Pickpockets…can hit you with their butt.

Target in sight. A woman with her designer purse hung low, thumping along the brand-new sheen of her exquisite wine-red leather jacket. And seemingly lost or basely intrigued by the bustling uncultured marketplace -nothing short of an alleyway.

Terry blended into the shadows of the alley, provided by the tattered awnings, crumbling windowsills and the sheer height of the cramped apartments and the fact that the sun constantly hid from this cesspit. He weaved through the gathering throng, slithering within mobile umbras and swerving around stalls and touting vendors till approaching his unsuspecting victim to slip a hand though the halfway-open zipper. It would be done in a flash, in one second and out the other, preferably gripping a wallet or phone. Then sidling up to and engaging with the nearest vendor instead of sprinting away at breakneck speed, a common rookie mistake.

However, he could not have anticipated what came next. The woman’s bodyguard camouflaged in all black against the darkest alcove at the farthest entrance to the alley, gave chase. He didn’t shout but the people scrambling to get out of this bull's way were shrieking enough to signal his hasty arrival. Indeed he disregarded sneaking up on a runt like me. But the wicked gleam in his eyes was warning enough to suggest that he would enjoy meting out my “justice”.

So I ran the heck out of there. Frozen just that first second, then zigzagging around stalls and scrabbling over crates and boxes of apples to scale the wall at the opposite — and fast-approaching — dead-end. The air was knocked out of my lungs as a tray whacked me in the ribs, courtesy of Harrow : the fruit seller who had all-too-often caught me sneaking fruit from his stall. Come to think of it, maybe my skills were getting sloppy. Pushing the afterthought into the recesses of my mind, I reached the farthest wall and hoisted my foot upon a loose brick. Many such jutted out like a divine stairwell to freedom. I was halfway up when the brute reached me and grabbed for the nearest brick which slid out and smacked him square in the face all cartoon-like, knocking aside his sunglasses. Half grimacing, I huffed a startled laugh, snorting victoriously in his direction. Still not looking up, I reached the uppermost windowsill. Still grinning like an idiot, I faced my front and found a scowling Mrs. Harris smacking me in the face with another tray. What was it today with trays?! Did I ever steal one? Oh wait… nevermind.

Mrs. Harris’s retribution for stealing her former tray — to handover to a grumpy demanding Mr. Harrow, simply to appease him — landed me right on top of the beastly bodyguard's face. Crushing his already-throbbing face and the dangling sunglasses with the surprising impact of my butt landing on his face. His roar of anguish sent rats scurrying.

Yup! now I was done for… Curse them trays.

Moral of my story: if you steal anything, it’s replacement or the stupid object itself will come back to whack you into submission. So never go for trays, neverrrr.