I didn’t steal this hat so much as I liberated it. The Hatman knows what he did. One minute I was minding my business, the next I woke up wearing this perfectly embroidered masterpiece like it had chosen me in a sacred headwear ceremony. Coincidence? Unlikely. Destiny? Absolutely. If the Hatman didn’t want me to have it, he shouldn’t have made it look so good on my head.
Every time I wear this hat, people ask questions I am legally not allowed to answer. “Who is the Hatman?” “Why does it fit so well?” “Did you take it willingly or under mysterious circumstances?” All I can say is that this hat carries an energy. A slightly cursed, extremely confident energy. The embroidery whispers, “You weren’t supposed to have this,” and I whisper back, “Too late.”
This is not just a hat. This is evidence. This is a confession stitched in thread. Wearing it makes me feel like I’ve committed a very minor crime that somehow upgraded my personality. If the Hatman ever comes looking for it, I’ll be easy to find—standing taller, laughing louder, and pretending I have no idea what he’s talking about.
