There are people involved in this story, but I am squirty about posting any kind of photos of them, especially of law enforcement officers, since that's the kind of thing people tend to get a bit upset about if you don't ask. So, I didn't take any, and instead have provided proof of locations I went in the course of this completion, and of the actual deed itself. You'll have to take my word for the rest.

It was a warm, summery, Monday afternoon when the horror started.

Crime is a seductive lure hovering in the face of every good-hearted human, just waiting for them to bite down and be dragged bodily into the crushing, airless void of villainy. The longer you stay in the cool, fresh water of lawfulness, eating the worms of justice and sifting through the muck of truth, the brighter and more delicious that lure looks.

I ought to be arrested for torturing that metaphor. In truth, my crime was considerably less egregious- to the point that I'm not sure I can even suffer any form of consequence. Part of this was my brilliant escape, part of it was my criminal mind, fermenting in my criminal head for so long. But mostly I think it's because nobody in the city cares.

I'll back up.



The weather was warm and the sun was shining as I parked the Steed in front of the Halifax Police Department and strode confidently up the steps. I was aware of this task, and I was also aware of the location of the Police Department, so I figured there was no point in guessing what the least significant possible crime was when I could just ask. Fortunately, this was the easy part, so I thought- truth was my armour, and I would discover my next step before leaving. After all, I had a perfectly legitimate reason for wanting to know about criminal acts. I'm writing a crime novel, you see. I didn't want to let on about SF0 all that much. After all, the presence of a game that encourages players to commit a crime- however insignificant- may seem suspicious, no matter how benign the game itself.

So it was that I smoothed down my shock of messy brown hair and attempted to straighten some of the loose hairs of my scraggly goatee. Satisfied that I was presentable (if sweaty- spurring the Steed to action is no picnic), I pushed open the door and poked my head in. I was greeted by an airlock-like space, with four tall, imposing oaken doors in front of me. Head held high, I tried the first one.

Locked.

Huh.

I tried the second. Locked as well.

The third. Locked.

The fourth.

Locked, and locked again.

I was confused. The signs on the door had so clearly read "Open", another clearly indicating that they were open, 24 hours, for Inquiries with a capitol I.

It was then I came to a chilling realization.

This was a trap.

Somehow- I don't know how- the police had found out what I was planning, and it had coincided with their sudden and unexpected crack-down on completely insignificant victimless crimes. I was the first to commit true thought-crime. I was to be made an example of, trapped and imprisoned, probably for life; or brainwashed Ludovico-style until I was deemed safe to re-enter society. This was the end of the Amoeba Dream. Halifax was a police state.

It was then that I noticed the small receptionist's window on the left side. A nervous chuckle escaped my throat, spilled onto my shirt, and trickled down my leg. Of course they wouldn't let Johnny Shmuck just waltz on in to Police HQ. That would be silly. I took a quick look at the services offered- most came with a pretty steep charge and none were "SF0", and I figured that perhaps I shouldn't just up and waste police time like this, what was I even thinking?

I stumbled out back into the sunlight, grinning a stupid little grin and wondering what my next option was. Well, Police HQ was a no-go, but that didn't mean there weren't officers out and about. Halifax isn't exactly a Cop Town, but it's rare to not see some representatives of the service patrolling (and, in rare cases, trying to catch those who choose to ride dirty). Surely one or two of them would have a minute to chat, instruct a law-abiding citizen in the proper way to conduct oneself. Sure enough, no sooner had I started biking down the street, than two police officers came ambling in my direction. I cheered silently at my good fortune, and hopped off my bike as I came to a halt. The police halted too, but to give directions to a rather loud passerby.

It was then that I realized these men weren't simply passing by- they were very much on duty. These were real officers, guns, badges, and bulletproof vests to boot. They were moving with purpose, and drive, and did not seem at all in the mood to stop and chat. Still, no harm in trying- after all, what's the worst that could happen?

"Hi", I said, quieter than I would have liked.

One of the officers looked over and nodded, but did not smile or offer any other acknowledgement.

"I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time; I'm working on a crime novel and I got the idea to have a character who's really committed to being a career criminal, but doesn't have the guts to actually commit any real crimes. So he instead commits victimless, entirely insignificant crimes, for which he cannot reasonably be punished, because no one really cares. Anyway, the gag is that as time goes on, his crimes get more and more insignificant, you know, like he goes from littering to, say, serial jaywalking. But I can't think of what the most insignificant possible crime would be, something no one in their right mind would even possibly care to punish. So I was just wondering, what, in your estimation, is the most insignificant possible criminal act a person could commit?"

Well, that's what I wanted to say.

I got about as far as "I whbbhbhmm" before I lost my nerve.

That, ladies and menfolk, is what we in the biz call "failing a charisma check".

Fortunately my inquiry was muttered low enough that the actual sound was outside of the human range of hearing. The officers didn't take any further notice of me, and continued on their way; I briefly considered following them and then decided against it. They didn't seem like they wanted to be bothered, and I found myself suddenly in no mood to bother them. I consoled myself by pedaling the Steed over to the local comic shop for a quick jaunt through the shelves.

