Chapter 1
People should really take more care with securing their households. What goods a security system if you leave the back door open? Scratch that. What goods a security system when you're dealing with someone who knows about those kinds of things? And its only when you're dealing with the very rich and very paranoid that you even encounter a security system. If you're going small time, its a little broken glass or a picked lock and you're no longer suffering through poverty.
This house is a little more of a challenge. The owners are some Gotham hot shot defense attorneys. I think they represented Marconi in days past, though they moonlight as probono do-gooders. I know personally that they have a rather large stash of Babylonian relics in their gallery, the kind that you only get from doing deals with people who rip off Middle Eastern museums. And those kinds of antiques are the ones that sell on the black market incredibly well.
I'm no Robin Hood. I don't steal from those who should be stolen from, just the ones with the stuff that'll get my girls a little time off the streets. Nothing pays for a break better than a some stolen property that was ilegal to possess anyway.
The security system was a joke really, just a little playing with the relays, a little rewiring, and they'll think this was an inside job. Inside, I check and make sure my recon is right. Nothing kills a job like this then finding out that the man of the house, whose usually right now drinking whiskey and having phone sex with his mistress from the Narrows, is actually having a midnight snack. Luckily, he is, and his wife is curled up in her bed, downed with sleeping pills as usual. If people wouldn't make it this easy...
The gallery is right where the plans say it'll be. Luckily for my boredom, there are plenty of traps and lasers to occupy my interest for at least fifteen minutes. Burglarizing is a far better passtime than anything else I've tried. More mentally stimulating and physically demanding then my day job, thats for sure. And the artifacts are just the regular ethno-trash that rich filth pay so much for, so that their art collections can have a little culture. I'm happy to oblige. As much as it would probably piss off the people who care so much about keeping art where it was created, its probably safer in some fancy art collection than Iraq.
The black bag I brought explicitly for the purpose is quickly filled, and I'm making my way out when I hear a glass drop. Shit. I knew I was getting out of this too quickly.
"Batman?" His voice is a little too high, and he's apparently a little too drunk to realize the obvious anatomical differences.
"Can't you recognize a lady when you see one?" I say, facing him before I make my way out of the second story window. Cats always land on their feet.
(A.N. Sorry about the first person narrative. I don't normally write like this. I just felt that for the introduction, it made more sense. I'll probably change to second or third person. Also, its almost 2 in the morning, so I'm sure my writing has suffered for that. I apologize. Review please...)