Contributor: Robert Bates

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Did that kid’s shoes just fly off?” I ask, looking up at the boy whirling around on the Space Noodle ride.

“Yes, they did. We should go pick them up,” says James.

Like the gentlemen we are, we go and retrieve the kid’s shoes.

“Hey, losers! Give me back my shoes!” the kid shouts furiously.

“We went and got them for you,” I try to explain.

“Stop stealing my shoes! Thieves! Scoundrels! I’m going to punch you scallywags in the face!”

“This kid has quite the vocabulary. Let’s go hide his shoes,” I say deviously.

We throw the shoes under a tent and go on about our teenage business.

“Are you kidding me? That kid is on a golf cart with the chief of police!” says James, pointing out into the distance.

But before either of us can get away, the two drive up to us at the supersonic speed of five miles per hour.

“So, he tells me you two boys stole his shoes,” the bald police officer says with a thick southern accent.

“We picked them up to give them back to him but he started threatening us so we threw them under a tent over there. He hurt my feelings,” James says.

“Look guys, he is six, I’m pretty sure he can’t hurt you. Let’s just act like this never happened, no big deal.”

I go home shortly after that and speak to my father.

“Anything exciting happen at the fair?”

“Nope, just the usual stuff.”

“The police chief had an interesting night. Apparently two outlaws stole his grandson’s shoes.”

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