The Dirty Dozen: My Initiation Into a Life of Crime

Remember the movie “Eastern Promises“? In it, Viggo Mortensen’s character, Nikolai, undergoes a series of grueling tests (including time spent in prison, crude cadaver alterations and disposals, and fighting off murderous, knife-wielding attackers whilst naked in a steam room) to prove his loyalty to the Vory v Zakone mob and earn his official Member Star Tattoos. As an outsider, after all, you can’t just “join” this underground dynasty– you have to fight and prove and earn your way into a lifetime membership.

And so it goes with my local Black Market.

You can’t just move into a new neighbourhood in beautiful Victoria, British Columbia– however sketchy and ghetto-like it may seem– and expect that your new address and postal code will automatically make you privy to the hottest, most secretive information on the block. No way, man– you have to earn that privilege. There’s a whole process to go through, and the Under Lords have certain protocols to follow. Come on. Just because it’s the Neighbourhood Hippie Black Market doesn’t mean there are no rules. Geez!

Well. We have lived in the ‘hood for a year now, and I am proud to report that I’ve officially earned my Ghetto Super Stars! I have put in my hardcore time and aced the dangerous tasks that were put before me:

1. I suffered through a particularly severe bout of tendonitis, which I incurred while scrubbing the residual stains out of our rental refrigerator, bathtub, and cupboards.

2. I deftly dodged the shards of broken glass and leftover needles that were strewn all over our sidewalks and in the park across the road– and I emerged victorious, with nary a cut, scrape, or Hepatitis/HIV+ test to boot!

3. I tolerated many sleepless nights with circles of hippies camped out on our front lawn, and I only called in law enforcement officials on one of these occasions.

4. I suffered through the indignity of– and subsequent confusion over– having our compost bin stolen. Filthy kitchen scraps. Stolen! Three separate times. (Why??)

5. I even remained stoic and unflinching when I learned that one of Victoria’s only murders in the past year had been committed in the building right next door to our suite… if by “stoic” I mean “I freaked the eff out“, and by “unflinching” I mean that “I begged Marty to beam me out of this dodgy apartment– STAT!!” (In any case– I passed this particular Black Market Worthiness test by default, because I was too lazy to pack up shop for a third time in one month).

Anyway. As a final test in the “Eastern Promises” movie, Viggo (we’re on a first name basis now) is put before a panel of Russian mobsters, who sit him almost-naked on a chair and “read” all of his tattoos to determine his worthiness of being branded with the gang’s Signature Star Tattoos.

My final test was similar to this, insomuch as I was sitting in a chair (although clothed) in the company of other people when it happened. However, where Viggo’s tattoos ultimately told the mobsters his story of loyalty, dedication, self-sacrifice, and requisite toughness, I happened to overhear some secret information by accident.

And that, my friends, is how I came to know about the Underground Egg Market.

You all know how much I love eggs, right? Of course you do— my almost-vegan self adores them! So when I heard (accidentally) that I could obtain free-range, basically organic eggs from a place that was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from my ghetto apartment, I capitalized on the knowledge and demanded that the Egg Baron procure me a dozen of those jewels, pronto! The Drug Egg Lords were none-too-impressed that their secret had slipped out haphazardly, but seeing as I had proven my neighbourhood worthiness on the other tasks they had set before me, they had no choice but to hook me up with a stash.

So rustic-looking-- so pure and unadulterated!

Victory at last!

Of course, it is legal to keep chickens in Victoria. What is not legal, though, is selling off your chickens’ eggs to the general public, unless you obtain the expensive licenses and necessary farm documents to do so. *The chickens and chicken by-products are meant to be for personal use only.* (Just so we are clear.) This particular Egg Baron works on a generous giveaway plan, at least for those of us who are In The Know, which obviously I am now. This is how the system works:

1. He gives me a dozen eggs for free– out of the kindness of his own, Black Market heart.

2. In my gratitude, I can choose– perhaps, hypothetically– to give him an offering of approximately 3 dollars. To clarify: this is not 3 dollars in return. Likewise, it is not a fixed, 3 dollar cost for a dozen organic and free-range eggs. I would only (perhaps, hypothetically) give this Baron 3 dollars out of the kindness of my own, left-leaning heart. And maybe I was so overjoyed to see these still-dirty eggs in the carton that my hand automatically reached for 3 dollars. Just because.

Honest-to-god DIRT still on the shells! THESE PUPPIES ARE FRESH!

