Fraud Log: Or, How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate the World

Unsure of what the day would bring, I rolled out of bed with both apprehension and a strong desire to kick a 12-year-old's ass. My credit card had been used to fraudulently purchase almost a thousand dollars worth of cell phones, and I couldn't help but think of some little punk hacking my internet connection while his parents were downstairs finalizing their divorce because their son is such a douche. He doesn't even know the pain he's causing people, and is blissfully unaware of the beating he's got coming to him. I'm like 6', 175 lbs. I could knock a crater into of this kids head with my fist.

8:34 a.m.

UPS called me to confirm the delivery of said fraudulent goods. Yeah, I'll be home alright, UPS, take it easy. God help whoever comes to my home to steal from me. I asked my wife to get me a weapon, and she suggested the machete from the shed. I told her the plan wasn't so much to murder the thief as it was a good old fashioned bludgeoning. Wife leaves for work; me and the crow bar stand guard.

9:02 a.m.

My thoughts have turned to elaborate ways to catch a thief. Chris Hansen, "To Catch a Predator" comes to mind. Although I'm not in the market for a pedophile, his tactics are wildly successful. I don't have the financing he does, and have thus far been unable to find a young girl to act as bait. I have my fingers crossed that someone will respond to my ad soon. I've made my house to look as though no is home, how it would appear every normal day out of the week. This person will see the UPS guy drop off a package, assume no one is home, and stroll onto my porch to collect his prize. In reality, I'm staked out waiting for this guy, with the shades drawn, my car parked down the street, and my overweight yet comically-inclined partner trying to stay awake. There's really no partner, but I could certainly use some company. Next I envisioned myself rappelling down from the roof, upside-down, and tapping him on the shoulder when he bends over to pick up his package. He stands up, first alarmed, and then terrified when he sees the vigilante justice he's about to experience. Yeah, all that sounds good.

9:18 a.m.

I suspect everyone. Every car contains a potential criminal, every schoolchild a possible genius internet hacker. My neighbors will no longer receive the friendly nod we once shared when we passed mowing our lawns or leaving for work in the morning. Those days are gone. Instead, I've come to accept what my paranoid father has been telling me since I was young. "Everyone's out to screw you and get theirs...give an inch and they'll take a mile." Well, Dad, you win. I gave an inch when I left my wireless network unsecured, and my credit card number stored on Amazon. Rookie mistakes. They may have gotten theirs for now, but wait till this log hits around noontime, when I expect the score to go down. He's stealing, he's stealing, HE'S DEAD! Who's laughing now, a-hole.

10:38 a.m.

Maybe I'm crazy, but I've begun to entertain the notion that my wife may be setting me up. I'm not sure how I fit into all this, but I think I'm getting closer to the truth. My dog's shifty eyes aren't helping, and I now suspect he may somehow be involved. Again, I have no solid evidence at this time, but I've seen enough TV to know when I should go with my gut. I think that time is now.

10:54 a.m.

What are the odds, but the mailman and the trash man just showed up within twenty seconds of each other, and neither of them knows how close they came to tasting a little crow. I almost had a friggin' coronary. Hot blinding rage flashed across my eyes for a second there, and I don't even want to think about what I'm going to do when the real criminals show up...Lord have mercy.

11:18 a.m.

A friend called, and after explaining my situation, he suggested I booby-trap the package. I immediately declined, noting the explosion necessary to catch a thief would most likely cause some form of structural damage to my home. He countered with the idea of not trying to kill the criminal, instead, filling the box with something unpleasant...something, um, organic...something, I could personally supply. Enough hints? I hope everyone understands what I'm getting at. I can't bring myself to say it in such fine company. Again, I declined, but only after a serious measure of consideration. I mean, wouldn't that be priceless? They get home, expecting fraudulently purchased cell phones, only to be greeted by a smiling ass kabob. Can I say that? I don't know, but this is my story, so just deal with it.

11:58 a.m.

More friends have called, all with caring offers for help. Do I need backup? What if this person is much larger than I am, or, regardless of his size, is somehow skilled in the arts of beating up weak, skinny white guys? As this poses a potential problem, I've decided the crow bar won't work on its own. It needs help in the form of my favorite element...the element of surprise.

1:16 p.m.

I've spent the last hour dressed as the scarecrow my wife had placed on our porch as a decoration, but to no avail. Not only do I not look the part (I was drinking a beer with lunch), but I'm also incapable of sitting still for any length of time. I found the neighborhood is relatively quiet mid-day, though, which is the perfect time to lure some unsuspecting consumer into a web of fraudulent charges and subsequent bad credit. No longer the optimist I once was, I do however have a growing sense of calm surrounding me. I hear music playing off in the distance, and somewhere a dog barks at a passing truck...

1:17 p.m.

It turns out that was my dog barking after he had escaped my yard and almost got run over by a truck. I may have blown my cover running up and down the street after Joe while dressed as a scarescrow, and now consider myself to be the worst person to conduct surveillance in the history of the world. I guess I'll get to shredding the business cards I had printed up.

2:06 p.m.

Still nothing. It may seem unnecessary, but I've taken the added precaution of alerting the police to my situation, and have also placed an ambulance on standby, assuming someone is going to bleed before the day is done. I'm not sure if you've ever been hit with a crow bar before, but it has the potential to open up a fragile 12-year-old skull. I hear head wounds bleed, hence the ambulance. Conversely, if I'm attacked, it's good knowing the ambulance has been instructed to head to my house if I don't make my scheduled contacts every half hour. They were pissed, claiming they had better things to do than sit by the phone, but hey, this is the real deal over here. Potential for blood and all that.

2:38 p.m.

"UPS, you gotta sign for this!" I was startled out of my reverie by the husky voice of a disgruntled UPS driver. I stepped outside and scanned the neighborhood, looking for anybody I could instantly pass judgment on and assault with my ever-ready crow bar. No one. I almost hit the UPS guy just to get it out of my system. I signed, and ever so nonchalantly placed the package on my doorstep. Upon doing so, I crept back into my darkened home and again played the waiting game. My favorite game, as it requires no action on my part, and I'm generally a lazy-type individual.

3:17 p.m.

The package has not moved, and no matter how hard I will ever passerby to make a dash for my porch, so far not one has strayed from their innocent paths. No worries though. I have a plan to entice them out.

3:31 p.m.

The "FREE CELL PHONES" sign is not producing. I fear I may have warned the crooks that someone is on to them. Still no movement other than my own diminishing desire to sit and watch a brown box on my front porch. As I sit and ponder what else I could be spending my time doing, it dawns on me that I could point to possibly a dozen different things I've done today which any half-baked scam artist would be scared away from. Understanding this, the ending to my day is pretty anti-climactic. After any good stake-out comes the paperwork, which I'm off to attend to. There's the police report to file, fraud alerts to place on my credit, a few credit cards to cancel, and now a brown box which needs to be returned. Damn 12-year-olds and their damn internet.

5:15 p.m.

Having contacted Amazon about the phones, I was instructed to send them back to the return address. As these were delivered through UPS, I couldn't simply write "Return to Sender" across the package and be done with it. So this left me with a problem. Who's going to pay for this shipment? It sure as hell isn't going to be me. Not a chance, Amazon. You expect me to pick up the tab for that? Yeah, good luck. The police won't take them as any sort of evidence seeing as there is no way to find out who used my credit card. As there's no case, these cell phones are just sitting on my dining room table, and unless Amazon sends me money to ship them back, that's where they'll stay. Long story short...anyone need some cell phones? Give you a great deal on them...