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Author's note: This is a short story that kinda came to me in a dream one night. I've gotten a little writer's block while working on chapter 12 of Charlie and James, so I decided to finally sit down and type it up. It's not much, and it'll probably leave you guys hanging, but I hope you all enjoy it. It's a bit of a long read, and different from my usual style of writing, so I hope you don't think I'm going soft. Oh well; here we go.

Also: Please excuse my kinda crappy attempt at stream-of-consciousness writing. I literally took one day to do my research, and sat down for nine hours to type this up. Anyway, enjoy!

The Ace of Spades

By Ken Anderson

---

My eyelids are squeezed into slits as I use the pair of binoculars clutched firmly in my paws to examine the building across the street from my hotel room. I take note of the security cameras, the motion sensors that I can see through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the devices with tiny slits affixed next to each door, which tell me that my job will require a card key. This isn't going to be as easy as I thought... I lower the object from my field of vision, and take in the sight of the bright, full moon, surrounded by countless stars which stain the night sky with their sparkling light... This isn't going to be simple...

I set the binoculars down on the small, wooden table by the window, and pick up the pencil sitting next to the stack of blueprints which have been stretched out across the plywood surface. I use X's to mark off the spots where the cameras are located. I use circles to mark the motion detectors. For the key card scanners, I use nothing. I don't need a symbol for these; they're everywhere... Instead, I draw a giant question mark in the center of the paper, directly on top of the secure room that I'm supposed to find a way into. How? How am I gonna do this? It's a puzzle that'll probably take me most of the night to figure out. My long, thick tail swishes from side to side as I scratch the back of my head with my claws. I gotta think.... I gotta figure this out.....

My name is Caleb, and I'm a professional thief... Yeah, that means I steal shit....

But I'm no fucking idiot; I don't just steal anything....

Don't look at me like that; I've got feelings, you know? But then again, it's not like anybody forced me into this life.... Nobody put a gun to my head, and said 'Hey, kid, you're gonna hit this target.' No; this was a choice I made entirely on my own.... It's the path I chose to take; the road I chose to walk. It's what I wanted to do since the beginning, and if you stick around for a bit, I might tell you all about it....

I step away from the window, and grab the pack of turkish cigarettes sitting on the small table next to the king-size bed. I raise my arms above my head and groan loudly as I stretch them to work out the kinks which have formed in my shoulders from holding the binoculars for so long. I need to take a break. My head is killing me. So many weeks of planning; so many more of preparation. It's all come down to this... The final rehearsal before the big show... The final systems check before the countdown.

I use the disposable lighter sitting on the table to spark one up, and take a nice, long drag from the smoke as I make my way over to the suite's luxury-style bathroom. They even have a jacuzzi in this place; if I'd been a tourist or some visiting foreigner, I might even be impressed. But I'm not here for all that...

I grip the thick sides of the white porcelain sink with my claws, and exhale a thick cloud of smoke onto the surface of the gilded silver mirror hanging above it. I stare at my reflection, and see the exhaustion already beginning to show in my light grey eyes. I set the cigarette down against the edge of the sink, and twist the knob for cold water. A small puddle of it fills my cupped paws, and I raise it towards me, splashing it over the fur around my face. I look so worn out; I feel so tired... I allow my eyes run over every feature of my well-toned body, and I try my best to tell myself that everything is going to work out perfectly. There's too much to lose. My reputation is at stake...

I'm a bengal tiger; purebred, if you must know... And NO, that does NOT make me an incest baby.... Although, I couldn't really tell you whether or not my ancestors were into that sort of thing.... Thank FUCK for that.

My fur is a deep orange; my stripes are true black. I know this because several of my previous jobs have required me to "make friends" with certain drunken patrons at some very unsavory night clubs... I know this because under the soft violet of the black lights, my stripes will glow with a vibrant shade of bright purple... I guess that's part of what makes my jobs so easy at times... I know how to put on a pretty face. I sigh heavily as I run a paw down my chest, stroking my soft, white belly, and admiring the curves of my waist. My body is lean, but still pretty muscular. Most of the members of my species are total muscleheads; you'd imagine us playing football or some other adrenaline-pumping, full-contact sport. And some of us do.

