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| Can I become a professional pickpocket? | Started by: Pickpocket on Sep 26, '26 10:21 |
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Well, it hasn't been a great start to a life of crime really. There had been a lot of talk about a crew out of Hollywood who were so good that they didn't even need to recruit people, no jobs, nothing. You just had to be spotted and recruited to join them right off the street. So imagine how perfect I thought it was going to be when I found myself picked out of the crowd and sponsored by these guys. Boy, was I wrong. I wasn't able to push much weight on my own, but it was at least something, this crew? Bill Doyle has never even heard of them! No narcotics on this estate. Duchess who? I wasn't going to be getting rich that way, so I had to try something else. I would never get to that 'fuck you' money stage relying on other people so it was time to put some faith in myself. While I decided what I was going to do with the rest of my life, I thought I would cheer myself up by picking a few pockets, which should be simple enough for a guy called "Pickpocket" right? First job, $355 made. It was easy. I'm a genius. I nabbed the wallet of JuanitaPfftNoticeThi, which was practically falling out of her bright red shorts so it would have been rude not to take it and now I had enough to take the rest of the afternoon off if I want to. I feel the rush of being a success. Are you proud of me, Dad? I'm going to make it. I'm going to be someone. Which shall I buy first, the boat or the plane? Second job then on my journey to being the greatest pickpocket of all time. Should be a piece of piss like that opener, surely. Oh. I chanced my arm on AngelGonyer and barely got near to him before he was whirling around and threatening to break my fingers if I put them anywhere near him. That knocked my confidence a bit, I'm too handsome to get punched in the mush. Maybe I'll not do anything that might put me out of action for tomorrow. Gotta protect the money-maker and all that.
A great start on day 1. I managed to clear $355 with a 50% success rate. Making my overall career stats: Total successes: 1 Total failures: 1 Amount made: $355 Greatest pickpocket of all time status: not quite yet. |
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| Report Post | Tips: 25 / Total: $500,000 Tip |
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Day 2 was going to be even better than day 1, I just knew it. I awoke full of confidence and morning glory hard enough to butter my toast. This was going to be great and I was never going to have to rely on DuchessDingleberry, Nevaa or Fusillio-Pestoni making themselves known enough to the local FBN agent to be able to get enough money to eat ever again. What a man I was. Glorious, erect and successful. By the time I'd actually made it onto the street it was past midday. Who needed to start early when you were clearing $335 right off the bat? I decided that the high street would be a good place to start, lots of hustle and bustle and opportunities to ply my trade. I saw a guy in a long jacket and grey hat who didn't seem like he was paying attention. There was a bulge in his pants and I was sure it was his wallet and not just him being happy to see me. I let him get ahead of me before I made my move, fingers lightly brushing against his pants pocket...
Oh shit, he whirled around, saw my questing fingers, raised an eyebrow and gave me a wicked grin. Maybe that bulge wasn't just his wallet after all. What a mess. I managed to get out there with my dignity still intact but it was a close run thing. I was still breathing hard, head resting against the wall when I felt something tug against my jacket. What the hell?
I frantically patted my coat, then my trouser legs. I could only feel my keys. Where the fuck was my money? I'd been carrying a fat wad so people thought I was a big shot and now what, had I dropped it? Wait. Dropped it? From an inside pocket? No. I'd been...I'd been fucking robbed! ME! How dare they?! I felt so violated. Was this how my victims felt, alone, sweaty and impotently enraged? Never a-fucking-gain. I was furious and knew the only way back from this was to get out on the street and earn my supper. I stalked a few civilians without success and then I found a potential target. I'd seen him around and about a few times and by all accounts his family were able to deal drugs. He must be loaded - a perfect mark. I charged right at him, still hurting from losing all of my money, abandoning all sense of surprise and choosing to try and overpower him.
