My Life of Crime

Here is a funny story:
I just finished reading The Art of War, by Sun-Tzu, and I brought the book in my backpack to the Colonial Tavern, a comedy spot just over a mile away from Mary Washington's campus. Henry Brown saw the book and seemed interested, so I gave it to him because I don't like to keep books after I finish them. Anyway, I tried out about ten minutes of new material, and it worked out well. Happy with my new jokes, I packed my books into my backpack, and my friend drove me home (since my license is restricted). As I walked back to my dorm room, I realized something terrible... I had put The Art of War into my backpack after the show. It was 12:53, and the show would end in seven minutes. Something had to be done fast, or I would be forever branded by fellow comedians as an Indian Giver.
In International Affairs, we have been learning Bismark's philosophy of realpolitik... the idea that the ends justify the means. It was time to adopt this strategy. I grabbed the only unlocked bike from in front of Jefferson, and pedalled as fast as I could to the Colonial Tavern, resorting to thievery to prove I wasn't a thief. I got there as Henry was walking out the door and gave him the book- just in time. As I walked back to the bike, ready to return it, I noticed it looked a little too official to be a normal bike. It had a mirror on the side, a light on the front, a pack of tools in the back... it was colored blue and silver... a license plate... then it hit me... I had copped a cop's bike.
Scared out of my mind, I had to face the moral dillemna of whether I should leave the bike at the Tavern and get off scott free or return the bike and risk being arrested. I decided to return the bike because I remember my DARE officer collecting my fingerprints in second grade, and I was afraid a forensics team would trace the crime back to Jefferson 103.
I sped off towards campus, using the darkest areas as my path of travel. At one point, I saw a police car and literally pedalled into a bush to hide. Finally, I returned to Jefferson, parked the bike where I had found it, ran into my room, and locked the door. SAFE!
Here's the best part. The bike cop on our campus is a total jackass. He has written everyone I know up for countless noise violations and parking tickets. He obviously saw his bike was gone, and reported it stolen from in front of Jefferson. Ten minutes after I got back to my dorm, a police car showed up with its sirens on, two cops got out, looked at the bikerack, and saw his bike. Case closed. I can just imagine what they said into their radio...
"Hey, dumbass. Thanks for calling in the search party, but your bike is right here... where you left it, in front of Jefferson."
I bet that bike cop felt like an idiot. Serves him right... I felt like an idiot when I had to explain to my dad the $150 dollars of parking tickets he had given me.
Revenge is a dish best served cold... or by accident.
Justice is served.