...Just not me.

I prefer my lithe form; many of my marks have found it to be quite attractive. My six-pack abs are almost completely hidden by the blinding white fur on my chest and stomach; people usually underestimate my physical strength. But that's good. That's the way I like it...

As I stand before the mirror, totally naked save for the pair of silk boxers that are hugging my hips and covering my sheath, I consider what I've learned about my target so far.

The target is a diamond exchange located in a major city, deep in the heart of the sweltering Nevada desert... I don't remember the name of the city; such things don't concern me. Nor do I remember the name of the building. Again, it's not important.

What IS important are the security features, the routes of the armed guards who are constantly on patrol, and the times at which the numerous employees arrive in the morning, and leave at the end of each day. Also important are the techniques and technology that I'm going to have to use to get around all of these things. But I've got a plan... I've got ideas... You might be a little confused about everything at this point. That's understandable; you don't know me very well... Allow me to explain my preparations in detail. I hope you don't get bored by that sort of thing.

I've been casing this place for almost four weeks. I've been studying its numerous strengths; its few, yet exploitable weaknesses. I've been memorizing every face, every placement of every device intended to minimize the risk of breaking and entering... I've been planning this out nonstop, losing quite a few nights of sleep, as I try my best to figure out how to take the pieces of this delicate puzzle, and fit each one into place. I've been waiting...

I've been watching.

The exterior of the building is nearly completely covered by security cameras. They face the street, the strip mall next door, and every square inch of the property. But they're easily distracted. And not all angles are covered. For example, the two large parking garages nearby are completely unsecured. They also offer excellent rooftop vantage points from which to assess the target building's security. There's one directly to the right of the diamond exchange, where the employees tend to store their vehicles, and another immediately across the street, which belongs to the hotel I'm currently staying in. This is the one where my own car is parked, and where I've been coming daily to examine the sides of the building which remain hidden from the view outside of my windows. As for the far sides, I've burned through several tanks of gas just circling this block...

Anyway, back to the cameras. The cameras placed around this building are of the hardwired, CCTV variety. These are almost impossible to hack, unless you've got the time to climb up to the junction box or have direct access to the CCTV monitors in the building's security room. But I don't do the heavy lifting. I have my own sort of finesse when it comes to these jobs.

All surveillance cameras work on the principle of image detection. Since they tend to serve as the primary evidence in cases of robbery, assault, or other heinous crimes of notable mention, they're placed in spots where they can easily monitor people going about their everyday activities. But every system has its drawbacks. For example, infrared light. Some thieves like to set up an IR laser, or a group of IR lasers on a timer, to blind each camera they find on the precise moment that a heist is set to begin.

However, there are problems with this method. For each camera, you will need a seperate laser, and each laser has to be positioned very precisely in order for your diversion to work. The problem with this is that you can't see IR light with your naked eyes, and if, god forbid, a fucking bird decides to fly past the laser array while you're in the building, the camera gets un-blinded just long enough for some security geek, sitting at his desk somewhere, to catch a glimpse of your face. Also, and this happens more often than you might think, in your frenzied rush to plan and execute a heist, you may or may not happen to miss out on a few strategically placed hidden cameras. So, lasers are out.

I never said I liked doing things the easy way...

For my big jobs, I prefer to use a custom-made suit covered with tiny, almost invisible, infrared LEDs. LED's, or light-emitting-diodes, have recently become a professional thief's best friend. Well.... My best friends, at least. Give it time, though, and other thieves are bound to catch on. My LEDs are sewn rather discreetly into the lining of a well-tailored three-piece business suit. Who says you can't rob a place blind while looking like a badass? Moving right along....

Along with the suit, I use a ski mask, which is, quite predictably, I might add, also completely covered by these tiny, invisible lights. The LEDs must be carefully placed, so as to distort the camera's perception of the outline of your body, and therefore, hide your identity. This shit works like a charm, too; I once recorded myself standing in front of several 'test' cameras wearing my outfit, and all I could see was a hulking figure made out of pure, blindingly-white light. So much for 'security.'

