rent a cops

Wanna park and act like an a**hole? Enjoy paying thousands.

Years ago, I worked as a security officer in a high-traffic tourist area (graveyard shift).

One of my responsibilities was to make sure my building’s loading/unloading zone is kept clear because at all hours of the day we’ve got vehicles coming and going for people going to meetings, visitors, tourists, cabs, etc. The curb is painted white and marked in big bold letters ✶ LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY ✶ NO PARKING ✶. At the end of the zone there was a single handicap parking stall painted bright blue.

Now the building I worked at was nearby a few large night clubs, so every Friday and Saturday the area would be crazy busy with drunken fighting, vomiting, occasional alleyway sex, etc. All night long there’d be cute girls milling around in skimpy outfits, so the job had its perks too.

Clubbers would take advantage of my building’s valet parking service and pay to park in our garage before heading out to one of the clubs across the street.

Some clubbers would think they could get away with parking in our loading zone all night. My coworkers and I would aggressively patrol the area in the earlier evening hours and advise as many people as we could so they’d leave and avoid getting a ticket. It was also better for us if they left, because when there were too many vehicles parked out front, traffic would become a complete clusterf*ck regardless of the time of day.

Most people would be grateful for the information and leave. Occasionally, some douche would laugh in our faces, say something about pigs or rent-a-cops or whatever and leave their car anyway. In those cases, we’d call our city’s parking enforcement and they’d get a $90 ticket for their troubles.

One Saturday night, after finished a round of patrols, I went to take a leak. On my way back out, I walked past Dispatch and my buddy calls me over to the surveillance bank.

“Hey bro, you got one out front.”

I turned to the grainy feed just in time to see a piece-of-junk ‘97 BMW sloppily parking in front of our building. I murmured that I’d go out and advise the driver, but before I could leave, the driver exited his vehicle.

My buddy and I watched in silence as the driver, a young black male adorned with flashy cheap bling, hiked his pants up at the crotch and blocked the path of a couple girls walking by. He started hitting on them in the slimiest way possible, even trying to grab their hands and asses at one point, staring shamelessly at their tits while he was schmoozing them. He took out his phone and shoved it at them, presumably asking for their numbers.

Eventually the girls were able to dodge his grabbers and ran off toward the club across the street. He repeated this routine several more times with various groups of girls walking by, even taking out a small bottle of vodka from his back pocket and offering swigs. With each rejection, he’d get angry and presumably cuss out the girls as they hurried off (our cameras didn’t pick up audio but this seemed a reasonable assumption).

I sighed and looked at my buddy.

“Well, I guess I’ll go talk to him.”

I made my way out to the front and approached him just as another group of girls ducked away from him. I called out to him. He turned and stared at me blankly.

“Hey, man, just wanted to let you know that this zone is for loading and unloading. Normally it’s not a big deal to park for a bit but if everyone does it on the weekends, traffic gets backed up pretty bad here.”

The douche looked at his vehicle, then at my badge.


I looked at my watch. It was about 10:30PM. I continued my spiel.

“Parking enforcement here is pretty strict. You should move your vehicle or you might get ticketed–”


“Have a good night sir.”

He flipped me off and went across the street, where he was promptly denied entry for dress code violations. He cussed out the bouncer and wandered off down the block. I walked over to his vehicle and saw that it was parked crooked, the rear of the vehicle partially blocking the lane of traffic. Half of his vehicle was in the white zone, the other in the blue zone. I key’d up my radio.

“8million to dispatch.”

“8million, go ahead.”

“Can you call parking enforcement for this vehicle? Lemme know when you’re ready for the plate.”

Fifteen minutes later, the parking officer arrived. He looked at the vehicle and promptly issued a $90 ticket for parking in the white zone and a $900 ticket for parking in the blue zone without a permit.

I thanked the officer and went back inside to have a snack.

A couple hours later, two of the local cops stopped by to say hi. As Officer Morris and his partner walked over, Dispatch radio’d me.

