Thatcher sat at a comically tiny table that came up almost to his knees in a chair that was equally tiny. The table was set for tea, with a light blue kettle in the middle and three miniature tea-cups set around it. Thatch gingerly reached over and picked up the tea-cup closest to him. He sipped loudly and then set it back down on the saucer. He folded his hands across his knees and looked across the table. There sat a balding middle-aged man in a pink, fluffy tutu; he had dark makeup and a red clown nose on his face.

Thatch giggled excitedly. “Now, Mr. Landlord, how would you feel about lowering my rent?”

Mr. Landlord waved his hands frantically over his head. When he responded, his voice sounded high and squeaky, like he had inhaled a bunch of helium. “Lower it! We’re gonna lower it by three thousand percent! I’m going to be paying YOU to live in my rat-and-roach infested apartments from now on! And every day will be your birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Balloons appeared overhead and a cake slid across the tiny table towards Thatcher. Suddenly, it exploded; Thatch’s eyes snapped open, and he was awake. His eyes swam for a moment, and he chuckled as a song came to mind; “back to reality, oh, there goes gravity…” he said quietly. His head throbbed, feeling like a herd of elephants was dancing a vigorous salsa inside his skull. He found himself lying on the ground, on his back, looking up at a very attractive, and very angry, woman.

Believe it or not, this is not the result of any criminal activity; this is what happens when Thatcher tries to flirt. He’s not very good at it; he can pick pockets, but he can NOT pick up girls.

Several minutes before, Thatcher had seen the woman in question from across the street. Realizing that he had the night off and had some scratch in his pocket, he decided he would ask her out for a date. He imagined himself smoothly walking up and saying something like, “Hey baby, I lost my number, can I have yours?”

He walked across the street with all the swagger he could muster, and when he got half way, his common sense went to sleep. His mind went blank, and he started yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Hey! Yo! Hey, yo, girl!”

She, along with every person within earshot stopped and turned towards him. He took this as a good sign and gave her what he thought was a sexy nod. It wasn’t even close, and looked kind of pervy, to be honest.

“Can I smack your ass and call you mama?” He shouted as he came closer.

A look of disgusted shock came across her face. “What?!”

“You look like your father neglected you, and now you need…”

Thatch never got the chance to finish that horribly offensive sentence, because at that exact moment, the girl swung her purse at his head with all her might. There must have been a brick inside it, because the second it connected with his temple, Thatch was is dreamland.

Waking up and seeing her staring furiously down at him, Thatch smiled. “Can I take you to dinner tonight?”

“UGH! What a PIG!” the woman shouted as she marched off down the street.

Thatch sat up and shook his head. “Is that a no?” he shouted at her as she walked away.

In response, she lifted both arms over her head and lifted a solitary finger on each hand.

Thatcher watched her walk away for a second, when suddenly, a light bulb clicked on in the attic of his mind.

“Wait! I’m a thief, let me steal your breath away!”

“Damn,” he thought, “why can I never think of the good stuff in the heat of the moment. Ha, heat of the moment. I love Asia. Hmm…I wonder if Canton is open yet…”

He checked his watch. It seemed he would be eating cheap consolation Chinese food by himself. Again. Like I said before, he’s really, REALLY bad with women…


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