The motion detectors are much simpler; they work on the principle of detecting infrared body heat. The solution is slow movement, coupled with a series of thermal blankets, spread across a simple PVC frame that has been mounted on a rack attached to a few well-oiled desk-chair wheels. Move slow enough, and stay behind your makeshift shield, and the detectors will pick up nothing at all. Sometimes, the simplest solution IS the best way to go.

My only real problem is the key card readers.

Those things are a bitch, and are damn-near impossible to crack. It's usually a better idea to get ahold of one of the actual cards that are used in the building. Which brings us to my next observation: The patrol routes and routines used by the diamond exchange's lowly-paid security guards. I've been watching them on their nightly patrols, and in doing so, I've learned quite a bit.

There are three security guards, two who patrol the interior of the building with loaded guns and mag-lites at night, and one more who slowly circles the building's exterior, doing a one-eighty at the front entrance after every two passes to walk in the opposite direction. Their actions and bodily movements have told me plenty.

Guard number one, a thick-muscled gray wolf, is totally vigilant, and always on alert. He makes his rounds at a steady pace, shining his flashlight into every room on every floor. He's the one I'll have to watch out for. Guard number two, a young cheetah who's also a chain smoker, tends to stick to the top half of the tall building, where he can easily make his way to the roof access door. Every hour and a half, on the clock, he opens the door to the roof, and steps outside to have a nice little smoke break. His movements are always a little shaky, and I can see his paws trembling through my binoculars whenever he goes up to the roof to smoke. He's either a caffeine junkie, or he's on some sort of amphetamine. He shouldn't be too much trouble to get around. After watching him several times, however, I've come to notice that the roof access door has a key-card reader as well. It's also the easiest way to enter the diamond exchange undetected.

Which brings me to guard number three...

Guard number three is the icing on the cake. He's an aging otter with jet-black fur and brown eyes. He appears to be a heavy drinker. Every night, at exactly midnight, he makes his way across the street from the front door of the diamond exchange, to the bar located downstairs in the lobby of this luxury hotel. I've seen him flirting with the male bartender several times while pounding down shots of whiskey, so I know for sure that he's gay. That makes my job THAT much easier... After six drinks or so, he usually leaves to resume his patrols. I've also noticed the key card attached by a clip to the interior lining of his thin SECURITY jacket while he sits at the bar. I've already decided that he's the one who's going to get me where I need to be.

As I run over the plan one more time in my head, I notice that my cigarette has been reduced to a pile of smouldering ashes on the sink. There's a long, brown cigarette burn running from the edge of the sink to the cigarette filter. No way in hell am I paying for that. I let out a grumble of distaste as I pick up the butt and flick it into the trash can next to the toilet. I use my claws to scratch my back as I make my way out into the suite.

The clock reads 11:30. I've got thirty minutes left before I have to put my plan into action. It has to happen tonight. If it doesn't, I'm gonna be planning my next big heist from some moldy mattress placed on a cot in a homeless shelter. Let's just say I have a bad habit of never leaving the blackjack tables....

I walk across the room to the armoire that's been provided for guests by the four-star hotel. It's made of some sort of antique wood, and the metal knobs feel cold in my paws as I twist them and pull both of the hinged doors open. I let my arms drop to my sides as I examine the equipment I've laid out for this job. Climbing rope? Check. Grappling hook? Check. PVC rack and folded thermal blankets? Got em'. Soldering iron and roll of lead solder? Yup. Huge, empty duffel bag to stuff with jewels and other valuables? Check. Now for the hard part...

I take the LED-lined suit, which is dangling from a wooden coat hanger, and remove it from the armoire. The ski mask is in an interior pocket, and I pull that out as well. I lay these objects out on the bed, before returning to retrieve the soldering iron and the roll of lead solder. Gotta make sure everything is just right for the upcoming job... I tear away the interior lining of the suit coat and pants, which are held to the fabric by a well-hidden array of velcro strips, and begin to examine the wires connecting the LED's to the small battery pack attached near the coattails in the back. Something seems off.