I woke up on the floor, face throbbing. Turned out I couldn't overpower him after all. Whoops. He'd beat the piss out of me and left me with a fat lip and likely a mild concussion. The sun felt bright on my face and I could feel the heat working up my body. It was a very persistent heat thinking about it, gently tugging at my pockets, inside my jacket, trying to roll me over...wait a fucking minute. Was it happening again? Fuck no. My eyes snapped open and I saw the ugliest face I'd ever seen in my life staring back at me, mouth gaping, stupid and afraid. "Shit!" he mumbled, staggering away. I felt an anger burning in me hotter than his searching paws had ever been and I was on my feet in seconds. He turned and ran but I was quicker. I was on him, launching myself into his back sending us both clattering to the floor. I let my fists go pounding him like my meat earlier that day, time after time into his head, arms, legs, anywhere I could reach, as I felt him finally go limp beneath me - also like this morning - and I drew in a breath. Victory. I was fucking back. I reached a hand into his pocket and found a fat and rather effeminate looking coin purse. Tearing it open I saw it was full to the brim.
Fucking yes. Pickpocket 1 - 0 Lame little bitches. I gave him one good kick for good measure and then I took off, calling it a night to count my winnings.
I poured all the money I had made into the bath and got into it, naked. It actually didn't fill it up very high so I got out a little while later feeling cold. It took a bit of time to get it all back out and then I felt a bit dirty from the day and the money bath so got a shower. No losses on day 3, that was going to be the key. |
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| Reply by: Pickpocket at Sep 26, '26 10:51 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 6 / Total: $120,000 Tip |
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I had gone to bed with the glories of the previous day replaying themselves in my mind like a teenager's favourite wank. $19,529 ahead of the game for just two days of work, all while my crew were still trying their best to finally make themselves known to the local FBN agent. I had been premature in assuming that a lack of recruitment was a sign of prestige, because apparently this exclusivity was more like quarantine for morons. I was probably the wealthiest person in Hollywood now after banking 5 figures. Would it be too presumptuous to rename it Pocketwood at this stage? Hollypocket perhaps? No need to rush into something, I could think of the name later. I could actually pay someone to think of it for me with how much cheddar I had. Tempting as it was to spend the day in bed patting myself on the back for being amazing, I decided I could do even better. Early bird gets the worm and the early pickpocket gets...the wallets? That name-thinker was going to be paying for himself but the sentiment was right and I was out in the sunshine. 9am and on the hunt. I scanned the street looking for my next payday. My nostrils twitched, I could virtually smell all the chip butties I was going to order tonight. My nostrils flexed and this time the scent wasn't aspirational delicacies, it was stale sweat and shame. I whirled around recognising it instantly but I was too slow. Oliver_Norwood tackled me cleanly to the ground in a way his namesake could only dream of. I hit the pavement hard, an audible "oof" escaping my lips as that fat bastard landed flush on top of me, my wallet and keys making a break for it. Norwood was up first, I still felt groggy and before I could get air into my lungs, he had nabbed the wallet and was rifling through the contents. He tossed it towards me, empty. "Dibs, chump," he smirked, shit-eating grin splitting his face, stuffing my fat wad into his waistband.
There had been $15,000 in there. 15 fucking thousand. Why was I carrying so much? Simple; I'm a big fucking deal now. I could carry less, but I could also be a moany little meff with a terrible taste in food, clothes and interns and I'm not. That type of thinking would get me nowhere. I was the man now. Mr Money. I had to act like it. What if I needed to buy some really expensive champagne to impress a couple of bar bitches? Let them down? Look like a poor? Fuck. That couldn't be my life. Was I going to have to buy some off-licence swill to drink alone in the park? Was that who I was now? A fucking loser? No. I was up, head spinning and legs pumping, gunning for Norwood. How long had I been on the floor? Couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. I staggered around the corner and there he was, slumped against the wall. I thought I would probably have to chase after him for a bit. I guess that tiny amount of running had been too much for him. I gritted my teeth, and patted him down. Where had he stashed it? I slapped him a few times and my hand hurt. I didn't let on though because I was too cool for that. "Where'd you put it, Norwood?" He was red in the face, blowing hard, wheezing. Was he asthmatic, having a heart attack or just completely unfit from doing the bare minimum for a shit football team? Hard to know. After 30 seconds of waiting for him to get his words out, with intermittent slaps for motivation, I heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. I looked up. A woman from a nearby store was pointing in my direction and a small crowd was gathering. I booted Norwood in the face, drawing a scream from the woman and let him drop to the deck.