“Hey 8million, is that Jones and Morris?”

“Sure is.”

“You gonna do what I think you’re gonna do?”


Officer Jones and I lit up our cigarettes as Officer Morris looked on disapprovingly. We all smoked and chatted for a bit, then I casually motioned over my shoulder at the BMW.

“Hey, Jones, check out the parking job on that piece of shit.”

We all walked over to the corner and looked at the vehicle, the two tickets stuck on the windshield flapping in the wind. Officer Morris grabbed one of the tickets, read it over and looked at me.

“What’s the story here?”

I told them what happened and the driver’s response. Officer Jones and Morris looked at each other.

“8million, you got the time?”

“Yeah, it’s… 12:27AM.”

“Well it’s a whole new day now isn’t it?”

Officer Morris proceeded to write another $90 ticket for the white zone, then another $900 ticket for the blue zone. He paused for a moment after finishing the second one.

“Hey Jones, looks like this vehicle is parked more than twelve inches from the curb. What do you think?”

“Sounds about right.”

Officer Morris wrote another ticket for $120 and slapped it on the pile of tickets on the windshield. I shook both officer’s hands and they left to continue their patrols.

The next few hours of my shift went by fairly quickly. Around 5AM, Dispatch scared the hell out of me.


“Negative, I just finished clearing it.”


I ran down to the surveillance bank, where my coworkers were all gathered and laughing their asses off. Sunday was street cleaning day and the BMW was getting ticketed again by parking enforcement.

After that, we all stopped by Dispatch every 5-10 minutes to see if the owner had returned. Finally, at about 6AM, douchebag came stumbling up the block, looking completely worn out. His formerly-white t-shirt was stained and dirty and it looked like he’d lost at least one fight.

We watched in suspense as he looked at the pile of tickets crammed together on his windshield and slowly removed them. He stood there, pants sagging below his knees, shuffling through each ticket as if he were a toddler with a handful of Pokémon cards.

With a look of abject defeat on his face, he got into his vehicle and drove off. The whole room erupted in laughter and high-fives.

As the laughter died down, I picked up the office phone and started dialing. My coworkers eyed me curiously. I put the call on speaker just as the call connected.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Yeah, hi, I’d like to report a possible drunk driver. I have the vehicle and driver description when you’re ready.”

Damned If I Do Ya

Originally posted by j-miki


“Dude, come on! It’s after ten. The rent-a-cops have disappeared until midnight. I want to take a selfie with that giant fucking pigeon before we head to the party.”

Junhong rolls his eyes at your request as he pulls his apartment door and shoves his keys in his backpack. “Why the hell is there a giant pigeon statue on campus, anyway? I get that they needed the new art building, it’s really nice in there, by the way, but that statue’s unnecessary.”

“It’s terrifying,” you laugh as you drop your board to the asphalt and wait for Junhong to do the same. “But it’s quirk and weird and it’ll get some likes on Instagram. So, you know, doing it for the internet.”

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rogue one || hollywood dreams AU

Inspired by a comment by @ta-dala and by Mark Hamill’s atrocious fashion taste, which I love.

Bodhi Rook is an Empire Airlines pilot with Hollywood dreams and killer personal style, but he’s had trouble breaking into the industry that has few roles for aspiring actors who look like him. Discouraged of ever becoming a working actor, he is almost resigned to work the rest of his life as a pilot until one day in the cafeteria, one of the engineers, Galen, befriends him and begins to tell him about his friend Saw who’s a director. It just so happens that this “Saw” is the very same Saw Gerrera, esteemed auteur indie director of films such as The Partisan. Galen helps to get Bodhi an introduction, and on his day off, he heads to Jedha Studios in Los Angeles to meet with Saw.

But when he gets there, Bodhi finds out that Saw, already known for being tempermental, is refusing to see anyone, and Bodhi is thrown off the lot by the rent-a-cops at Bor Gullet security. Discouraged and heartbroken, Bodhi is ready to leave the lot when he finds himself dragged by the arm by one small ball of fury, producer Leia Organa, who has mistaken the debonair pilot for a personal stylist.

