Run for your life, fucker.

Someone stole my gym shoes from just outside my apartment door. Yesterday morning when I got back from the gym, they were wet from the downpour, so I took them off before entering my apartment and neatly placed them on the rag rug (my own, not shared with anyone else), side by side with the toes pointing in to indicate that, yes, they belonged here in this apartment. But now? Nowhere to be found. And no, I am quite certain they did not run off by themselves.
Who would DO such a thing? I mean, I know this is New York City ‘n’ all, but I live in an old five-story townhouse that houses only six or seven apartments, two of which are occupied by the landlord and his adult daughter and her husband and toddler, and the few other tenants I have seen all look about as mild-mannered as small pink cartons of skim milk. I can only guess that the fucker who did it has never seen me in another representative of my shoe collection because the heels on most of its members (see Exhibit A) can and will do more damage to his or her nasty thieving face than pounding out a marathon on it ever could. And if the cretin thinks that, if I learn his or her identity, I won’t be able to chase their ass down Broadway in those heels to administer the damage, they’ve got another thing coming.