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Zack Morris

in terms of IDs: Both those girls were 36 Cs

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http://www.sptimes.com/2002/04/30/photos/flo-flashing.jpg'>

 

GULFPORT -- Allen Smith props his pool cue against the wall and hangs his head. "Stop laughing," he pleads for the fifth time this afternoon. "It's not funny."

 

But the guys at Buddy's bar keep crowding around Smith, slapping him on the back, pleading, "Man, tell your story again!"

 

"Well, it wouldn't be funny if it happened to you," says Smith, sliding onto a brown vinyl bar stool.

 

"Oh, yes, it would," Mike says.

 

"Stuff like that never happens to me," Matt says sadly.

 

"C'mon, man. We'd all have done the same thing."

 

"What red-blooded American man wouldn't?"

 

"Somebody buy that man another beer."

 

So, bribed by a Bud longneck, Smith begins: "Sunday morning. 5:30 a.m. I wake up and put on a pot of coffee. I'm going to go fishing, so I want to check the tides. So I sit back in my recliner and click on Channel 28. I guess I was kind of dozing off there, waiting for the coffee and the tides and all.

 

"Then I hear this knock at the door."

 

* * *

 

Allen Smith is 52. He has a round face that is almost always crinkled into a grin, sky blue eyes, brown hair cropped short beneath his ball cap. He's lived in a one-story house on Fourth Avenue N since he moved to St. Petersburg 16 years ago.

 

On weekdays, Smith drives trucks and heavy equipment for the city of Gulfport. Most afternoons, when he gets off work, he stops by Buddy's on 49th Street to shoot pool. Some Saturdays, he plays lead guitar and sings in a band called Bacon Fat. Last Saturday, the Saturday before the Sunday morning of this story, Bacon Fat had been playing at Buddy's. Smith had made $68. "Fun money," he calls it. "Bar tab," the bartender says.

 

So anyway, that night, Smith had gotten home about 1 a.m. He had ordered a pizza. Half the pizza was still sitting on the coffee table that Sunday morning, when someone knocked on his door.

 

"So I get up from my chair and ask,"Who is it?' "

 

"It's Kelly, from up the street," a girl answers. "I need to use your phone."

 

Now, Smith doesn't know anyone named Kelly. But then again, he doesn't know all his neighbors. He opens the door.

 

There on his porch, he says, are two of the most beautiful women he's seen (up close) in years. They're both about 5-5, about 120 pounds, in their early 20s, wearing hip-hugger jeans and tank tops. One of them has short, dark brown hair, almost black. The other's hair is shoulder-length, sandy blond. They're both barefoot.

 

"Our friend put us out of his car," says the dark-haired woman. "We saw your light was on. Can we use your phone to call a cab?"

 

Smith doesn't hesitate. Who would?

 

"Sure," he says, a smile crinkling his face. "Wait here. I'll go get it."

 

"This is where the story gets good," someone interrupts.

 

"Yeah," Smith answers. "Maybe for you."

 

* * *

 

So anyway, that morning, Smith turns back into the house to get the phone. But the dark-haired woman stops him. "It's okay," she says. "We're not armed."

 

To prove her point -- or something -- the woman lifts her tank top over her face. Her friend does the same.

 

The dark-haired woman is wearing a white sports bra underneath. Her friend isn't wearing anything. They stand there, silhouetted by the streetlight, waiting on Smith's porch while he stares from his doorway.

 

"The boys at the bar will never believe this," he's thinking.

 

After a minute, after he finally can pick his chin up off the porch, peel his eyes away and find his voice, he asks, "Is this a joke or something?"

 

"No," the blond reassures him sweetly. "We just need to use your phone."

 

"Well, keep it down out here and I'll get it," Smith says. "My wife is asleep in there. I don't want to wake her."

 

Still not sure he's not dreaming, Smith pads back inside, down the hall, and gently closes the master bedroom door. Then he tiptoes to the kitchen and gets his cordless phone. When he walks into the living room, the women are waiting.

 

"Hey, can I have a piece of that pizza?" asks the dark-haired woman.

 

"No, I don't think so," Smith says.

 

He's slightly annoyed that they let themselves in. He closes the cardboard box and hands her the phone.

 

"Hey, you don't have to get all upset," says the woman. "We told you, we're not armed."

 

This time she lifts her sports bra, too.

 

Smith hasn't yet gotten over the first flashing. He still can't believe this is real.

 

"Okay. Okay," he says. "Just use the phone and go."

 

* * *

 

A minute later, after both women are gone, he walks down the hall and opens his bedroom door. He wakes his wife, Linda. "You won't believe what just happened!" he says.

 

So he tells her. And she listens. And before he even gets to the part about the second showing, his wife stops him.

 

"You better go check and see if your wallet's still there," she says.

 

He had left it on the coffee table the night before, when he paid for the pizza.

 

It was gone.

 

So was his ATM card, his VISA, his Sears charge. His driver's license. Plus his fun money. "After paying for that pizza, I had $56 they took," he says. "The only other thing in that wallet was a picture of my wife."

 

About 6:15 a.m, Smith called the police. They didn't send anyone out to fingerprint the phone, or the door, or the pizza box. An officer took down details over the phone.

 

"He had no idea who these women are. We had no leads to follow," says St. Petersburg Police Sgt. W. Korinek. "Not that we would mind going out looking for them ..."

 

Since Smith let the women in to his home, the crime was a petty theft, punishable by up to a year in jail. Police say they have not heard of similar cases around St. Petersburg or surrounding cities. If there were any, Korinek says, he's sure word would have gotten around.

 

Back at the bar, someone prompts Smith. "Go ahead!" the guy says. "Tell 'em how you described those girls."

 

"Well," Smith says, obviously relishing this part, "I had to tell the cops, pretty much, I don't think I'd know those girls' faces if you made me look at a lineup. But one thing's for sure, in terms of IDs: Both those girls were 36 Cs."

 

* * *

 

St. Petersburg Police Report No. 025223 describes both suspects as white females. It includes their height and weight. Then, in all capital letters, in parentheses, it says (BOTH ATTRACTIVE).

 

"This is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me," Smith says.

 

"Lucky dog," someone says.

 

"Yeah, for 56 bucks, you can't beat it!" says someone else.

 

Laughter flows more loudly and freely than the beer this afternoon. By the end of his tale's third telling, even Smith is starting to see the humor. After all, if you're going to be the victim of a crime. . . .

 

Besides, he got his wallet back. A neighbor across the street found it in her flower bed, crushing the chrysanthemums. His ATM card -- and his fun money -- are still missing.

 

"I guess it is sort of funny," he admits. "But I'm telling you so you other guys will beware, so it won't happen to you."

 

He finishes his beer. Looks up and grins. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone else."

 

 

http://www.sptimes.com/2002/04/30/Floridia...n_a_flash.shtml

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Guest --zeSto--

his "fun money" ended up in the same place anyways...

in the pockets of sexy girls, half his age.

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thats awesome... i have only been robbed by a big ugly guy with a gun..

ahh what i wouldnt givefor it to have been to hot girls with their tits out instead:o

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Originally posted by BIG T

thats awesome... i have only been robbed by a big ugly guy with a gun..

ahh what i wouldnt givefor it to have been to hot girls with their tits out instead:o

 

no shit

 

id take 4 titties in my face over a gun in my ribs anyday

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Originally posted by iCEBERG

 

no shit

 

id take 4 titties in my face over a gun in my ribs anyday

 

i think most any one would...

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Guest platapie

at first it sounds like a porno. then a bad movie

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Guest Wilt

rednecks get hype over just about anything..haha

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