“I need you,” she command more than asks. “My brother is a fashion disaster and he needs help immediately.”

And before he can complete his protest to Leia, he’s introduced to Luke Skywalker in his low-cut v-neck t-shirt and suspenders, and hell, Bodhi can’t bare to let this crime against fashion continue on unchecked. Before long, Luke Skywalker goes from fashion do not to fashion do, and other actors start to take notice and Bodhi’s phone starts ringing off the hook.

But Bodhi is not a stylist: he’s still a pilot who wants to be in front of the camera and not behind. But it turns out that maybe this was always going to be the way he got his foot in the door, because when decides to take one last side job as a stylist, it just happens that the person calling him on the other line is actor/director Cassian Andor, one half of Andor and Erso, Hollywood’s biggest and most beloved power couple. Because when they meet Bodhi, they see beyond the suits and the meticulously groomed facial hair, and tell him that they think they have just found the missing piece to their latest project: him.


Recently I posted photos that Timothy McVeigh took on a trip to Area 51 from the latest Oklahoma City bombing documentary. To go along with these, below is an excerpt from the book American Terrorist about his experience there.

On his way to Nichols’s new digs, McVeigh made a couple of side trips; he thought nothing of taking a detour of five hundred miles or more to visit a site that interested him. And his first stop was at a place that had taken on legendary status in more than one fringe community in American culture: the mysterious Area 51 military installation in Nevada. McVeigh had heard the many rumors about the site—that the military tested exotic aircraft, possibly even UFOs, at the remote outpost; that a UFO had once crashed at the site, and alien life forms had been found inside, but the incident had been kept secret. But it was more than just curiosity that drove McVeigh there. He was ready to stir up a little trouble, too.

McVeigh was outraged by reports that the federal government had posted threatening signs at the site, warning that the use of deadly force had been authorized against people who crossed a certain boundary into the installation. McVeigh wanted to test that one. He wanted to exercise his right as an American to walk on public land—and he wanted to carry a gun there.

McVeigh was eager to stand up to the rent-a-cops he had heard patrolled Area 51; as a former rent-a-cop himself, he knew that they possessed no greater right to make an arrest than the average citizen. His plan was to drive in as far as he could, and then hike up a mountain to where he could see the military base and airfield. Armed with his Ruger Mini 30, semiautomatic rifle, he was prepared to confront anyone who tried to stop him. I’m on public land, buddy, McVeigh planned to say. Back off.

After parking his Road Warrior and beginning his hike, he noticed two security guards rumbling down the road toward him in a white, unmarked jeep. McVeigh had already passed the “deadly force” sign and a sign barring photographs—which further upset him, since he had brought a camera. You can’t tell me on public land I can’t take a fuckin’ picture, he thought. No rent-a-cop can tell me that.

As the vehicle drew closer, he decided to toy with the guards. He ducked for cover behind some scrub brush in a little gully about two feet deep. The jeep rolled up beside McVeigh’s car, and the two guards, remaining inside their vehicle, looked over at the empty car. To McVeigh, they were like sitting ducks.

McVeigh lay in the gully, motionless and undetected, following his military instincts. Suddenly, McVeigh stood up and walked several steps over to the driver’s side of the jeep. His gun was pointed to the ground; he knew he could have raised the barrel and wasted the guards with a pull of the trigger. In the end, though, just knowing he had the chance was good enough for him; these guys were just rent-a-cops like he used to be—not real government workers, not his true enemies.

Instead he surprised them by saying a friendly “Hi!” Spooked, the guards drove off.

McVeigh waited until nightfall before hiking up the mountain; from the mountaintop, he was able to see the lights of the airfield. Early the next morning, at false dawn, he made a second trip up the mountain, hurrying to get a jump on the hot desert sun. He was intent on taking photos of Area 51. Shirtless and saddled with his backpack, he hiked with rifle in hand.