I set the soldering iron on the bedside table, before snatching up the power cord and plugging it into the power outlet next to the bed. As the metal tip begins to heat up, I take the time to light another cigarette, and settle down on the soft mattress of the expensive bed. I lay back on the comforters and puff away, watching as the trail of smoke leaves the burning tip of my cigarette, and dissipates into the air. After a moment, I hear the sizzling sound as the bit of lead on the tip of the soldering iron gets hot enough to drip down onto its cradle in small balls of hot, molten metal. Time to go to work.

I stick the smoke into a corner of my muzzle as I grasp the suit in one paw, tracing every wire from each LED back to the battery pack. When I find one that's disconnected, or has faulty soldering, I use the lead solder and the hot iron to immediately correct it.

This is gonna take a while...

I don't want to bore you guys too much with the technical details of what I'm doing, so maybe I should tell you more about myself... Maybe I should tell you guys what made me become the way I am. I guess I should start early, like, say, during my childhood. It wasn't pretty, I'll tell you that right now, but you're gonna have to hear it anyway if you want to have any hope of understanding what makes me tick...

---

"Caleb! Come watch TV! He's done it again!" I hear someone yell.

I remember the high-pitched, almost screechy voice of one of my foster brothers. I was around ten years old at this time...

I immediately set down the spoon I've been using to devour the bowl of cereal sitting on the small, round kitchen table, and take off at a run for the living room. Several other young children are gathered in a circle around the old, boxy television set, staring attentively at the screen as a news report comes on.

"Really?!" I squeal with excitement. "What'd he take this time?"

"He robbed a museum! He got away with some paintings, and he even left his card!"

I dart through the door frame, and push my way to the center of the circle, next to Ronnie, a short, stocky golden retriever. He was a few years older than me, and I remember him picking on me at times, but he'd always treated me like a younger brother, keeping me safe from the other kids.

I grew up in an orphanage. The Ludington Home for Boys. It was a sad and miserable existence; from my earliest days, I wanted nothing more than to leave that place, and never set foot in that house again. The orphanage was actually a small, two-story home. It was run by a single matron, a chain-smoking female fox named Carmen Ludington. We all used to call her 'Mama Carmen.'

I don't remember ever meeting my parents. In fact, I don't think I ever once heard their names. The story I heard, as I grew older, was that my parents had simply dropped by the orphanage one day, and handed over their cub to the matron without so much as a single word. That's the way life works, I guess. Nothing I can do about it now...

I remember my tail wagging excitedly as we all watched the news. A couple of kids complained loudly when it smacked them across their backs, but I ignored them, and gave my full attention to the TV screen. He'd pulled another successful job... My hero... My idol. Every time the media got wind of his escapades, I always found myself sitting on the living room floor, just praying to catch a glimpse of him. A tail. A patch of fur. Anything at all, which would confirm to me that this master thief did, in fact, exist. But no... He was always too good for that.

The reporter, a lioness with too much mascara and a suit that made her look horribly skinny, was standing at the entrance to a fine arts museum. I watched as she cleared her throat to speak, and gave a nod to the camera crew before raising the microphone clutched in her paws towards her smiling muzzle.

"This is Deborah Reese reporting live for Channel Seven News. I'm standing on the front steps of the Guggenheim museum, located in the upper-east side of Manhattan, New York, where the police are baffled by a break-in that took place in the early hours of this morning. Several post-impressionist paintings were reportedly stolen last night, by the mysterious master thief known worldwide only by his calling card, the Ace of Spades. The theft of the paintings was discovered this morning by one of the museum's curators, who, while walking the museum's unique, spiralling art gallery, noticed that several famous paintings had been replaced by these small playing cards, one of which I've been given permission to show you."

She raises a paw, and holds out an evidence bag containing the Ace of Spades. The card is familiar to me; I've seen it plenty of times. It's a plain white rectangle of stiff paper, stamped directly in the center with a single, black spade. The death card. The omen of bad fortune. The calling card left by my childhood hero.

