My prescious boot'y

I am known by many names in the home…I have been called ‘Overseer’ by many of the nameless who reside here. Others call me ‘The Cambodian Mole Squasher’ or sometimes ‘Squirrelboy‘ and Dishes calls me ‘The Guy Who Stole All My Shaving Cream’ but most importantly around town I am known as the Bootman.

 

I own over a hundred stolen car boot wheel locks that I have obtained through nefarious means and my collection grows everyday. I own more car boots than anyone in the county and that is a fact because I posted it online and NOBODY dared refute my status or claims. I store most of them in the workshed outside the home and I have many locks on the door to keep out the dogs and children from inside my bootshop. There is a homeless boy named Bootsy who I pay to gather up the car boots for me and his methods are so very mysterious but I imagine it has to do with magic and that welding kit he keeps in his plastic backpack (his services are not for sale by the way if you are considering taking that bootsnatcher from me I will call the police and you will go to jail because that is theft).

You will usually find me hard at work in my bootshop crafting beautiful contraptions and devices from the precious metal of the boot. Sometimes I will take several boots paint them black and meld them into bear traps. I carefully set these at the doorway to Frisbee’s basement lair to catch the wolves that come up at night (A note to families: do not send me letters about this I have the area clearly marked and I have closed off the area with some tape and I also set up all the wet floor signs I could find to keep your friends and relatives away from the boot traps)

 

There are noxious fumes that come from the Frisbee lair and I often wonder what he is doing down there. My boss told me I should stop thinking about it and get to work well guess who got a boot on their precious Volvo parked outside…I put a boot lock on all four tires and these are rigged to spray cat food all over the place when you try to disengage them. When my boss called the police to get them off they told it they couldn’t because these were rogue bootlocks aka someone going around town stealing boots off the cars and doing god knows what with them.

My boss is so old and decrepit that it needs a cane to walk around and every time I see its boney claw-hand clutch the door frame I duck under my desk and hide there so it doesn’t see me. For what seems like hours I will crouch in the hollow of my desk as I hear disgusting breathing sounds coming from above me and the clearing of throat and I close my eyes until it shuffles away. I don’t know if my boss is a man or woman because of how it gnashes its ghastly teeth when it speaks to me and it always smells like perfume but there is hair all over the face like the wolfmen. There is a statue of my boss I made in the bootshop built from many pieces of the boots and when I go in there I point my finger and scream my lungs out at it because this is what I want to do in real life (yell at boss monster) but sometimes when I go in there at night I forget about the boss statue in the corner and when I see it I pass out in fear but this is a rare thing.

LISTEN I WOULD LIKE YOU TO KNOW THAT LATER THAT DAY I TOOK ALL THE BOOTS OFF MY BOSS’ CAR AND LEFT A NOTE ON THE WINDSHIELD THAT SAID ‘DEAR MADAM OR SIRS SORRY FOR THE BOOT BUT HEED MY WARNING BE NICE TO YOUR EMPLOYEES AND LET THEM PUT BOOT TRAPS ANYWHERE THEY LIKE BECAUSE IT KEEPS THE WOLVES FROM STEALING ALL THE MEAT IN THE HOUSE. IF YOU REFUSE I WILL PROCEED TO YELL HARD AT THE METAL STATUE I HAVE OF YOU IN MY SHED’ ~ THE BOOTMAN