The sirens were getting closer. I snarled and turned my back on him. I definitely wasn't fishing around in his shorts for it and it didn't look like time was on my side. Furiously, I abandoned my former assailant and made a run for it. $15,000 down the pan. What a fucking disaster. |
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| Reply by: Pickpocket at Sep 27, '26 22:23 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 2 / Total: $40,000 Tip |
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Day 3, more like the day God decided to take a massive fucking shit on my plate and force me to eat it. Half past fucking 9 and I was $15,000 down and absolutely furious. Not being able to recover anything from Norwood had left me foaming at the mouth for vengeance and I ran straight into the next person I saw. That happened to be some girl I didn't recognise. Was it cowardly or inclusive to try and rob her? I wasn't sure and I hadn't cared, I just needed a quick win.
God, and Sibby apparently, had other plans. My hand got tangled on the strap of her purse and I couldn't yank it off her shoulder. She was shouting and people were looking and then I was keeling over, a foot lodged firmly in my bollocks, taking the anger and the wind out of me all at once. What a shitty, shitty morning this had turned into. I was still about five grand up for the week so I licked my wounds with a nice lunch. Maybe I didn't deserve it for that performance. Maybe I didn't care though because maybe it would be the tonic for these shitty day 3 vibes and I'd heard good things about the luncheon lobster ravioli at The Goddess Ravioli so treated myself. Sue me. Bet you having got the rocks for it. Yeah, that's what I thought. So would the afternoon treat me any better? Absolutely fucking not. I managed to get my pocket picked twice more, losing some of my savings in the process, not only what I had made, and I washed that down by failing to take even so much as a dollar from a dodgy looking officer.
You know what would make this terrible day just a bit better? If maybe one of the fucking dummies who ran this crew of retards started hassling me rather than making sure we could deal drugs.
The balls on this piece of shit. Too busy to show his face around the local speakeasy but catches the slightest whiff of my arsehole and he's all over me. I wasn't having it, absolutely fucking not. I turned around and smashed him in the mouth. He looked surprised that an associate would put hands on the second in command. Then he looked like someone was punching him in the face and breaking his nose. He probably would have had something to say about it but it turns out to be quite hard to talk around Pickpocket's foot lodged in your gob kicking your teeth out. I left him unconscious in a pool of his own blood and it was the best I'd felt all day. Some of my money was covered in whatever was leaking out of him though, his soul probably. Bastard. I was still going to end down for the exchange and was starting to feel the day's shenanigans.
My foot was hurting, my hand was hurting and my wallet was gaping open like the deepest pan in 12th Street, yearning to be filled. I was desperate. I needed something to show for the day, it couldn't be a complete waste. I saw another dodgy looking officer and limped my way up to him. What was I doing? He was literally watching me approach him, with his worst 'why is this homeless sign-wielding dickhead trying to make eye contact with me' look on his face. Dad?
He looked at me and shook his head, disgusted. Even I was ashamed of this. Could my dreams of renaming a district after myself because I had one good day have been somewhat premature? It seemed like it. I turned around, doing my best not to embarrass myself further by crying or something dorky and because I was ignoring the burning at the back of my throat, wiping my eye and taking some deep breaths, I didn't even see Right Hand Retard waiting for me.
