My first thought when walking into the facility holding expensive paintings that are plagiarisms of my dead brother's work is that this place has great AC.
Do I feel scorned? Sure. Do I feel vindictive? Oh, absolutely.
My second thought would be, hypothetically, how would I plan a heist? I would probably start with finding some dirt on the night guard. Make a deal he can’t refuse, make him disappear. With the key to the facility in my well-polished hands, I would call my friends and ask them how the very convincing counterfeit paintings were coming along. I would plan to take only 7 of the 10 paintings because between you and me the other three are just downright ugly.
But as good as these paintings would look in my room, they will look even better as kindling.
Tomorrow, when I watch them cut the ribbon to the doors from the next block over, a switch will weigh heavily in my palm.
I am a soldier in a lonely war. I will burn their village, leave them with nothing to come home to and laugh as their stolen paintings slip through their greedy fingers.
Any last words? Let it burn.
About the Creator
The Dryads are Calling
They say the forest by Phoenix River sings. Perhaps it is just the wind howling through the leaves, or a particular birdsong. But Percy Fisher knows better; he knows what lies in those woods, and he knows that the forest sings of his demise.
By Leigh Hooperabout 24 hours ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.