"The police say that the museum's security footage appears to have been tampered with," the reporter continues, "Apparently, the thief managed to hack the museum's wireless security feed, and play a continuous loop of the area where the robberies were taking place. According to museum security officials, the paintings were, and I quote, "There for one second, and gone the next." The thief appears to have gained entry to the museum through the use of a security keycard. How he came to have access to this keycard is, of course, another mystery. We'll bring you more on this story as it develops."

I'm so giddy that I'm shaking. Ever since I'd first heard of the master thief, I'd been taking notes in my head, storing whatever I couldn't retain in a small diary that I kept beneath the mattress of my tiny bed. The Ace of Spades had never been caught. Nobody had ever seen his face; nobody could tell what he looked like. The only reason everyone knew that he was male was from analyzing a faint glimpse of his shadow caught on a security camera during one of his very first heists. After that, he'd become more careful.

I'd been following his escapades since I was seven years old.

As I got older, and as my idol pulled off more, higher-profile heists, I found myself taking note of his every move. I wrote down the details of each of his robberies, from the techniques he would use, to the materials and technology he needed to pull them off. I wrote down everything. As time passed by, the only dream I ever held onto was that, one day, I'd grow up to be just like him. One day, it would be ME pulling off such fantastic crimes and getting away with unimaginable riches. One day, it would be ME who would become known worldwide as a master thief...

....And so it was.

After years of study and many mistakes, I would eventually come to realize my dream. But not before I had the kind of close calls that made me start to have second thoughts...

I pulled off my first heist at the age of fifteen. It was my first and last job working with a crew. It was a total fuckup. My foster brother Ronnie and I had been planning to hit a small jewelry store located a few miles away from the Boy's home for several weeks. He'd recruited another one of our foster brothers, a lynx named Jim, who had a penchant for hotwiring cars, to acquire and drive the getaway vehicle. That left the two of us to case the target and plan the break-in.

At the time, we thought we'd done a pretty good job.

On the day before the heist, the three of us were standing around my bed, discussing our plan. This is where things began to go wrong.

I'm arguing with Jim quite loudly, referring to the hastily-drawn map of the target area placed on my bed to back up my complaints.

"You can't just wait outside!" I exclaim furiously. "The cops drive past the place every five minutes! You have to use the alleyway around back!" I stab the location I've suggested on the map with a claw.

"But what if the back door's locked?!" Jim repsonds. "How the hell are you guys gonna get out of there in time? I say we should put the car out front! Worst-case scenario, you could always smash out a window!"

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Cool it, guys! We've been planning this for too long to start fucking up now."

Ronnie steps in between the two of us, and tries to mediate the heated discussion. He stabs a claw in Jim's direction. "Jim, we've gone over this a hundred times. You'll pick up a car and take it around the back, while Caleb and I raid the store. The alarm's gonna go off immediately, so we'll have about two minutes before the blue suits start swarming the fucking place. The reason we picked this alleyway is because it's blocked off at one end; there's a brick wall right here, next to the front entrance." He points to the map. "You're gonna have to back the car into place, but nobody's gonna see us when we bust out the back door and hop in. You'll peel out, and we'll escape down the alleyway onto the street on the other side of the jewelry store. The cops will all be busy out front, so nobody's gonna expect us to head out the back way."

Jim nods his head in silent acceptance of Ronnie's explanation.

He points the same claw towards me. "Caleb, you've got the lockpicking skills, so you're gonna open up the front door, and lock it behind us. While you're doing that, I'm gonna be grabbing as much shit as I can carry, and stuffing it into my bag. Once we're done, if the back door's locked, we're just gonna have to kick it down. Remember, we've only got TWO FUCKING MINUTES before everything goes to shit. Once we all get back here, we'll split the take three ways."

I remember giving my foster brother a curt nod. I understood my role perfectly. The plan was so simple; this should've been an easy in-and-out job. Little did I know at the time, that it was all going to turn into one giant clusterfuck. Here's what really ended up going down:

The next night, Ronnie and I dressed ourselves in long-sleeved, midnight-blue sweatpants and sweatshirts to cover up our thick fur. We slipped ski masks on top of our heads, and made sure to grab the duffel bag containing the simple tools we would need to pull this off: a crowbar, my lockpick set, and a stopwatch. After stealing random shit from convenience stores and gas stations during our teenage years, we figured that this would amount to fucking child's play.

