My that kid is crazy, makin' for the exit in all those layers of stolen clothes. Don't he know about those security tags on all them clothes? Must have nine, maybe eleven layers on, all of em clipped tight with then security tags that are going to explode ink all over everywhere but mostly him as soon as he steps past my station and over the magentic security barrier, that dark grey rubber strip before the frost doors tat so many people walk over so nonchalantly during my day. Sure, I'm supposed to stop him, being the head security gurard and all. I know. And that's gonna be a whole lotta ruined clothes, prolly a thousand dollars' worth easy, when tried to run on by, but BOOM! there's gonna go them cartidges with all their weird shades of spattery permanent ink. But I'm an old man...and this kinda entertainment don't happen to me just every day. If the missus were still alive I'd sure have quite the tale for her when I got home to her burnt meatloaf, quite the tale, and she'd laugh a lung up right around her True 100 as she tried to finish her afternoon shot of Dewar's. Maybe I'll tell Peter Falk when Columbo comes on at six, or maybe Mannix I can tell him later, cos here comes the kid and this is gonna sure be curious, and no one really minds anymore that I talk to the television at night, or even in the day anymore.

That kid sure is gonna turn into one exploding rainbow. He sure is.

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