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- It had been two years since I’d last seen him and he was in bad shape. “Lanie, I’m going to print more printers. Lots more printers. One for everyone”.
“That’s worth going to jail for. That’s worth anything”. When he was done, he looked like he’d been brawling with an entire rugby side. Its little shrine in the kitchenette seemed horribly empty. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”. “I’m not going to print none of that rubbish, never again”.
“There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”. “I’m not stupid, Lanie”.
They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest. “Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear”. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed. “Lanie,” he said, as he sat me down. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The coppers smashed my father’s printer when I was eight. “What, Da?” I said, leaning in close. When he was done, he looked like he’d been brawling with an entire rugby side.
“You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”. I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.
Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies.
“Lanie,” he said, as he sat me down. “I’m not going to print none of that rubbish, never again”. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies.
My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner of his cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle of printer-wire. He grinned. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”.
- They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest. “That’s worth going to jail for. That’s worth anything”. I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin. “I’ve learned my lesson”.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of them reciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. He grinned. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”.
“You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”. It had been two years since I’d last seen him and he was in bad shape. “Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear”. The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didn’t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way. When I roused myself and picked up the flat and rescued my peeping poor tweetybird, I put a blender there.
What they did to him. “You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”. A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic.
Da. “Come here, Lanie, let me whisper in your ear”. “I’ve learned my lesson”. I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my palms.
“Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup”. The ipolice paid in high-grade pharmaceuticals – performance enhancers, memory supplements, metabolic boosters. “You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”. “You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”. One of Da’s customers had shopped him.
- They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest. I closed my eyes. I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. “That’s worth going to jail for. That’s worth anything”.
I was embarrassed when the minicab dropped us off in front of the estate, and tried to keep my distance from this ruined, limping skeleton as we went inside and up the stairs. I squeezed my hands into fists so tight my fingernails cut into my palms.
My tweetybird escaped death by hiding in a corner of his cage as a big, booted foot crushed most of it into a sad tangle of printer-wire. The coppers smashed my father’s printer when I was eight. It had been two years since I’d last seen him and he was in bad shape.
- “You’ve been in prison for ten years, Da. Ten. Years”.
They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. “What, Da?” I said, leaning in close.
“Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup”. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed. I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin.
“I’m not stupid, Lanie”. “There’s no hat or laptop that’s worth going to jail for”. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies. I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. The coppers smashed my father’s printer when I was eight.
The kind of thing that cost a fortune over the counter; the kind of thing you could print at home, if you didn’t mind the risk of having your kitchen filled with a sudden crush of big, beefy bodies, hard truncheons whistling through the air, smashing anyone and anything that got in the way. They took the printer away, of course, and displayed it like a trophy for the newsies.
A prison fight had left him with a limp, and he looked over his shoulder so often it was like he had a tic. They brought him out the door and let the newsies get a good look at him as they tossed him in the car, while a spokesman told the world that my Da’s organized-crime bootlegging operation had been responsible for at least twenty million in contraband, and that my Da, the desperate villain, had resisted arrest. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed. “You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”.
I saw it all from my phone, in the remains of the sitting room, watching it on the screen and wondering how, just how anyone could look at our little flat and our terrible, manky estate and mistake it for the home of an organized crime kingpin. “Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup”. “Let me tell you the thing that I decided while I spent ten years in lockup”.
- The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of them reciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. The coppers came through the door with truncheons swinging, one of them reciting the terms of the warrant through a bullhorn. “I’ve learned my lesson”. I remember the hot, cling-film-in-a-microwave smell of it, and Da’s look of ferocious concentration as he filled it with fresh goop, and the warm, fresh-baked feel of the objects that came out of it.
I closed my eyes. “You’d risk another ten years to print out more blenders and pharma, more laptops and designer hats? … Wow”. He was off his rocker, that much was clear.
When he was done, he looked like he’d been brawling with an entire rugby side.
When I roused myself and picked up the flat and rescued my peeping poor tweetybird, I put a blender there. “What, Da?” I said, leaning in close. He was off his rocker, that much was clear.
God knew what he went through in prison. I felt a guilty pang about ticking him off. Back then, I could take apart and reassemble anything that could be printed.