There are many reasons I’ve had a long-standing grudge with the customs people. We’ve both said things we’ve regretted, charged duty we shouldn’t have, made angry phone calls wondering why the tracking isn’t moving, but this latest offence crossed the line. You can abuse a man, you can spit on a man, you can kill a man’s family, but never - ever - steal his RockAuto magnets.
First, a pause for new readers. If you are unfamiliar with RockAuto, I am envious of the precipice you now stand upon. There is still a chance to turn back, to refuse to sate your curiosity. That chance ended two sentences ago. Welcome, friend. When you buy a lot of parts from online car-parts reseller RockAuto, they stick some fridge magnets of other people’s cars in the box with the parts.
The idea is that you will one day, with enough parts ordered, complete the collection. Though this is obviously a cruel fantasy stoked by cynical parts-warehouse demons, it means that each RockAuto magnet lost in transit means a missed opportunity to increase my social standing among my fellow rust-poking weirdos. And some guy at the border was obviously pinching them.
It was subtle at first. A box would arrive with no magnets. I’d shrug my shoulders. Maybe a packer forgot to include them. Perhaps they simply ran out and were waiting for a new shipment because it is winter beater prep season. Some part of me was still suspicious, though. I started meeting the parcel delivery guy at the curb so I could sneak a peek past his shoulder, check if the interior of his delivery van was lined with tiny magnetic Pintos.
As the crime proceeded, though, it became more and more obvious that I was the victim of a border agent’s sticky fingers. They stopped gingerly replacing the proprietary RockAuto tape, and instead just slapped down some Staples-grade parcel shit willy-nilly. Like all thieves, they got sloppier the longer they got away with it.
I thought about my options. I could file a freedom-of-information request, but having the dude’s manager sniffing around would make him go to ground, and I’d never find out the truth. I could form a posse, and forcibly invade the warehouse, searching for the magnets that no doubt wallpapered the purloiner’s cubicle, but as a Canadian I knew that most of our coups ended in disaster, as the treasoneers would often hold the door for the SWAT team sent in to bust their heads.
In the end, I decided simply to join a third-rate political party and slowly work my way up to leader. The news media was surprised that someone with no experience could so rapidly become Prime Minister, but they all complimented my willpower and my drive, commenting that I seemed to be propelled solely by a sense of justice and retribution against government corruption.
I still haven’t had a chance to head over to the customs office yet. It turns out that when you get this high up in the government, you can just have stuff sent to you in diplomatic pouches. Free shipping and I get to keep my magnets. It’s just like they say: power corrupts, but absolute power means I might actually finish replacing the transmission on this fucking Rasheen some time this month.
