Today I went to the grocery store. I had decided to make yakisoba, and I needed thin-sliced pork. But when I reached the freezer section, I found myself faced with a conundrum. To my dismay, all of the thin-sliced pork was clearly labeled For Shabu Shabu. Could I use this hallowed meat for a purpose as lowly as yakisoba, mere fried noodles? I searched frantically for some thin-sliced pork that was not labeled so, but to no avail. Pork loin, belly, shoulder, all were set aside for consumers of shabu shabu! I cast about for a solution; I needed to resolve the matter quickly, for I was drawing suspicious glances from the other shoppers.I reached out casually and took hold of a package of shabu shabu meat and slipped it into my basket. Had a keen observer been watching this process, he might have noticed that a slight change had been wrought on the surface of the package; for somehow, during its journey from shelf to basket, it had lost the orange sticker which had so prominently displayed the words Shabu Shabu. It looked like all my sleight-of-hand practice was finally paying off.
As I approached the cashier, I realized I wasn't out of the woods yet. There was a possibility that she would recognize the meat for what it was despite my subterfuge. The fact that I was shopping for yakisoba was made obvious by the other items in my basket, namely noodles, sauce, mayonnaise, and assorted vegetables. Sweat beaded on my brow as I placed my items on the conveyor. Time slowed as the lady swiped my items across the scanner. When she paused with the pork in her hands, I stopped breathing until I realized she was only placing it in a thermal bag. I could hardly slide my card through the reader, and my signature was rendered completely illegible by my shaking hands. As she handed me my receipt, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Have a nice day."
With those words, I was free. The sunlight shining through the automatic sliding doors beckoned to me like a promise for the future. It was all I could do not to break into a run. Just a few more feet, and-
"Stop right there, sir!"
I stopped and turned around, and dread filled my heart. The voice had emanated from the portly security guard striding toward me. This could only mean that my ruse had been discovered. At the very least, I would be forced to return all of my purchases and get kicked out of the store in disgrace.The only course of action left to me was to throw myself on the mercy of this rotund arbiter of market justice. I was resigned to my fate. Tears welled up in my eyes as I waited for the ax to fall.
"Uh, sir, did you..."
"Yes, it was me, I'm-"
"Did you leave your wallet back there?"
His outstretched hand held a wallet, my wallet. In my haste to escape the store, I had left it at the cashier's counter. The immense relief I felt caused hysterical laughter to bubble from my lips, surprising the security guard a bit. I somehow managed to gain control of myself enough to reach out my own hand to accept the proffered wallet. My elation turned again to horror when I saw that that hand held nestled in its palm the orange sticker which I had stealthily removed from the meat package.
Silence reigned for a moment, as the security guard and I stared at my palm.

"That's a nice sticker!"

He plopped the wallet into my hand and walked away.