Lost pig, Jamaican psychic, and impersonating a cop

My psychic told me not to bother with the matter, but I’m making one last appeal: Could whoever has my pig return it?

No questions will be asked.

The legal department says I cannot claim my brownish piggy bank was stolen, after all, there was a mighty electrical storm the night it, $40 in change and two very old collector coins went missing, so it is feasible “Hog,” as the Gohs family affectionately referred to it, came to life a la Night of the Living Dead, leapt from my car and now roams the streets squealing in agony as only a freshly animated plastic Dollar Store farm beast can.

In my rage, I wrote a short note detailing my disgust over the incident and taped it to the window of the crime scene—my ‘67 Buick Riviera.

I spoke to a local policeman, but chose not to file a report because I figured they have more important things to do than sleuth after a plastic piggy bank.

My thirst for vengeance yet slaked, I placed a newspaper ad calling for Hog’s whereabouts with no questions asked.

I’ll admit I intended to bop the noggin of whoever returned it, but no one has come forward with my absconded Hog.

After a couple weeks without so much as a ransom note, I decided to call Magic Tami, my advisor on all things clairvoyant.

Tami told me the pig was abducted by a mentally handicapped elderly man—a mental image I found almost worth the loss of property.

Though I will likely never see the bank again, she said I might offer a small reward, say $5, and ask the man fitting the description if he could help me.

I am a mouthy but ineffectual vigilante and I just can’t see myself doing Popeye Doyle-style shakedowns on the elderly in Hoopskirt Alley until someone finally breaks.

“Man, word on the street is the Hog is on a one-way trip to Mexico. You dig?”

“Don’t toy with me, Johnny Switchblade! I know you got the skinny on my plastic porcine.”

“Man, the D.A.’s been sweatin’ feet all day long. I’m tellin’ ya, I got nuthin.”

The 12-year-old in me yearns for Face, B. A., Hannibal and Murdock to roll into town and, after a series of explosions, overturned cars and hokey disguises, I am reunited with my sienna swine.

The reality is this is the third time I’ve had something stolen from an automobile.

In 1994, my infant son’s car seat was heisted from our toast brown Chevette.

We were so poor we resorted to buckling the lad in with pillows and a blanket to keep him propped up until we could find a replacement.

All you could see were his eyes. He looked like a little Arab astronaut strapped in for blast-off.

The second object to mysteriously disappear was a CD player in 2002.

The joke was on them because, when you started the car, the stereo’s volume automatically ran up to its loudest level for some reason.

I would have loved to have been there the first time they hopped in and fired up the engine to the ear-splitting scream of sweet sweet revenge.

As galled and appalled as I have been at these trivial trespasses, Karma may be dishing exactly what I deserve.

You see, when I was about 16 years old, some close friends of mine came into possession of the lights off a police car.

The intentions were to pull people over and bust up parties at a friend’s house for our own amusement.

That soon escalated.

We strapped the lights, haphazardly, to the top of my best friend’s 1979 Grand Prix and installed an old siren given to us by an uncle and former motorcycle cop.

It didn’t sound like your modern police cruiser, but when a teenager sees those lights a-flashing and hears that siren a-wailing, they are too busy pooping their pants over what mom and dad are going to say to realize it’s all a scam.

Perfectionists all, we decided the prank wasn’t complete without a police uniform, borrowed and returned, from a source I shall not detail here.

We laughed ‘til our spleens ached as teen after teen, stopped after leaving a party, tried to sob their way out of going to jail.

We chuckled to near asphyxiation as juvenile delinquents bolted for cornfields and tree lines, their beer cans and wine bottles hurled with haste as we busted up party after party that summer.

Fun’s finale came when—after a few too many toddies—patrolling the back roads one night, we neared a crossroads where sat a real police car.

We slowed to a crawl, hoping he would just look left and right then pull through the intersection.

After what seemed an eternity at the stop sign, the phantom fuzz drove off.

The driver of our “police cruiser” whipped a hairy ape-rapin’ U-turn and sped away in the opposite direction, sending our endless joy crashing to the ground.

And, just as quickly as we had received our special gift, it was gone—smashed into hundreds of blue and red glittering shards on the blacktop.

All these years later I try to convince myself we performed a service.

If just one teenager was scared straight by our amateur antics, it was all worth it. (OK, I don’t believe that in the least. It was just a damned good time.)

But now I am out $10 for the call to my psychic, $40 in change, who knows how much the old coins were worth, and all I have are 550 Psychic Source bonus points and potential self-incrimination for a stupid stunt I was involved in over 20 years ago.

On second thought, maybe you just keep Hog and we’ll forget any of this ever happened … lights, siren and all.

Spit it out, junior

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