burglar - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The burglar put on a fat suit to change his build and threw on some Mr Big clothes. Then he shaved his head bald and put a balaclava in his pocket. When he'd covered his fingerprints with glue and slipped an unregistered 9mm into his pants. If there was trouble he was making sure it was him that walked away. All he wanted was the contents of the safe and the personal jewellery and he would go. If they put up a fight he'd deal with it, but he was not leaving without the goods. His pals were working part-time jobs on top of full time jobs, they were the idiots. Ten of these and he was set. He put the fake plates on his SUV and headed off to the executive housing in the suburbs.
The burglar drew deeply on his cigar and then coughed heartily. He rubbed the grey stubble that populated his sagging chin and drained the rest of his whisky. Then cosh in hand he picked the lock and walked in through the back door. He'd spied the build up of newspapers on the mat two days ago and decided to stake it out in his van. Sure enough out came a neighbour to remove them and he knew he had acquired a new target. In his youth he would snatch and run, he had good legs back then. Now not so much. There was the gut, the bad lungs and he had simply become lazier. He opened the front door and loaded the valuables into the cargo area. No mask, just a baseball cap pulled down to shield his face. The rest of his clothes were a work outfit, he never wore them anywhere else encase he got profiled on TV one day. It was a tracksuit. No-one he knew would recognize him in it, when did he ever exercise?
The burglar thought himself something of an artist. There was skill he thought to the perfect "break and enter". His method took time but but the rewards were high. He cased the house carefully for a week or two in various brilliant disguises. He learned the routines of the occupants. Once he had calculated the best point of entry and the best time it was on to the second phase. If he was unfamiliar with the security system he would purchase one to practice on. When he was almost ready he would pose as a scout for a hollywood production company looking for homes to use in the movies. The rich owners usual penchant for privacy evaporated in the face of such flattery and potential reflected glory. They would gush and gibber in their eagerness to please him. By the time he left he knew where every valuable in the house worth taking was. The final stage was actually not that exciting, he just strolled in and took it. Afterwards he would relocate, another city, another country.
The burglar strolled down the street in the dim of the winter evening. As he passed each set of ornate gates, in what was called 'the street of dreams' when it was built, he recalled all of the items of value in the house and where the items were kept. Being employed by an elite cleaning agency had it's perks. Now he was back to clean them out properly. He smirked, enjoying his own joke. When he got to the house the lights were on, but he knew that the family was out at their favourite restaurant downtown. He did his homework, he'd called to check the reservation and he'd watched them leave. He knew the codes the alarm, he had a key in his pocket and there was a fresh steak in his bag for the dog. His accomplice would arrive with the van once he was in...
The burglar slunk under the moonless sky, thankful for the charcoal cloud that brought a more complete blackness. This was not a night to be seen, not at all. After so much careful planning it was a night to enrich herself with the jewels of the ladies that scorned her in the daytime. No matter what role she took, or what household duty she performed, they looked down their pretty noses without evening trying to hide their contempt. Well, she appreciated their kindness; such anger was what she needed to make the raid a perfect success. She had buyers already lined up for the merchandise, so long as she off-loaded it for cash before the coppers got involved she was home free.
"I'd rather steal than be stolen from. Everyone steals. Church says don't while they grow fat on the poor congregation. The bank invents money and has you pay interest on something fictional. Corporations take the best years of your life and dump you when you're old and sick. If the best society can offer is to be a chewed up cog in a machine that's taking us all straight to hell, I'll take option B"
Burglar was too much of an old fashioned word for Angus, he liked to think of it more as wealth-redistribution, albeit mostly in his direction. The way he saw it he was better than church, at least he was honest about what he did and gave fifty percent to the children's hospital. He thought of himself more as a modern day Robin Hood, but a solo one. A Maid Marion here and there kept him young but other than that he lived for creating the next audacious heist, working late into the night under his bare light bulb, plans spread over a table that once belonged to the Mayor of London. Then he'd snuggle onto his mattress and pull up the duvet in his otherwise bare room.
The burglar walked around the house like it was his own castle, cherry picking the most saleable items. He wasn't in much of a hurry, haste lead to mistakes and he wasn't in the mood for languishing at Her Majesty's pleasure. His gun lay against his black clothing, loaded, safety off. He'd only used it one time before and blamed his partner's lax planning. Since then he'd been solo and no more need for shooting a "client." He saw his "career" as a service, they paid in goods, he provided a life altering experience, gave them an opportunity to readjust their life priorities before it was too late. For the most part he considered himself underpaid, rolling his eyes every-time he calculated his profit margin.