violence

Heavyweight (8.5 oz/yd² | 288.2 g/m²) sweatshirt with direct-to-garment print on the front. Made in WRAP-certified facilities.

Violence is never the answer. That's what I hear anyway, but I cant help but feel like maybe it could be. Every day little shits from the local school come into my store and rob from me of my stock and my sanity.

I see them conspiring, their tiny child brains have no idea that I've seen all the tricks, all the little crap they try to pull when they believe I am not paying attention. The times they send a person to distract me so they can pocket some haribo, I see it.

And I cant do anything, I just have to smile and be nice and occasionally throw them out. I cant even beat the crap out of them and they're smug about it. Even when I catch them they shout 'Hey this nonce is putting his filthy Saville hands on me!' and accuse me of trying to touch their genitals.

Its a catch 22 situation, I cannot win and they know it. They know the crime isn't serious enough to get them arrested and at most all I can do is ban them from my shop. I knew I had to take matters into my own hands, to let the kids in the school know not to fuck with me.

When I was young, I remember that if you let another boy punch you and you didn't defend yourself, then he would punch on you all the time. He would gloat on it, humiliate you and take advantage of your weakness to make himself look or feel better. But if you stood up for yourself and put up a fight, that bully would not fuck with you again.

And here I am getting walked all over by children, unable to beat them.

But I knew I could best them, just not in my store, not over a stolen can of cola and not with my fists. I had a car and they did not. I had access to a wealth of imagination, time and unhinged rage they could only dream of.

I was sitting in my car one day whilst my wife worked the shop and I saw one of the worst kids exit the place, clutching his stolen goods. My hands gripping the steering wheel so tight I thought my finger nails would pop off wanting to run that little shit right into the postbox behind him.. Mix his red insides with red of the post box, send him like a letter to his maker. But I didn't, I followed him slowly to where he lived and paused until I saw him go through the door, waving goodbye to his friend so I knew it was his house. Where he lay his stupid fucking hair with the frosted tips like he thinks its 1995 again.

And later that evening, through his cat flap, I poured my vengeance. I had spent months collecting rats with humane traps from the back of my cousins restaurant. Huge street fucks that got so big even the local cats couldn't intimidate or kill them. I cultivated them in my cellar, feeding them left over fried chicken I laced with some light steroids I had picked up at the gym. I watched them grow, like my own personal army of Bane Rats, a writhing mass of my anger, a pox I poured into his house, every tiny part of my hatred I felt for him flowing into his home from the sack I carried them in.

And the next day I saw him, he came into my shop looking deflated, covered in tiny scratches and bites. He barely made eye contact with me or anyone around him and came meekly to the counter. Carrying a little chocolate bar, reaching for his wallet.

I said "It's ok kid, I know what its like to get slowly eaten away by little rodents. This one is on me." and shot him a little knowing wink. He looked confused for a moment before stepping backwards into the doritos display knocking some packets to the floor his eyes opening like saucers realizing it was me that unleashed horror into his world the evening before. He truly understood in that moment that there are monsters in the world you cant predict, understand or even see coming. They live in plain sight and you will never be safe. He knew there in my shop to fear me and what I was capable of.

The kids stopped shoplifting from me after that point.