But hold your horses. Let me tell you a story from my distant past, a story, while like many others, is unlike many others still.
As a child in the hard, hard streets of Lechberg, days are lived hand to mouth. Yes, mother may have been a girl for hire. Yes, father was a big old question mark in the book that was my life. Yes, I stole fruit from stands in the market and ran for the purity of my soul (if you don't get caught, it's not a sin, of course), and yes, I picked pockets. Oh, don't give me that look! You would have done the same. Probably worse, judging by the fact you are listening to this drivel.
Anyway, the other urchins and I, well, we had a favorite merchant to bully. Not because he was easy to steal from - no, quite the opposite. The man was some kind of retired soldier, with big hands and sturdy legs that made him run faster than most of us. On the flip side, he sold the juiciest citrus fruit one could ever dream of, with oranges so big they could kill a man if they dropped on his head. But most importantly, it was a challenge of skill to be able to get away from him, and those that couldn't? Well, they'd get whipped. So, naturally, gentle six-or-something year old me thought: "Why, I am small and quick and agile and smart and clever and small, I can do it with my hands tied and my eyes blindfolded!"
What a joke. I got caught before I could take two steps away from his stall. The glare he gave me was something I will never forget, because what followed was a black eye and twenty-five lashings - all for not having the gold for a bite to eat and having the gall to take the matter of my starvation into my own hands. But I suppose there is one thing to learn from this entire ordeal.
If you ever go to Lechberg, avoid the orange man. He is a bad, bad man.