I own a van for a reason. The same reason that I own a pair of aviators, an unmarked red baseball cap and a coat that has a collar that turns up to hide most of my face. I own these things because certain small children need to learn certain big lessons. I know that nowadays children are explicitly told not to go into the van owned by the man with the pair of aviators, an unmarked red baseball cap and his collar turned up to hide most of his face, even if he says he has a lot of candy in his van; not just necco wafers and dubble bubble, but full sized twix and snickers, you know, the real stuff. But I also know that children never listen. When I was a child, my mother told me never to play with matches, especially in the basement next to the piles of ancient tabloids that she kept in case the apocalypse came and the world lost all knowledge of important things like Bat-boy and President Clinton’s alien mistress. But I played with matches anyways, mostly because it was awesome, and partially because I hadn’t considered how great of a place that would be to do it. Now, I feel obligated to keep children from making the same mistakes I did, so when I come up to them with my aviators and my unmarked red baseball cap and my collar turned up to hide most of my face and tell them I have full sized twix and snickers in my van, and they come inside and I close the doors, I give them dubble bubble and necco wafers anyways. That should teach them not to trust strangers.