"Thou shalt not steal."
I would love to say I was a holy man. But sadly, the calling to a higher power got a busy signal. I would love to say I was at least versed enough in this bit of literature to justify what transpires before me. If not to give me reason to stop, then to at least help me slither a way around it. It's not the first law I've broken, and if tonight goes as planned; it will be far from the last.
Despite my best efforts to keep my movements quiet, the linoleum of the floor betrays me at every step, screaming out to whomever would listen that the feet that step overtop it don't belong. But no one hears it. The cat that hunted for vermin like me sits complacently in his den, further ballooning outward with every bite of doughnut. His precious cameras that were left to do his job for him can no longer see. He is deaf. He is blind. He is helpless. And when the cat's away...
I prowl through the shadows, a predator in search of prey. And though this isn't my first hunt, as I see the glisten of my next meal, a twinge of excitement vibrates through my bones.
It's almost kind of funny. At the end of the day, it was a rock like any other rock. And yet, while this building is surrounded by many a rock, boulders, stones, gravel, this rock gets the privilege to sit inside in a cushy little display case, just because it was lucky enough to be shiny.
But I can't mock, because it's this affinity for the so-called valuable that drives me to this every chance I get. As I stare through the glass, into that beautiful stone that sits inside, I find myself captivated. The light of the full moon shines off every surface, and I can almost swear I can see myself in its reflection. Its purity almost clashing with the sin tainted creature that stares into it. It would almost make one guilty to consider tainting it with the hands of a criminal. And though it is the hands of a criminal that seek to covet it, they are held at bay by the mind of the gentleman, who would ever so hate to see such beauty meet such a fate.
But as the blade cuts its hole into that glass barrier, the hands win the argument. The hands always win.
I feel the wind at my face as I race across the rooftops. The cold April air bristles my fur, dries my mouth, nips at my skin. My legs burn with effort as they propel me over the tar and gravel. As they leap me over the inky black abyss that lies in wait between each building, waiting for me to make that one mistake to let it drag me down into oblivion. I won't let it grab a hold of me. I won't let anyone catch me. There's still so much work to be done.
Tomorrow, reporters and news anchors and all the media scum will flock to the scene. They'll give their tired speeches about how Juste Lambert has struck again. This precious rock being snatched out of the hands of some multi-million dollar suits who will lament their loss in front of cameras and microphones while crying into their hundred dollar bills. The fat cats at home will idly chortle at one another and revel in the schadenfreude, smug in the fact that it will never happen to them.
Meanwhile, their fellow man starves in the streets mere blocks away. Dirty and broken and printed by feet walking overtop them. Those not lucky enough to waste away into nothingness, forgotten and unloved by the world, spend their lives in an endless war. Bullets fly, drugs flow, and dirty money is collected from the wallets of the dead and dying and passed into the supposedly clean hands of the law enforcement to ensure they always look the other way and rather spend their time hunting a criminal who dares to steal from the people who matter.
This is why I do what I do. This is why the call got its busy signal. This is why, as I slide down the fire escape and slip into the old warehouse I make my home away from home, I care not for my aching legs, or how I've managed to become so corrupted that high class theft like this feels like a trip to the grocery store. Instead, my mind buzzes with plans for tomorrow night, when another victim finds his mountain of money pilfered by the hands of their fellow gentleman.
I lean against the door and breathe the fire from my lungs. My job is done for tonight, but tomorrow, it begins anew. When all this is over, those who tower over the poor and broken will know my name and feel a chill run down their spine. They will fear the name Juste Lambert.