- Copy/pasted draft from last year on request

(Something vaguely resembling a shop counter with a telephone, cash register etc. and some scotch on a shelf behind it.)

(A male clerk is at the counter waiting for something to happen. And happen it does: a man wearing a colourful and frankly ridiculous shirt approaches with a balaclava in hand.)

CLERK: Just that?

MAN: Yeah.

CLERK: All right, that’s three ninety-five.

(the man pays up, gets change, thanks the clerk and leaves.)

(moments later, he returns with the balaclava over his head, still in the process of putting a dark jacket over his shirt.)

MAN: (waving a gun) All right, this is a holdup!

CLERK: Aaaah!

MAN: (dumping a bag on the counter) Give me your money! Come on!

CLERK: All right, just don’t shoot!

(the clerk takes $5 out of his wallet and hands it over.)

MAN: The money in the register.

(the clerk starts to stuff the bag with money. Just as he finishes, the man notices the scotch on the shelf.)

And the scotch.

CLERK: Are you 18?

MAN: …What?

CLERK: You have to be 18 to get the scotch.

MAN: (lowering the gun to argue) Wait a minute. You’re not actually selling me it, right? I’m stealing it. So it’s not breaking the law.

CLERK: (smoothly) Actually, section 115 of the New South Wales Liquor Act of 1982 states that if you’re under 18 you can’t attempt to obtain or carry away liquor from licensed premises.

(the man stares.)

CLERK: I used to be a lawyer. Studied at Sydney.

MAN: And you’re a checkout chick?

CLERK: (nods) I quit after I lost a case to a woman. (shakes head) I’ve never known such shame.

MAN: All right, so what if it’s illegal? I’m already breaking the law.

CLERK: (reaching under the desk and extracting a large poster with an appropriate and unnecessarily complex mathematical equation, and talking like an infomercial host) You see, the number of crimes you commit and the time frame between them is directly proportional to the probable length of your sentence. The more crimes you commit the more trouble you could be getting in.

MAN: (baffled) I… well… all right, I’ve got some ID here…

(he takes out his wallet and hands over his driver’s licence.)

CLERK: (reading it) This seems to be in order. (beat) Is your name really Ronald Weas—

MAN: (quickly) Just give me the fucking bottle!

CLERK: (reaching for it) Say, do you know a Bob Weasley?

MAN: Yeah, Bob’s me brother.

CLERK: (handing over the scotch) No way! My uncle’s nephew and I play golf with him on weekends! He’s a nice bloke.

MAN: (as if this is genuinely interesting) Really? Small world! He talks about you all the time.

CLERK: (zipping up the bag) Hey, do you know how he’s going? I heard he was having trouble paying for his mum’s operation.

MAN: (holding up the bag) Not any more, mate.

CLERK: Oh, nice! Tell him I said hi?

MAN: Sure, mate. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll see you around, all right?

CLERK: Yeah, sure. Have a nice day.

MAN: Thanks, you too! (he leaves.)

(Smiling to himself, the clerk picks up the phone and dials 000.)

CLERK: (putting it to his ear while smiling and nodding) What a nice guy.

(he holds the driver’s licence he never gave back up as someone apparently picks up.)

Hello, police?