I don’t remember swearing to secrecy…

I was stupid when I was younger. Sorry, rephrase: I was more stupid when I was younger. Stupider, even. If my mother had truly known anything about my friends, she would have told me that Garett, Fred, Ken & all the rest were a bad influence. And she would have been right, god bless them. Amongst the frat boy antics we enjoyed, we decided that holding watergun skirmishes in the mall parking lot in the middle of the night dressed in dark clothing would be a really good idea. I recall spending most of the time hiding in those lonely islands of foliage (dude, you could park two more cars there, it’s not like saving these three bushes makes up for bulldozing & paving over the 500 others. I say go the distance. Really all you’ve accomplished is provided me, perverts, or all of the above with a hiding space. It’s not like the high-school dropout consumer whores [and how!] of Chilliwack are coming back from their hour and forty-five minute shopping therapy with two-four and beaded seat cover in hand declaring “Whoo! It’s so nice to get back to nature, you know?” and then shouting Ricola!!! before they get in their filthy 1978 Honda Accords.) waiting in ambush for somebody to come by so I could get the “jump” on them. When the cops showed up, most of us chose to remain out of sight, but for whatever reason Ken was caught out in the open, and (right or wrong, my memory chooses to tell me) walk towards the police car with realistic (this was in the day before toy guns only came in flourescent orange) water-uzi in hand. As you can imagine, the cops came out of their car with arms over the car door, guns drawn and pointed at Ken. Though nobody was shot or arrested, our little party was clearly over.