Here is the dramatic re-enactment of my secret meeting with the Egg Baron:

Me: How can I ever repay you?

Baron: Don’t worry about it– they’re a gift.

Me: Can I give you 3 dollars out of the kindness of my granola-loving heart?

Under Lord of the Black Market: Hmmm… okay. But just this once.


I made a delicious (curried!) omelet this morning to seal the deal. So that’s it, folks– I’ve officially crossed over to the Other Side and am now a mule for the Lesser-Known Underground Egg Market. Don’t think you can find out my source, either– as if I’d ever tell.

16 responses

  1. Dana, this post is hysterical and brilliant and everything else I love about !your egg-dealing, left-leaning, writerly self!

    Just so you know–before Sara reassumed her role as mistress of all things disasterous and we responded by moving both dogs and our lovely lesbian selves to Vietnam and then Haiti, we were hoping to do some urban farming in our downtown Lexington yard–chickens included. So if you had ghettoed your way into our happening hood, I could have, theroetically of course, gotten you a dirty dozen all your own, and you could have, in theory, dropped a few dirty dollars in my filthy, farming fingers–a thanksgiving gift, the mobster handshake.

    • Awesome! In theory, I would have loved to check out your underground eggs and possibly slip you a few pieces of green paper… not that I’m into that sort of covert activity or anything. ๐Ÿ˜‰

      Those dirty, whole wheat eggs had me over the moon! Now I just have to see if my Egg Baron can sustain our considerable level of consumption. Fingers crossed!

  2. I swear you live down the street from my brother. But just so it doesn’t get akward I promise not to ask either of you your address, but I am pretty sure his modern bohemian raw food eating friends would play their drums too loud and too late into the night…

    • Hmmm… your brother may or may not be my Egg Baron, but I’m pretty sure this Black Market dude eats cooked food *and* goes to sleep at a reasonable hour! SO CRIMINAL!! ๐Ÿ™‚

    • It’s a real risk to post this expos้ on the internet, you know– I might just be hunted down and tortured mercilessly by the Egg Traffickers now. But the people have to know… (PS: I’m fully expecting some sort of humanitarian award for bringing this issue to light. Pass my name onto Mr. Nobel, will you?)

    • Well, if your neighbourhood is anything like mine, the egg ops are pretty covert. I’m sure the minion who accidentally let it slip that there were eggs to be had was beaten to a pulp by the Ring Leader (or the Ring Leader’s cronies). Best to keep your eyes peeled and your ears on alert! ๐Ÿ˜‰

  3. I love that your ultimate test was to overhear and ask. I never would have passed that step! Congratulations on all fronts. And the compost! Seriously! That would drive me batti(er).

    • I know, right– who steals compost?? We tried using a bicycle compost pick-up service last year for a while but had to cancel the service when the company’s provided containers were lifted multiple times. Come on, people…

      I’d normally be a little shy to ask if I could get hooked up with some dirty goods, but I jumped on that egg info like I was a fox in that chicken coop! MUST HAVE EGGS!!! ๐Ÿ™‚

  4. Just last night I was telling Jon that if we ever moved into a full house with our own yard (non of this strata shared lawn crap), I wanted chickens so I can have fresh eggs.

    I’ve lived in the borders of the ‘hood for 8 years, yet I have never really seeked out any of the features of the Black Market. You are a strong my friend. Stay strong.

    (Um, composter bin stolen THREE times?!??!?!?!? I know we’re all hippies here, but seriously?)

    • Sometimes you have to seek the underground information, and at other times it just lands in your lap. “Oops– you didn’t mean to tell me about those eggs? TOO BAD– THEY’RE ALL MINE NOW!!!” That’s basically how it happened. Oh, delicious fortune…

      And don’t even get me started on that compost bin thing again. Who. Does. That???

  5. My boss has chickens in his yard – he lives in Oak Bay! I should ask him how the eggs are…he hasn’t talked about it in a long time.
    I’m glad you told us what you made with them – I would have died if you hadn’t!

    • I’m surprised they even allow chickens in Oak Bay, especially since growing vegetables in your front gardens is illegal! We wouldn’t want the posh front yard to look anything but decorative and meticulously manicured, after all…

      You should see if you can score some eggs from your boss. They are EXCELLENT, and the yolks are so rich and beta-caroteney. YUM! ๐Ÿ™‚

    • It sure did, Chris! I was actually just thinking about this post of mine today. We moved into a new town and now I’m on the hunt for local black market eggs again! Once you’ve had them, regular grocery store eggs will never suffice…

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