That was it. I was fucked. I didn't even have the energy to go after him. Blood was streaming down my face and I was Done, with a capital D and wishing a massive D would ram Nevaa right in the ass for the next 12 hours straight. I staggered home half expecting it to have blown up in my absence or some other equally galling calamity to top off the worst day of my life. No, it was still here. I went to the fridge and slapped a steak against my rapidly swelling cheeks because I'd seen that in a movie once and thought it was probably what tough, cool guys like me did when life was trying to swing them around by the bollocks. I winced as I settled into a chair. I sat there for awhile wishing death on Nevaa. It made me feel a bit better. Reluctantly, I grabbed my notepad and grimaced at the little stick drawing I'd made the night before of me smoking a cigar and carrying a massive swag bag. I flipped to a clean page.
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| Reply by: Pickpocket at Sep 27, '26 23:01 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 6 / Total: $200,000 Tip |
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I've been watching you, Pickpocket, and taking an interest in your career path. It's a noble calling that is not often enough pursued. Do not get discouraged. Everyone has to go through "boot camp" where they get the shit kicked out of them regularly before they grow up to be one of the shit kickers. You have been at it for less than one Simon. Keep practicing. By the time you are three Simons or one Bruiser, you will be ready to claim your glory. |
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| Reply by: Levon at Sep 29, '26 06:11 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 1 / Total: $20,000 Tip |
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Day 3 or, 'the shittest day in the history of all the days which have ever existed' as some people had taken to calling it, was behind me. I was over it. Blocked, forgotten and flushed away like a very bloody and expensive dump. Day 4, time for retribution. Time to stand up and be counted. Was I a pickpocket or a lame little bitched based RPG man? My solitary successfully picked pocket answered that with 335 resounding confirmations. I was a thief, damnit. Today was going to be my day. I was going to fuck it like the dirtiest whore on the game until there was absolutely nothing left. Not even a jizzy tissue. 5AM. Wide awake. Carrying a slight limp from the day before but out on the street, prowling. Hunting. Part-rage, part-adrenaline and all-fucking-business. I saw a Wise Guy I recognised, Soldaatje. He looked drunk, honestly, dumb little hat and sunglasses barely clinging to his face as he staggered across the street. This was it, back on the horse. He fell down. His wallet was right there. He tried to get up, failed and sprawled back down, face first. Number 2, baby. I reached out to take it... "HEY, YOU!" cried a weak and nasally voice from across the street.
I looked up, arm still outstretched and saw Nevaa coming towards me. Does this guy not have actual work to do? Surely not being able to secure us the right to sell narcotics takes up some of his time? Evidently not. I left Soldaatje on the street, snoring softly. Maybe this would be less about robbery today and more about beating up dweeby jumped-up nerds. I rolled up my sleeves.
A short while later and Nevaa was bathing in a pool of his own blood, piss and brain tissue exactly where he belonged. I gave him a kick for good measure and was off on my way. I had taken everything he had to his name, which looked a bit like $360 I had bathed in only two days ago. Still, despite the early failed attempt I was up for the day, which was definitely something and surely on the cosmic scale beating Nevaa to an unrecognisable pulp had to count for something, right? Wrong. Twice more my pockets were tickled and it was around here I discovered several obstacles in my path.
Firstly, I was like caviar to the uncouth morons of this country. They just couldn't keep their hands away from me and it was starting to impact upon my bank balance. Secondly, and perhaps more concerningly, targets in my...shall we say...price range, were somewhat scarce. The people I could mainly see were either surrounded by hundreds of bodyguards or in the process of getting themselves pinched. Once they were inside, I seemingly lacked the skill to break them out. Good job I wasn't called Jailbreak or this would be even more embarrassing. I returned home that evening with off-licence booze in my hand. I had succumbed to the reality of my finances. The heady heights of day 1 seemed a distant memory as I tallied up the figures.