I couldn't tell you what the hell I was thinking when I actually considered taking part in this...

Around midnight, the two of us opened one of the windows in our shared room on the first floor, and slipped out into the night. We made our way to the end of our street, well away from the boy's home, where we found Jim waiting for us in a stolen sedan. He flicked a cigarette butt out the driver's-side window, and motioned for us to get in when we got close enough. Ronnie hopped in the front seat, and I got in the back. My heart was pounding; I was sweating heavily under the suffocating warmth of my chosen outfit. My paws were shaking and my tail was swinging around incessantly. I was so nervous; I felt so unprepared. Even though what we had planned was nowhere near the scale and intensity as the heists pulled off by my idol, I still felt a rush of adrenaline as I came to terms with what we were about to do. I felt anxious to get it over with, to be back home dividing a bag full of precious jewelry amongst myself and my two foster brothers.

For all my nervousness and fear, however, I somehow felt ready for this...

I'm smoking one of Jim's cigarettes as we near the front entrance of the jewelry store. We've circled the block a few times, looking for cops, and the neighborhood appears to be free of them. Everything seems to be going exactly as planned...

Ronnie leans over in his seat, and turns his head back to face me. "Alright, Caleb, you ready for this?"

I'm speechless; I simply nod my head, and flick the cigarette I've been smoking out into the street. He gives me a reassuring smile, and turns to Jim. "Alright, Jimmy, you know your part?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," The lynx mumbles. "Just get it over with, will ya?"

"Yeah, we're gonna," Ronnie tells him. I watch as he removes a cell phone from his pocket, and hands it over to Jim. "If anything comes up, call us on this. We'll have to wing it from there."

With that, Ronnie tugs on his ski mask and exits the car, motioning for me to grab the duffel bag at my feet and join him. I pull on my own mask, and slide out of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind me before making my way over to Ronnie at the jewelry store's front entrance. Jim speeds off towards the alleyway where we've chosen to make our escape.

The door is made of thick glass, and is secured by a simple pin-tumbler deadbolt lock. I find myself grinning slightly as I remove my lockpick set from the bag, and go to work. Lockpicking is a very useful skill. It can get you into places that you're not supposed to be, or it can help you if you've happened to leave your keys on your dresser. Either way, the entire practice of lockpicking relies on patience and a very well-honed sense of touch. When you insert the picks, you have to be able to feel the pressure as each pin lands above the interior shear line. If you do it wrong, the cylinder won't rotate, and you could end up needing a new set of picks.

Do it right, however, and you've just gained entry to the places where people store their valuables, or hide away their nasty little secrets...

I feel the soft pressure as the final pin lines up securely along the shear line. With a flick of my wrist, I twist the tension wrench, and the tumbler rotates, giving a 'click' as the deadbolt slides into the door. I look up at Ronnie, and see that he's smiling down at me. This is all gonna work out perfectly...

He takes the stopwatch out of the bag, and sets the countdown for a minute and thirty seconds. If it takes us longer than that to get in and out of this place, we're totally screwed. I hand over the duffel bag and pocket my lockpicks as he silently counts down from five before pressing the button on the device.

As soon as he starts the timer, I throw the door open, and as expected, the siren begins to blare loudly. We don't care. We get to work. Ronnie dashes over to the numerous glass display cases, and starts using his crowbar to smash each one open, before scooping up the expensive jewelry. I reposition myself at the other side of the door, and use the tension wrench to snap the lock shut again.

"One minute left!" I hear my brother shout, as I leap to my feet and start helping him collect the bounty. We're shoveling numerous brand-name designer watches and rings into our bag, checking the stopwatch occasionally, when I hear his cell phone ring. Ronnie's eyes meet mine in an expression of pure panic, and he drops the bag into my paws and begins to fumble desperately around in his pockets for the phone. He manages to find it, and flips it open before thrusting it against his ear.

