, muttering, she punches the buttons on her cell phone. "Enough. I'm calling the authorities."

beep beep boop beep beep

"Police? Yes, there's a witless old drunk in my store who has just--" Gaping at me now, she slams the phone onto the countertop and shouts at me. "What do you think you're doing?"

"When aggressors confront us, we Jahoobites strip naked in the eyes of Jahooba."

"Stop that! Put those back on!"

"Nay, apostate."

Finding my legs again, I exit fast and run into the sunlit parking lot, the irate KlerK hollering behind me.

"Get back here--"

As per the plan, Yoleeza-Zee has the Cobra waiting beside the doorway, facing the street, 427 V-8 rumbling.

Seeing me, she leans across from the driver's seat and pops the passenger door.

My prime wheelgirl.

Love her.

"Floor it," I command, sliding in beside her.

We peel out of there in a cloud of shredded Goodyears, the outraged Klerk shaking her fist in the open doorway behind.

"Did you save the K10?" asks Y-Zee, shifting into fourth.

"Absolutely. A perfect rescue. And best of all, I left no evidence."

"Brilliant. But...where are your pants?"

I look down.

"Damn!"

* * *
Update #2

Doo NOT rede anythng this man (Sir Roderick) rites becasue he is a sikopath and NOT to be trustd!

--sined, Sir Rodericks butler

* * *
Update #3

Don't believe a single syllable my eighty-nine-year-old butler says.

In truth, he is a long-standing fixture at my estate, extremely well paid, and in light of his lengthy prison record, reasonably well socialized, barring his penchant for whiskey, marijuana and middle-aged hookers.

Unfortunately, since he began making all my photographs for me in the spring of this year, he's received a great deal of attention, which has made him abrogate his daily duties, ie, washing the mansion's 219 windows; counting the gravel in the 1.4 kilometre driveway to ensure no pieces are being stolen; clipping the 5.2 acre lawn with non-polluting nail scissors to reduce costs on lawn mower gas, etcetera.

Indeed, as an incentive to make him work harder and concentrate more fully on his job, I've been forced to temporarily appropriate his homemade, pinhole camera and raise his already generous wage to 98 cents an hour.

I'm hoping I will not have to escalate these measures further, but you never know, as he's sly, very sly and unnervingly vengeful....

Best regards,

Sir Roderick Glossop, MBE
Member of the Order of the British Empire