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| Reply by: Pickpocket at Sep 29, '26 12:25 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 6 / Total: $120,000 Tip |
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Obsidian walks confidently and relaxed onto the rickety podium that's holding up over the years of abuse. "Maybe we can make this more interesting. How about ~$50k for the online location for Pickpocket? Moreover, an offer of ~$75k for performing a pickpocket attempt on Pickpocket? Also, ~$100k for each successful pickpocket of Pickpocket? Furthermore, ~$250k per successful mugging via pickpocket attempts on Pickpocket." "I welcome input and thoughts via people from the streets on the relevant topic." He then proceeded to stroll down from the podium into his waiting 1951 Chrysler Imperial Convertible driven by a soldier from the zips fresh off the boat. The zips crew are loyal yet ruthless when ordered to do a job no matter the involved risk. Somewhat different than the conventionally raised associates in a rich United States told to pursue their own American dream. He recently bought the car and it was a real beauty. The ’51 Imperial ragtop rolls up like it owns the block—long, low, all chrome, whitewall, and with bad intentions. Under that hood sits a 331 Hemi, smooth enough for Sunday mass and mean enough to move when the heat starts closing in. Top down, leather shining, it’s the kind of car a made man drives when he wants everybody on the sidewalk to know somebody important just arrived. Maybe this would be a good opportunity for friends of ours to earn cash off of pickpocketing activities. If necessary, the price is negotiable on a case-by-case basis to make certain the proper people on these shores are properly incentivized. Heck, maybe even gifts to the friends of ours or possibly diamonds and gold bouillon (credits) to those who demonstrate their enforcer skillset. Obsidian pondered the situation for a few moments while driving away from the venue, escorted by his designated ten-man crew assigned by a Sicilian, Giuseppe, who had just flown in from Sicily. Obsidian was now a street boss with several caporegimes who reported to him and needed the bodies to make a point on the streets and to take over collection duties from his properties as well as ensuring protection for businesses purposes. Their presence is necessary to the critical work of being involved in the many ongoing criminal rackets. Obsidian had already bought several cash-income-based properties across the nation. This required calling in a favor for a ten-man crew, the zips, with extensive experience of military-trained soldiers led by a man named Giuseppe, who had flown in from Sicily on red-eye. Albeit, Obsidian had bought them all first-class tickets out of his own pocket to make sure they were well rested on arrival. These ten professionally trained men from Sicily conduct duties without hesitation alongside their military training that essentially felt like a lifetime ago to each. The Sicilian zip driving Obsidian's Chrysler Imperial was Giuseppe. He had been raised in a rural Sicilian family, completed compulsory service in the Italian Army, and later spent time in a postwar infantry unit. He learned discipline, weapons familiarity, basic fieldcraft, vehicle handling, and how to function inside a rigid hierarchy. Personality-wise, he is quiet, formal, observant, and intensely respectful of hierarchy. He doesn’t talk simply to fill silence. Military service has made him punctual, composed, physically disciplined, and comfortable taking orders, but Sicily taught him something equally important: relationships matter more than titles. For each of the zips fresh off the boat, the biggest advantage, and that of each of the newly arrived zip of a ten-man gang known with Giuseppe being the leader of the group functioning as the Capodice of the zips crew. They each looked relatively anonymous in America. None of them have an American criminal record, few local connections outside their sponsors, and little public reputation. Each zips biggest weakness is the opposite: they don't yet understand American culture, slang, police practices, or the more commercial style of American organized crime. Stylistically, picture dark wool suits, a narrow tie, polished black shoes, inexpensive but immaculate watches, cigarettes, cropped military-influenced haircuts, and each owning a worn leather suitcase containing nearly everything he owns. To be precise, a newly arrived zip faction with the capo of the gang with the name Giuseppe. Each zip soldier possesses both criminal experience and skills acquired as mafiosio in addition to the Sicilian-born mobsters being military-trained professionals. These individuals serve as enforcers for the Sicilian-based Cosa Nostra. Each zip is fresh from Sicily, Army-trained, disciplined, and unreadable. He isn’t impressed by American gangsters, doesn’t waste words, and still carries himself more like a soldier than a street hood. Taking proactive measures regarding the law or mob rivals, Obsidian had minimal to zero face-to-face engagement with those who