"Yeah?!" he shouts over the alarm. He goes silent as Jim speaks. I watch as his ears slowly begin to droop, and his jaw opens slightly. "WHAT?! HOW THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?!" he screams. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY SAW YOU?! SHIT!"

He snaps the phone shut with a growl, and shoves it into the duffel bag. "We're screwed!" he yells to me. "The cops saw Jimmy backing into the alleyway, and they've got him blocked off! There's gonna be backup headed our way!"

My ears perk up and my body shakes as I try to figure out what to do now. My brother zips up the bag, and pushes it closer to my chest. "We've gotta split up! You take this stuff, and get the hell away from this place! If I make it, we'll meet up back at the orphanage!"

I'm standing amidst the broken glass, paralyzed with fear as he runs towards one of the large shop windows with the crowbar gripped firmly in his paw. He grunts loudly as he brings it down on the glass, shattering it with one blow. He nods to me as he leaps through the gaping hole. "COME ON!"

I pull myself together and follow him, diving through the gap and scrambling to my feet on the dirty concrete sidewalk. Ronnie's already taken off running down the street, and I tear ass in the opposite direction. I can hear the sirens blaring loudly as the police near the scene of the crime. My legs are throbbing and my lungs are burning as I run, trying my best to suck in gasps of fresh air as I make my way down the deserted street. As I reach an intersection, I notice the faint red-and-blue lights staining the blacktop as they speed towards my location. I make a split-second decision to duck into a narrow alleyway between two brick buildings, and hold my breath as I see the cruisers pass by. I sink to the ground, dropping the bag and panting loudly as I consider what I've just done. I've just committed a robbery...

And now, it's all gone to shit.

I manage to pull myself back to my feet, and stick my head out from behind the wall to see what's going on. My eyes go wide and I can feel the tears welling up as I catch sight of Ronnie, down on his knees. The golden retriever has his paws folded behind his head, and several officers are approaching him with their weapons drawn.

Shit...

I look on as he's placed in handcuffs, and stuffed into the backseat of a squad car. After a moment of watching the somber scene, I snatch the bag up from the ground, and take off running through the dark alley. I need to get out of here. I need to get home... I need to pack up all my clothes, and disappear. The matron would never forgive me for this; hell, she might even turn me over to the cops, herself. I can't let that happen to me; I CAN'T...

I ran away from the boy's home that night.

I ended up fencing the stolen loot at several pawn shops around our small town, getting together just enough money for some cigarettes, food, and a bus ticket to New York City. I don't know why I chose to head for that particular metropolis... I didn't know what I was gonna do when I got there... I didn't know where I was going to go...

A few days after the robbery, as I sat in the soft, cushioned seat of the cross-country coach, I found myself pulling out my old, worn diary, and flipping through the pages. Where had I gone wrong? What could I have done differently? As I pondered over the techniques and methods of my unwilling teacher, I finally realized that I had purposefully made one of the stupidest mistakes in the book...

I had worked with a team.

A team is unpredictable; there's too many heads involved, too many variables to account for, and too many things can go wrong... My mentor had never worked with anybody but himself, and from that day on, neither would I. I eventually came to accept this close call as a test of my skills, and one that I had undoubtedly failed miserably... From now on, I'd never rely on anybody but myself.

This decision would eventually come to bring me the notoriety and the success that I so desperately craved. In time, I would hone my skills to a fine art; free-climbing walls to reach hundred-carat diamonds, propelling myself across rooftops to access historic jewels. I would steal, take, and sell, relishing in the adoration of my fellow thieves, bathing in the feeling of warmth and success which came with stealing such valuable objects, and not having to worry about money for the next several months.

Like my idol, nobody would ever come to know my face. Nobody would ever know who I was. I would go out to dive bars and sip beers while watching as the tales of my exploits played out on the national news channels. I'd say nothing as some other patron remarked at the skills and cunning that I supposedly possessed. I'd just sit there and smile, order another drink, and silently tell myself that this is what it's all about.

This is the life I loved to live...

