Art Theft, and Other Stories



  Art Theft, and Other Stories

  By Chris Parker

 

  Copyright 2017 Chris Parker

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  Table of Contents

  Title/Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Art Theft

  Past Regrets

  Crimson Gravel

  Author Biography

  Art Theft

  “Hey Stan,” Mike says. “Where the hell were you? It’s almost 10:00pm?”

  Stan opens the door to Mike’s black 2008 Lincoln Sedan and falls into the passenger seat, bringing the car down closer to the pavement, munching down on a greasy, oil toped sub sandwich.

  “Hey bro,” Stan says practically snorting his words through each bite. “I’m sorry. I got stuck on the can. Wolfed down two bacon cheese whoopers from Burger King and a side of nachos. Felt like I was stuck there for hours.”

  “Ok,” Mike says. “That was way too much information.”

  “I swear man. I really thought I was going to end up crapping out my organs.”

  “Dude! I don’t want or need to hear about your bathroom adventures.”

  “Alright man,” Mike replies. “So the museum closed about an hour ago right?”

  “Yeah. And there is only one guard tonight. Luckily he’s the senile grandpa type. One sweep around the perimeter and he’s out like a light.”

  “Really? Why keep him around then?”

  “Sentimental reasons. He’s the owner’s grandpa and he used to be law enforcement.”

  “Okey dookey,” Stan says while finishing his sandwich. “So this painting, how much was it again?”

  “It’s should be around 50 million dollars.”

  “Holy nacho-moley,” Stan replies. “Do you have an idea how many chili dogs and tacos we could buy with all that lettuce? Just hopefully without the lettuce or anything related to green vegetables.”

  “Dude,” Mike says. “What is it with you and food?”

  “It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures bro.”

  “Whatever man,” Mike says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just do this.”

  As they hop out of the Sedan, Mike grabs his ski mask, leather gloves and jacket. Stan steps out and notices his white shirt is covered in grease stains. As he zips up his jacket to cover his shirt, Mike plants his face in his right palm and shakes his head.

  “Stan,” Mike says, “Don’t forget the mask and the gloves.”

  “Right. Sorry dude.”

  After Stan collects his mask and gloves, he and Mike make their way to the left side of the museum. Stan reaches for the window to the first floor of the building. Stan moves to open the window, before Mike grabs him.

  “Mike,” Stan says, “What’s the deal?”

  “The deal is you’re going to set off the alarm as soon as the window even cracks open. Might as well be screaming at the top of your lungs for the police to come arrest us.”

  “Dude, do you have that little faith in me? I may love my burritos, but I know my way around an alarm.”

  Stan lifts the window open and to Mike’s surprise, the alarm is silent.

  “Stan, when did you do it?”

  “I dropped by 5 hours ago. Chatted with the foxy curator and noticed the alarm. When she didn’t stick around to talk, I set up a little surprise in the alarm system to make it sabotage at 10:00.”

  “And you said nothing because?”

  “I had to see the look on your face man. Priceless.”

  Mike punches Stan on the shoulder with a huge grin on his face. Stan couldn’t help, but grin as well.

  “You dick.” Mike says.

  “You know it,” Stan replies. “Let’s get rich.”

  As they jump into the museum through the window, Mike and Stan hear a click from their right side as they are greeted with a flash of light. They turn and notice the old guard standing next 2 feet from them

  “Good gentlemen,” the old guard says, “Looks like it’s your unlucky day. I’m feeling fired up now. Now it’s time for your ass whooping.”

  Mike and Stan barely stifle a giggle. Regaining his composure, Mike approaches the old guard.

  “Look old timer. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  The old guard then uses his flashlight and whacks Mike on the top of his head. After grabbing his taser, the guard fires it at Stan’s groin. Stan falls to the ground, moaning in pain.

  “The names Cliff dung heads. You really think I didn’t notice you screwing with the alarm, fat ass? You’re about as subtle as kid stealing from the cookie jar. Now you and your boyfriend here are licked”

  “Stan,” Mike says still reeling from the stike to the head. “You’re a dumbass.”