aren't friends of ours or members of his crew. Only those who have performed the oath of omertà when the books were open and had been vouched for by a friend of ours with whom has made their bones and has the notoriety nationwide either due to consistent earnings and rackets or through vicious violence with muscle and, without fail, methodically execute orders such as when painting houses, B&E, or intimidating people as to make a point when needed. Obsidian is a firm believer in the concept of "walking and talking" and only permitting his caporegimes to meet directly with him. His sole interactions about business are with uomini d’onore. No information passes from Obsidian’s mouth to anyone not being one of his captains and their respective gang of associates and button-men whose purpose is to earn and paint houses on these shores as dictated by him. He's obsessed with the idea of insulating himself and using nicknames and code phrases when speaking on criminal matters to trip up anyone stupid enough trying to listen. Ultimately, Obsidian knew his pockets were safe. |
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| Reply by: Obsidian at Oct 02, '26 09:54 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 2 / Total: $140,000 Tip |
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SUPPLEMENTAL (CORRECTION): Capodecina, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capodecina in the tenth paragraph for line/row #3. |
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| Reply by: Obsidian at Oct 02, '26 10:04 | |
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Day 4 hadn't been great, it was true. It was tough to spin losing nearly $2,500 in an afternoon any other way. The only saving grace for those 24 hours had been kicking Nevaa right in the nutsack and recovering $360. Not exactly what I had set out to achieve and being nearly 50 large in the hole wasn't exactly the best opening to my change of career either but at least he wouldn't be able to reproduce now. Back on the horse though, no rest for the wicked and any other idioms which may apply were hard-applied and I was out on the town. The morning proved to be eventful. Nevaa, not having learned his lesson from the prior day's mauling, tipped up with his greasy little chubb rubbers and dipped into my pockets. There wasn't anything in there and he was such an abomination of a being that I didn't really want to waste the effort beating the brakes off him agaom, so I let him slide away back to his cum-drenched incel palace thinking he'd won.
First up for me was drunk as shit Soldaatje, flat out on his back in the gutter for the second day in a row. Right, this time, surely. I reached in and lifted his wallet as he snored on blissfully unaware he was even being robbed. I snorted to myself flipping it open and began to thumb through a respectable wad of notes. Here we go, this is what we're looking for. 100, 200, 300...then I felt something spatter against my leg. I frowned looking down. Holy shit! This dirty drunk bastard was wetting himself and it was going all over me! For fuck's sake. I dropped the wallet. I didn't want his pissy money.
This was starting to feel oddly familiar. What would complete my déjà vu would be running into Nevaa again and smacking his few remaining teeth out while he fondled my wallet inappropriately.
What a piece of shit. My hand was throbbing. I called time on the morning given that I was now covered in blood and piss, and headed off to lunch. Nothing fancy, a little bite back at my apartment and a change of clothes cursing whatever horrible bitch had dropped Nevaa from her nethers. What I could really do with was not being hounded by a little bitch boy RHM all day so that I could actually pull off some stealthy picking of pockets. Would that be too hard? Is that too much to ask, Jesus? Evidently, yes.
Three more times this disgusting wank-gone-wrong followed me around like a noncey shadow. I didn't even have the heart to crush him, he was clearly getting some sort of sexual thrill from it at this point and I decided that not engaging might be the key to success. Unfortunately having a creepy dweeb looking over your shoulder every 5 minutes was as off-putting to potential pickpocketing victims as it was to attractive women.
Two officers escape my grasp and in the back of my mind I was beginning to consider if that perhaps I had made a terrible mistake. Was I...was I actually just a fucking terrible pickpocket?
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| Reply by: Pickpocket at Oct 02, '26 15:52 | |
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Game is officially closed indefinitely. |
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| Reply by: Obsidian at Oct 02, '26 18:23 | |
| Report Post | Tips: 1 / Total: $20,000 Tip |
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Being an enthralled viewer of this scenario played out in the Streets for all to see, TeQ finally speaks: |
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| Reply by: Father-TeQ at Oct 03, '26 14:34 | |
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Minimum $20,000