Halfway up, he heard the rotors of a helicopter in the distance. There was no doubt in McVeigh’s mind it was a government Black Hawk, with its distinctive fooof, foooooof, foooooooof.

McVeigh stopped, turned around, and looked at the chopper approaching in the distance. Unperturbed, he resumed his hike. The sound of the chopper blades told him that the craft was coming up close. Still, he advanced, refusing to be intimidated by the chopper as it passed overhead and swooped in low, hovering in the air thirty yards in front of him.

For an instant, he considered taking cover and shooting at the helicopter with his rifle. But he wasn’t in a combat mode, not yet. He knew the whole point of sending out a chopper was to frighten him. Most people, he knew, would have been scared out of their wits by a chopper flying that close, but McVeigh merely raised his free hand and waved to the chopper’s crew, taking a little slap at authority. The craft hovered a second longer, then pitched back and left. McVeigh hiked to the top of the hill and snapped his photographs.

Later, as he drove away from Area 51, the white jeep fell in behind his car. McVeigh was certain that the rent-a-cops were running a license-plate check on him. No matter; he had accomplished his mission, challenging the government’s authority and satisfying his curiosity in one fell swoop. He found no evidence of UFOs, but his interest in unidentified flying objects never flagged. Years later, on death row, he would watch the movie Contact six times over a two-day period, fascinated by the scientist played by Jodie Foster, who makes contact with an outer-space alien in the image of her long-dead father.

The moment I realized I became Sally Jackson:True story

So I work at a candy stand in the mall on weekends for gas money.

There are lots of people who steal from the candy stand.

To prevent this I make nice with all the mall rent a cops. Make sure to make them up a bag of candy every weekend.

There is one named Julius.

Julius I noticed only eats blue candy.

I go through all the candy only picking out blue candy for him. Blue gummy sharks, only the blue sour patch kids, picking out blue gummy bears, and if course the blue raspberry sour belts.

I’ve called him Percy for a month.

He has yet to correct me.


American Genre Film Archive is collaborating with Sometihng Weird to bring some of their titles to Blu-ray. The first release will be The Zodiac Killer on July 25. It has received a 4K scan from the only surviving 16mm blow-up elements.

Directed by Tom Hanson (Night Train to Mundo Fine), the 1971 horror/thriller was made in an attempt to capture the real-life Zodiac Killer, who was on the loose at the time.

The disc features a bonus movie: 1977′s Another Son of Sam, with a new 2K scan from a 35mm print. Reversible artwork is also included. Special features are listed below.

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Chapter 23

A/N: Let me know what you think.


I looked up from my interview notes. I knew they were going to toss me a lot of easy questions, but who knew? In an age where Teen Vogue is at the forefront of educating people about difference, anything is possible.

He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms cross. Attempting and failing to look causal.

I really didn’t want to talk, but it was either this or starting at my notes while my brain puts Lucy’s exit on a loop. So I took the lesser of two. Closing my notes and I said.

“I’m sorry I just… I shouldn’t have said the way I did, which doesn’t mean…. I don’t mean the essence of it.” I saw he little smile that had been playing around his lips disappear, and his arms arms tighten. As if he was trying to protect himself from me. “Sorry that came out wrong again. I’m not very good at this…”

“I noticed.” He said a dry laugh escaping his lips. I noded

“I deserve that.” I didn’t really know how to start something like this. How do you tell someone that… I didn’t even know what. That I liked looking at his face? That being in this house had become my happy place when I was overly stressed at work. That when he was kissing me, the rest of the world melted away. How do you tell someone something like that?

He sat down next to me. 

“Let’s start slow. How were the first two weeks of work?”

“I am not sure how I’m still standing.”

I quickly added. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. I just…” I looked down at my wringing hands. “It is so much work. Not even the content. I know all of that, but… everything around that. I know nothing about editing, or management. I am lucky that they all get along because, I have no idea how to play Solomon. How much is too much…? Now these minisodes.” I let out a huff of breath.


