The Thief Ran Down The Clock

A short story about a thief who loves to improvise his heists.

Troy watched the security camera as it swiveled, resisting the urge to itch the gelatin mixture that coated his face, concealing his identity. It wasn’t that important that there be no video proof of him, the mask did its job well, but it sure as hell was cooler to not be spotted. The headlines would read, Ghost Thief Strikes! Or, The Perfect Caper!

His thin pink lips curled upward and a minute later the camera’s schedule was sealed away in the vault of his mind. Now it was time to burgle. Most thieves planned their heists for months, having practice runs and all sorts of other annoying nonsense. Troy liked to come up with a plan on the fly. He hadn’t even known what he wanted to steal until he saw it. But when he did he knew it was the one.

A great warmth filled his body as soon as it came into view. A beacon of resplendent beauty in an otherwise dingy grotto of a museum. A glorious golden sword. It had something to do with a fellow named Churchill, whom the museum was about, but Troy only cared for the sword and how lovely it was going to look over his red brick fireplace.

Tick! The signal in Troy’s brain flipped. He had thirty seconds. His body moved with a calm grace, not a nervous bone in his body. Ten feet, five feet, zero--He slid his hand over the cool metal sheath and grabbed hold of the handle. It was surprisingly light. In fact, it seemed to float, for as Troy stopped lifting, the blade continued up. Troy followed it as it rose and found a pair of beady brown eyes staring down at him. A man in all black hung from a set of wires, wearing the stereotypical terrorist mask. His two hands were locked onto the scabbard.

The stranger hissed out a warning, “Let go the sword old man! Now isn’t the time to be a hero!”

Troy responded in a voice that was not at all old-man-like, “I was here first! Back off ya flying nitwit!” He pulled hard on the handle and the blade swished free of its golden scabbard, sending the nitwit spinning in circles and cursing.

Troy cursed as well and swatted at the sheath as it rotated around him like a human fan.

The stranger held the scabbard higher, “I planned this for months, I’ve put more effort into this heist! Give me the sword!”

“I’ll give you it all right! Right up yer bum!”

Tock! The alarm in Troy’s head went off. Too long.

Boots thundered into the room; “Freeze! Drop the sword! Put your hands in the air!”

Troy hunched his back and coughed, summoning his grungiest old man voice, “Thank goodness you’ve arrived! This spinning buffoon was about to steal this sword when I tried to stop him!” He gestured to the black-clad pinata still spinning with the sheath.

The police rushed to him with cuffs open wide, “Nice try Troy Michaels, but we’ve had this planned for a while now.”