It's been a while - I cringe every time I see the post prior to this one. 2015, man. 3 effing years. (During this same amount of time, some of you could have gotten babies, ea...
09 April 2013
Not A Suicide Pact
I was on a mission. I entered the National Bookstore in my province looking for a particular reference book. The security guard gave me a funny look as I walked passed him with my son. An attorney was buying something with his two daughters and the store clerks were milling about the cashier. As I moved across the long and narrow single aisle space to the reference section, I noticed that there were several white office barong-ed plain clothed security guards guarding almost every aisle. That was a little weird. There were also two new trainees that I had never seen before.
I went directly to the stack with reference books as my son milled about. As I frantically looked for the last copy of the needed book, I turned around the corner looking down at the books when I almost ran directly into her. This woman who lives off the stolen wealth of the masses and with her husband and his group who tortured and killed thousands.
I thought for a moment what would happen if I were to somehow manage to kill her there. My death would shortly follow at the hands of one of her many security detail. I continued to look down frantically for a book I knew now was not there. I pretended not to know the law books in the next shelf were just for law books or the refresher and licensure exam books on the adjacent shelf were just for exams. As I figured out what I was called to do, I went to one of the trainee store clerks to ask if they had the book. I knew the SOP. We'd go back to the reference shelf, they'd look everywhere and tell me they only have what is on the shelf and that they haven't got my book.
We went back, looked around and then my son asked me -- is that Imelda Marcos? I said Yes as I continued to look with the trainee store clerk. She slid towards the rear exit that I realized at this point was swarming with security detail.
As we left National Bookstore empty handed, my son told me that she didn't look real especially her hair, "It didn't move," he said. Then he asked me if all super rich people look like that. I didn't answer him exactly. Instead, I told him: "I don't know. It's not her money. It's ours, that money is the money of the entire people of the country, not hers."
And in hindsight, I really could have used a cream pie and a handheld video camera. Next time.