'93 Honda: STOLEN!!

Last night, a good friend of mine, we'll call him "Bustin", had his car stolen. Stolen! Not broken into, not vandalized, it was actually taken from right under his well-manicured nose. Now, I understand that this sort of thing can happen, and often does, when you live in the big city. We all know the stories and have seen the movies. Chop shops do in fact, exist in the real world. The thing I can't figure out is why someone would want his particular car. I guess a few facts are in order.

For the past year and half, Bustin and his wonderful wife had been living in the "ghetto" of Buffalo. During this time span, they encountered no problems, no break-ins, no random cross-trail shootings. About a month ago, the happy couple relocated to a much nicer neighborhood, conveniently situated in the heart of Buffalo's Allentown; an area more known for its artistic community and plethora of late night hang-outs than for auto theft. In the month since they have lived in this quaint little slice of downtown burbia, Bustin's wife has had her tires stolen, her sister had her sideview mirror smashed, and now this: the thievery of Bustin's pride and joy; a 1993 Honda Civic Hatchback with 280,000 miles to its credit.

The scene unfolded as such: Bustin and I had come outside to sit on the front stoop like good little city-kids and have a late night cigarette. The time was just before 2:45am. We sat down, lit our respective cancer sticks, and prepared to settle in for some geek talk on the subject of the newest Mac invention, the ITouch. I looked across the street, to where Bustin's care should have been. To my surprise, it just wasn't there. As a fan of the late Douglas Adams, I at first assumed that a simple SEP (Somebody Else's Problem) field had been erected around the vehicle. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong. The car was gone.

Dezz: Bust, where's your car?

Bustin: Ha Ha, funny. My tires are still there. (in reference to his wife's car)

Dezz: No, dude. Where's your CAR?

Bustin: What?

Dezz: Dude, where's your fucking car?!

Bustin: Oh, fuck...

The whole thing played out like a scene from a bad Ashton Kutcher movie. It was surreal. We called the police, filed a report, and then proceeded to drink ourselves retarded in the faint hopes that it was just a bad dream, and we'd wake up the following morning to find the car safely tucked into its little home next to the sidewalk. Allow me to be the first to tell you, that doesn't work. The car is still missing, and Bustin has a bachelor party to plan without the aid of his trusty Honda to carry the plan to fruition. Fuck.

Dezz