Like every Dope City neighbourhood that does not have a Hells Angel on the block my neighbourhood experiences break-ins. Burglaries were rare as common sense in a Sunday sermon when Sonja and I took up residence in rubber boot Steepleton many years ago. We now appear to have caught up with the rest of a region where the cops have thrown up their arms and ask, "What the fuck are we supposed to do about it?"
Until we end the various Prohibitions (and convince the overly well-to-do that they have no need to be so avaricious) that cause the need in people to clean out their neighbours' houses of valuables we will have to continue living with the threat of theft.
I have only been broken into once in my life. Some lowlife motherfucker walked into one of my punk rock apartments and stole a bag of my weed. It was the only thing of value I owned at the time besides my pornography collection and Anne Murray records.
When I was walking the Hammer in the sunny park this morning with a couple of my neighbours two cops walked into the park. One of them asked us, "Have any of you seen any suspicious looking characters this morning?"
We had not. Turns out they were looking for five bulky individuals in black leather jackets responsible for at least one break-in in the middle of the night. I tend to think of break-ins being the work of skinny junk-mad feebs. The description the police gave made it sound more like they were members of someone's crew.
Sonja and I have never been broken into since we began keeping four legged muscle around our various homes. Strangler, Ranger and the Hammer have all had a keen sense of who needs to be discouraged from feeding their habit with our shit. Burglars accept the fact they might get nicked by the police. But the consequences of being nicked by the Hammer have thus far kept order in the Hockey house.