From Iceland — Dear Thieves: You'll Rot In Hell

Dear Thieves: You’ll Rot In Hell

Published July 3, 2009

Dear Thieves: You’ll Rot In Hell

“Well, I can’t freeze your card unless you give me your card number.”
“But I’m calling because my wallet was stolen. And my card is in my wallet. Can you find my account with my name or customer number.”
“No. You don’t have your card number?”
“The card number is on the card in my wallet.”
“… and you don’t have it?”
“My fucking wallet was stolen, yo! Just cancel it now so whoever has it in their possession can’t spend my remaining 20€ and I can maybe buy some phone credit when this is all done with to make up for the time I’m wasting talking with you!”
To quell the nerves of my parents who raised me beautifully and instilled in me a respectful phone etiquette and generally stellar set of manners, I will clarify that the last line of that conversation was only screamed loudly inside my head. What made it audibly through my clenched teeth and the receiver to the infuriatingly daft Finnish banking representative was a polite Canadian “no, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
It wasn’t just one card and it wasn’t just one call made between the hours of 12 and 2 a.m. on the morning of Friday June 26th. However, the three Canadian banks I contacted swiftly cancelled my cards with an apologetic “oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” similar to what one would expect to hear following the death of a loved one. Appropriate, since I have loved each and every one of those credit and debit cards at one point or another, especially when they were tied to accounts that actually had balances in the double (or triple!) digits. Oh Visa, I’ll never forget all the wonderful times we’ve shared over the years. Your cash advances will always have a place in my heart. My broke, moneyless heart.
Back to the matter at hand. I was robbed, people!
There I was, minding my own business, looking all fine and shit; my head swathed in a crisp white bandana in recognition of the Retrön listening party I was attending at Karamba. My wallet had just been in my hands, as I returned the Finnish bankcard that would later be the cause of much contention to its rightful place among its plastic friends. I then slid the finely crafted leather portefeuille into my purse, which hung on the side of my chair, safely between my boyfriend and I, and enjoyed the final sips of my beer before retiring at a reasonable hour on account of my dedication to the publication you are currently enjoying.
A short walk down the road – where a post-drink food stop was being made – I found myself frantically rummaging through my cluttered purse, but no wallet was to be found.
Back to Karamba. Nothing.
I didn’t want to leap to conclusions – I like to maintain at least a modicum of trust in mankind – but a phone call to my credit card company in Canada informing me of sizeable charges made to my Visa at Zimsen minutes prior to that call launched me directly into the unmistakable zone of conclusions. This city is full of untrustworthy thieves and assholes, and possibly people that fall under the hybrid category of asshole-thieves. The person in possession of my wallet falls under that third category. They also most likely kick puppies, ejaculate prematurely and beat up their own mom. Just for shits.
I’m bitter, people. I spent most of Friday pouting to myself and cursing the douche who has done god-knows-what with all the prized possessions of my wallet – it’s not just money; it’s my driver’s licence, my birth certificate, the prayer card from my grandmother’s funeral – that are either impossible or hella hard to replace, especially from abroad.
So remember my story and heed my warning: while this city is not actually full of thieves and assholes, it does have some conscienceless people who wrongly feel they are entitled to the earnings and possessions of others, and most likely don’t have souls; they are lurking about and they will not hesitate to steal your shit. They are such pathetic excuses for human beings that they would probably steal a blind man’s dog or an elderly woman’s cane. One day karma will swing around and hit them with the great misfortune that they have worked so hard to bring upon themselves. But in the meanwhile, the rest of us would do well to keep a closer eye on our belongings.

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Enough. Stop. Now.

Enough. Stop. Now.


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