“Casey wants me to do 10 minute segments on current events, like voter fraud and…”

“That sounds great.” He actually looked excited. 

“It is a great idea but… we have so much work to do. Casey wants these to start rolling out in November… and I honestly don’t know if I can. Every day I think about quitting. I feel so ungrateful, because they are taking a chance on me.”

The exhaustion of the last week crash over me, and I started to cry. Without a word Seth pulled me to his chest, and started to rub my back. My heart slowed and the crushing sense of exhaustion lessened a bit.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, sobs still breaking out of my chest in waves.

“Because you’re Wonder Woman, and Wonder Woman can do anything. I get the stress your under. The first couple of years I lived in constant fear of…”

“Cancelation?” He let out a small laugh.  

“That too, but more that people would start to hate me. That my staff would fall apart, and I would be stuck doing this alone.”  

“No wonder you do most of the voices.”

“Well that has many reasons.”

“Perfectionist much?” He chuckled. It reverberated in his chest, and through me and it gave me comfort. Something to hold onto. That this right here, was real.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, I keep having nightmares about the show going up in flames.”

Sometimes it was my fault. Like the one where I get something completely wrong. Everyone disavows me, and the show is driven off the air. Then there were ones where our ratings are just not good enough. Or every person I had ever held in any esteem calls me, to tell me that I had made was the worst piece of TV they had ever seen.

“Then you’ll get a fire extinguisher and save it.”

“Thanks Steve.”


“I googled it. Steve Trevor is one of Wonder Woman’s sidekicks.”

“Happy to be Steve.” We stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. I synced my breathing with his, and just as I thought he had fallen asleep, he said.

“So I was talking to Charlize.”

“That is always a sign of trouble.” I did love her, but there were times…   

“She said we should…”

“Work on just the next six months? She told me the same thing.” I knew she was going to do something like that. My best guess was that she had done it while I was in the bathroom.

“So we reevaluate in November? Before or after the premiere of the minisodes?” He smiled down at me. This felt more like planning for a garden party than a relationship checkpoint. To be fair, I didn’t know many couples with relationship checkpoints.

“After. I can’t deal with all of that at once. You might have to sedate me.” 

“I’ll be ready with the syringe.” I gave him a crooked smile. 

Six months. 

I could do six months, right? Six months weren’t that long. Not having to spend weekends in an empty hotel room by myself would be a nice plus.

“Ok six months. I can do that. I think we should set perimeters.” I took a deep breath. I wanted this. Him, but could I do this? Could we make it six months?

“What kind?”

“Who were going to tell. Not the entire world. I can not deal with that on top of everything. I get you’re close to your family. I love that. It shows you were raised right.”

“What does that say about you?”

“That a golden cage can be as bad as an iron one.” I quickly went on. My upbringing was not something Seth needed to know about right now. “What I mean is, that I get it. How about you tell them I exist, but that I am not ready. Honesty is always good. I also don’t want them to think I am a bitch.” 

That would sour the mood, and as much as people say they’re open minded. Everyone knows that first impressions are king.  

“They won’t think that.”

“You’d be surprised what people think of me.” Despite appearances, I wasn’t the girl you brought home to your parents.

A rueful smile playing around his lips. “Oh I can imagine, but my family will love you.”


“Because…” He stopped and changed course. “You’re an amazing person and you make me happy. Who are you telling? Izzy?”

“I… no I don’t think we are friends anymore.” I hadn’t really thought about that phone call since it happened.

“What happened?” A fresh wave of tears overcame me, and Seth hugged me closer to his chest, and started rubbing my back again. This time in smooth, and from what I could tell perfect circles.

“I fucked it up. I got so focused on the show that I forgot to tell her…. I wasn’t coming back, and I just didn’t think that she would have to pay rent. She is a cop not….”

