Wednesday August 2nd, 2017

The exercise:

Write about: to catch a thief.

Work went pretty smoothly today, even with the heat and smoke. Just one more day to go until my weekend begins once again.

Mine:

"What are you... wh... what. Just... what."

"You know what they say."

"... about what, exactly?"

"Thieves."

"Thieves."

"Yes, that's right."

"That's right... what?"

"You know what they say about thieves!"

"Um... remind me?"

"To catch a thief, you have to think like a thief! I can't believe I have to spell that out for you!"

"Ah. So that's what's going on here."

"Indeed!"

"I'm afraid you may have taken that saying a little too far, dear."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters, the police are at the door wanting to speak with you..."

"What, again?"

"Ag... yes. And, secondly, our basement appears to be full up with things that do not belong to us."

1 Comments:

Greg said...

It sounds like you're enjoying work, despite the heat and smoke. That's good!
Well, I'd say your narrator has taken it beyond thinking and into acting, but he seems to have been pretty good at it. Except for the police coming to the door again, and the basement being found.... I really like how well you've conveyed the wife's (?) point of view; she comes across as dry and long-suffering, and makes me smile with a lot of how she phrases things [I appreciate that I'm assuming certain roles here, but that's how the scene plays out in my head.]

To catch a thief
The doors to the bank were 3 metres high, and the ground-floor ceilings were the same. It was a deliberate ploy to intimidate anyone entering the bank and remind them, perhaps subtly, that this was a temple to Mammon. They were artfully constructed: thin wood veneer over a hollow steel frame to look much heavier than they really were, and to resist ram-raiding, while still being light enough for someone to push open. Even so, it was an effort for most people, and there was a security guard positioned by them to open them for the elderly and infirm, providing such people looked wealthy enough to be visiting the bank at all. So when a young man dressed in black motorcycle leathers casually kicked the door open and walked inside, pulling a mirror-visored helmet from his head and shaking his Mohawk back into shape, the security guards all drew their weapons and the receptionist pushed her chair back ready to drop beneath her desk.
"Y'all can drop the shooters," said the young man grinning. His teeth were white enough to star in a toothpaste commercial. "I'm here on business." A drop of blood fell to the amber-tiled floor beneath his feet. "Besides, I'm already bleeding." No-one lowered their gun, and the young man shrugged and sighed. "The name's Romeo," he said. "Tell Miss Sikh I've arrived, would you? I'll just stand here and leak while you do so." Another droplet of blood splashed on the tiles.
Three of the guards stayed still, training their weapons on Romeo's exposed head in case his leathers were somehow armoured, while a fourth produced a pristine paper tissue from a pocket and offered it at arm's length. At the reception desk the receptionist cautiously lifted the phone.
"Nah, y'all're all good," said Romeo waving away the offered tissue. "Blood soaks through that in no time. If you've gotten any made from the skin off of a Chupacabra...?" Blank looks gave him the answer.
The receptionist set the phone down, and for the next three minutes all that could be heard was the occasional splatter of a blood drop. A small pool was forming at Romeo's feet, but the guards refused to lower their weapons or their assessment of the threat he posed. Finally a door opened at one end of the hall.
"Well," said Miss Sikh. She glided into the room, her sequined dress catching the light and reflecting it oddly, as though it was covering a rather different shape to that of a tall, almost-beautiful woman. It was hard not to think of snakes. "Romeo is bleeding. Again."
"Delivery," said Romeo cheerfully. "To help you catch a thief."
"From?" Miss Sikh arched an eyebrow.
"A secret admirer," said Romeo.