Just call me Al Capone.


Elderly, suave looking gentleman strides in. He’s dapper and camp and well spoken.

C: So Book of Mormon, eh?
Me: … Yeah.
C: Ho ho ho, yes indeed.
Me: Sorry, what are you asking?
C: Tickets, darling?
Me: I’m currently sold out for the next week, but we might get return tickets on the day of each performance.
C: Oh I love a bit of pot luck, darling.
Me: OK…
C: Now talk to me seriously for a minute, darling – you can trust me. What about this black market you’re running?
Me: Sorry?
C: I’m cool, don’t worry. Tell me about your black market tickets, I don’t mind paying a little cheeky surcharge *winks*.
Me: Black market?
C: *Sotto* The black market you run here…
Me: I’m not running a black market, sorry. And I genuinely am sorry, because that sounds like a bad ass job.
C: Ha, I see. So if I come down here just before the show, I won’t find anyone selling tickets outside the theatre? *Winks again*
Me: There are sometimes touts hanging around but you obviously need to be careful buying from them.
C: Oh naturally. So I’ll come back tomorrow and buy some tickets from you — I mean, THEM *winks again*, yes?
Me: You could try, sure. But you understand, I won’t have any? I don’t run a black market.
C: Don’t worry, message has been received loud and clear… Until tomorrow, darling.

Luckily tomorrow’s my day off, so some other schmuck can deal with the repercussions of that one.


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