“The heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune?” I let out a mirthless chuckle. “Give her some time.”
“Ok… I don’t really have anyone else to tell.” I shrugged. “Wait, I should text Em. She is going to get a kick out of this.” I saw a dark shadow cross Seth’s features.

“What don’t I know?”

“Nothing, I have only met her in passing. What about Charlize? Or your parents?” I pulled out my phone, and sent Em a quick text. Guess who is dating? If you put your money on your best friend, then this one time you would be correct. I sent it, adding the picture of Seth and I giggling by the pool. I couldn’t wait for her response.

“Knowing Charlize, she already knows. My mother will bring in the armed forces if she finds out I’m dating. Trust me you don’t want that.” I smiled as I imaged my mother’s reaction. Those were the only times she was really proud of me. Not that she said anything, but you could feel it.

“What’s wrong with the armed forces?” I laughed.

“I mean the actual armed forces. We are a military family. My granddad dropped into Normandy on D-Day. Both my dad and uncle were fighter jet pilots in Vietnam. Even my mother was an army nurse. That’s how she met my dad.” I could see the horror grow in his eyes.

“Since when do people with your…”

“Money? You have to remember that my dad married rich. That part of my family worked most of their lives at production plant in New Jersey.”  

“And your afraid of meeting my family?”

“I knew I could get you to come around my way of thinking.” I looked at the time, and started to get up, but Seth pulled me back down into his lap.

“Hey,” he said quietly, smiling.

“Hey.” I replied just as quietly and grinning.

After a small pause, he kissed me. 

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@newlovewontletyougetaway - if you like to read it.

*Insert internal screaming HERE*

Can someone tell me why I signed up to do Emmerdale Big Bang??? My writing list is bigger than me. *moans* My big bang tree fic is going to kick my ass…why did I think this was a good idea?

Please fire me. I just received a call from one of my security officers. They can’t open up the Lost and Found safe we keep in our office. I asked, “Did the key not work?” He replied, “Oh, we lost it.”

After that, almost every campaign of micro-terrorism we waged was motivated by our reactions to what we thought sucked about our lives, which gave us a lot of options. We targeted teachers, mean parents, the rent-a-cops that stayed overnight at the county fair and even the real cops a couple times. That creepy kid Blaine? He took advantage of a friend of ours so we trashed his car one night when he was home from college. Fuck him. Bologna, eggs and mustard everywhere.
You’d never catch the middle-class kids out doing what we were doing. They actually had reputations to protect. We’d sit around and talk about how the “preppy kids” came to school on Mondays with nothing interesting to talk about because they were cooped-up under the vigilance of their parents who didn’t want them falling into a crowd like ours. As we passed our art onto younger kids, this semi-organized vandalism remained a decidedly lower-class phenomena, in part because it was mostly the kids in town who did it and the kids in town were often less wealthy. Call it a crime of convenience if you want, for me it was a crime of passion. I hated the world and wanted to make it pay.
Life really sucked in Flora. I imagine that it still does. When you’re going nowhere or, more accurately, when nowhere is coming to you, it’s totally invigorating to generalize that shittiness to all of the people that bring it to you. In a way, the impulse to trash that motorcycle at Amy’s dad’s house or creepy Blaine’s car is basically the same impulse that makes me so excited to see someone chuck a newspaper box into the street or roll a flaming dumpster at a line of cops, even if it’s just on the news. Everything is terrible and I don’t like it. What these midnight adventures in minor destruction gave me more than anything else was a chance to make being antisocial into a social activity.
—  Home -Harper Ferry
Closed RP: We ain't the Breakfast Club


This was the fifth time. The fifth time this month Spot had detention and this time it wasn’t really his fault. He didn’t start the fight, but he sure as hell finished it. School rent-a-cop Snyder didn’t care however, sent him straight to detention for the rest of the school day. Six hours alone. Actually, that didn’t sound too bad. He walked into the detention room, now feeling alright about this, but then his mood drop the moment he saw he wasn’t alone.