I knew, as I left, that I had but one option left. But I would have to ride hard.

Police HQ had been an exercise in pants-wetting intimidation, and police themselves are not huge on the approachability scale. But, near the bridge in Halifax, there is a bus stop situated on a small concrete island. More than once, as I rode by, I could see a Parking Enforcement officer lounging there, waiting to issue tickets to those who parked overlong or in the wrong spot. Parking Enforcement. The lowest rung on the police ladder. Universally reviled. Barely intimidating. Lacking almost any kind of meaningful authority.

Perfect.

I spurred the Steed to ever greater speeds, hurtling around the streets like a comet on wheels that can't go as fast as other comets. I banked around corners faster than I had any right doing, but the Steed held together and I leaned all the way into every turn. The Steed can't exactly manage a mighty roar, but it can give a rather pleasing "whirr" as it takes a turn, and that was precisely the noise I heard as I rounded the corner overlooking the bridge, to see...



Nothing.

I never thought I would be so upset to not see a Parking Enforcement officer.

That was it. I was out of options. There was but one final path to walk, and I didn't want to walk it. No one wanted to walk that path. It was fraught with thorns, vicious beasts, and perils unimaginable, and at the end, your reward was talking to among the most ornery, most jaded, most pointlessly draconian human beings on the planet: the Bridge Patrol.

Ah, the Bridge Patrol. Let me tell you about the Bridge Patrol. Or as we used to call them, the Bridge Police. Used to.

There are two bridges in Halifax, the MacDonald, and the Mackay. And once, many moons ago, when I was but a half-formed thought in the universal consciousness, there was a ragtag band of commandos whose job it was to guard the bridges from evildoers- the Bridge Police. Made up of members of the Canadian Corps of Commissionaires, they were not technically police, except in that it was their job to police the bridges. And only the bridges. Commissionaires don't have a great reputation around here, they're generally considered... well, ornery, jaded, and pointlessly draconian. They revel in any opportunity that lets them display even the barest shred of authority over another person. Most of them, outside of the uniform are fine enough people, for sure, but when they act as Commissionaires, watch out- they become a beast best avoided.

You may be wondering why they are no longer the Bridge Police. Well, so goes the legend that once, a crime was committed, somewhere on the bridge. The police made the entirely reasonable demand of the Bridge Police that they hand over security footage, so that they could pursue the criminals. The Bridge Police declined, arguing that this was their jurisdiction and they would handle it. The Chief of Police decided that this would not stand, and made two demands-

1. That they turn over the tapes or be booked for withholding evidence.
2. That they immediately remove the word "Police" from all their cars.

So did the Bridge Police become the Bridge Patrol. So goes the legend. There is some speculation that every Bridge Patrol Officer, when they don the uniform, is immediately overcome with a sense of incredible bitterness and loss, as they dream of what they could have been.

And yet, here I was, coming off the bridge, heading towards the terminal to speak with them. What else could I do? They're not cops, but they do wield some small measure of authority, loathe as I am to admit it. They would have some knowledge of the law, hopefully, and would be able to instruct me in the ways of insignificant crimes. There's a public water cooler right outside the doors of their office (getting across the bridge by foot, bike, or Steed is tiring work), so I figured I would have a quick drink, wait for one of them to enter or exit the office, and sideline them then. I parked the steed next to the cooler, and poured myself a glass.



Sure enough, no sooner had I downed my water than a Commissionaire- tall, thin, and ramrod straight in his Commissionaire ball-cap and bright yellow outfit- came marching over to me. Before I could so much as mentally prepare to ask him the question, he pounced.

"You can't bike here".

I was taken a bit aback.

"Sorry?"
"You can't bike on this side of the bridge. This is the pedestrian side. You can only bike on the other side". See what I mean, about exercising authority whenever they can?
"Oh, yeah, I know. I just wanted a drink".
"Ah, okay. Just wanted to make sure you knew".
"Yeah".

And then he trundled off, to keep up his rounds patrolling the bridge toll plaza. I took a minute to realize I hadn't even asked him my question yet. Fortunately, a passing car kept him on my side long enough for me to roll up and ask:

"As long as I have your attention, I was wondering if you could maybe answer a question for me".

And I launched into the long explanation that I had intended to give earlier, but couldn't. To his credit, he listened to the whole thing very patiently, and without interrupting me.

"... So I was just wondering, what, in your estimation, is the most insignificant possible crime a person could commit?"

His eyes wandered, and he seemed a bit nonplussed by the question. "Less than jaywalking?", he intoned. I shrugged as if to say "Just so".

He idly glanced around, clearly deep in thought.

"Parking in a handicapped zone, I guess".
"He-hey, that's not bad. I'm gonna use that", I said. He smiled, glad to have been of help, and went about his duties, and I biked off, chuckling to myself, glad to have finally received the word of law on the matter.

I don't agree with him, actually. Handicapped zones are there for a reason, and parking in one isn't exactly what you'd call a victimless crime. He did, however, give me an idea.



Keep sticking it to The Man, Amoeba.

I considered handing the pictures over, but think about it- I could barely walk into police HQ before. You think I can manage it now?