There sitting alone was Morris Delancey.

The Debt

My entry for Phanniemay Day 11, “Folklore.” Thanks to my buddy @caffeinechick who encouraged me to finish it. 

“Jeez, what a douchebag.”

“Gregor’s not that bad,” Sam defended him, of course. Tucker still enjoyed the vindication that she’d known exactly who he was talking about. “When you get to know him, he’s actually pretty sweet.”

“Yeah, to you,” Tucker said. “Guy couldn’t be any more obvious; he probably thinks I’m here to score points on some lame ‘almost outta the friendzone’ scorecard.”

Said douchebag was currently waiting safely back in the van with the rest of Sam’s activist friends, leaving them to do the actual work.

“You mean you’re not?” Sam mock-gasped. 

Tucker snorted loudly since rolling his eyes would have been pointless. “I’m here because I don’t want some noob screwing up and getting you caught.”

“Plus I’m paying you.”

“Plus you’re paying me.”

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anonymous asked:

How come you never interact with the i intellectual heavyweights of rationalist tumblr like Alison (sinesalvatorem) and ilzolende?

if she represents the cream of the lesswronger crop, i remain unimpressed.

edit: and while this post [link] was more of a debate with promethea (then going by socialjusticemunchkin) than ilzolende, ilzolende seemed to be seconding promethea’s praise for David D. Friedman and the concept of rule-by-rent-a-cop.

again, i remain unimpressed.

@trenonny replied to your postsend us some sterek prompts, we is bored and…

One is a street hustler who specializes in three card monty and/or pickpocketing. The other is the person who ALWAYS somehow sees sees through the card swapping or catches them in the process of stealing - but never turns them in. Intrigue and interest ensue?

I only know of the three card monte trick because of Leverage, so this became a sorta Parker!Stiles, Sophie!Derek, and Hardison!Lydia thing (knowing of the show is not necessary to understanding this) (also, this video of the trick blew my mind)

Stiles takes great pleasure in swindling businessmen of all their money.  

Some people call him a hustler—often right after throwing the contents of their wallet at him and storming off—some say he’s an outright thief.  But Stiles doesn’t force people to give him their money, he doesn’t pick pockets (well, anymore), he’s just very smart about what he does.

Lets just say he’s his own kind of businessman.  The people swarm to him, willingly, and he graciously takes them for all the cash they’ve got on them.

Right now, a crowd’s gathered, attracted by his best friend—and inside woman extraordinaire—Lydia, loosing terribly at the Three-card Monte.  

Stiles throws the cards around the table, and the crowd easily follows the queen of hearts around, while Lydia pretends to fumble, and obviously picks the wrong card, to the muttering of the businessmen gathered around her.  A few of them snort, and brag that they could do a much better job.  Hook, line, and sinker.

Lydia winks at Stiles, and dumps a wad of cash on his upturned milk crate, before flouncing off.  The businessmen eye it up like it’s easily attainable manna from heaven, before pushing at each other, eager for a turn.

Stiles looks around the crowd for the richest, cockiest looking man.  Instead he spots, out of the corner of his eye, an atypically dressed guy.  The guy is downright gorgeous—all big hazel eyes, dark scruff, and muscles draped in coveralls, a baseball hat with the logo of a local museum, balanced on his head—his name tag declares him Miguel.  

He’s not Stiles’ usual spectator.  Miguel’s standing off to the side, a sly grin on his lips, almost like he knows, but since he isn’t giving the game up, Stiles lets him be.  

He licks his lips.  Miguel is a tall drink of water, but Stiles has a job to do.  He turns back to his game, and picks a man in a Hugo Boss suit, waving around his wallet like an idiot.

Unsurprisingly, twenty minutes and a few businessmen later, Stiles is counting out a few hundred dollar bills, and the hot guy in coveralls seems to have disappeared into the crowd.  Too bad, Stiles wouldn’t have minded his number.

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