---

I use a paw to wipe the sweat from my forehead as I look over my repaired IR suit. It's done. Everything is in place. I tilt my head to the side to check the clock. 12:01. Perfect timing. I set the soldering iron down into its cradle, and unplug it from the wall. Rushing to the window, I grab the binoculars off the table, and start searching for my mark. There he is. The old otter has just finished his rounds, and is making his way across the street to my hotel. Time to set my plan in motion.

I place the binoculars under my arm as I snatch up the blueprints and pencil from the table, rolling up the large sheets of paper into a single tube as I approach the armoire. I set everything down behind my duffel bag, and go to retrieve the IR suit and soldering materials from the bed. I reattach the suit's lining using the handy velcro strips, and stick the ski mask back into the interior pocket. Sliding the outfit back onto the wooden hanger, I snatch up the roll of lead solder, and scoop the soldering iron off the bedside table with a paw. I grit my teeth and let out a hiss of pain as a drop of hot lead spills from the tip of the iron, and singes my fur.

Fuck.

I throw everything into the armoire, and hang up the suit. Fumbling around in the duffel bag, I pull out a bottle of scotch, and two glasses. It's the otter's favorite brand; I've caught him drinking it every night. I feel around the inside of the bag, and come up with a small capsule, filled to the brim with a plain, white powder.

Flunitrazepam. Better known as Rohypnol, the date rape drug. It's what I always use for these jobs.

I set the bottle and glasses down on the table near the bed, and pop the cork on the whiskey. I empty the capsule into one of the glasses, and fill them both with the sweet-smelling amber liquid. I make sure to set the drugged glass on the right, and my own drink on the left. There... My homemade blackout juice is ready to be deployed. Everything looks just right... Now, I've gotta get ready. There's another outfit hanging in the armoire, next to my robbery suit. I snatch it off the coat hanger, and haul ass over to the bathroom to get dressed.

There's no instruction manual when it comes to seducing a mark in order to get what you want. It's always hit-or-miss. You either manage to get them back to your bedroom, or you don't. But there ARE some things you can do to increase your chances of a successful seduction. For example, you can play to your target's sexual preferences. If your target happens to be heterosexual, you can easily obtain the services of a member of the opposite sex, or, if you happen to be a member of the opposite sex, you can play that to your advantage. If your target happens to be homosexual, however, it all comes down to how far you're willing to go.

Well-built, masculine targets usually prefer to be on top, and in order to engage these marks successfully, you usually have to put out the submissive vibe. This is accomplished by donning outfits which hug your hips and flow over the curves of your chest and back, giving you a slightly feminine look. It also depends on the way you act, move, and speak. A slight wag of the hips, a soft-spoken lisp in your speech, and an arched back while leaning over the bar to order drinks. These are all tools that you can use to capture the attention of a dominant partner.

For those submissive marks, it's exactly the opposite. You want to make yourself look tough. Like a badass. Like you're gonna give them the time of their lives in bed, and they're not gonna be able to walk in the morning. For these jobs, I've found that the punk rocker look works wonders. There's something about faded denim jeans, torn at the knees, an unbuttoned flannel shirt with the sleeves chopped off, and a pair of sunglasses resting on your brow that draws these people to you like you're some sort of ass-magnet. But it's not all about the look. You've gotta throw out that "Do-not-fuck-with-me" vibe. A few dirty looks, a well-placed sneer, and a cigarette stubbed out on the bar usually does the trick. Sure, it'll piss off whoever's dishing out your drinks, but the payoff is usually worth it.

Luckily for me, over the years, I've become a master at this form of sexual manipulation. It's one of the few lessons I didn't have to learn from my childhood hero. I just thought it was common sense. I consider myself to be an excellent lay, on top or below, and I've had plenty of sweet nothings whispered into my ears afterwards to back up my assumption. I know exactly what to do with my body to bring my marks the maximum amount of pleasure, while also enjoying myself immensely. I know all the little tricks, the soft-spoken secrets, that will make whoever you happen to be in bed with squeal with delight. Just thinking about that stuff is making me a little hard in the pants.

Hey, a guy's gotta have fun, right?

I rub some water on my paws, and run them through the fur on the back of my neck to smooth it down. Stepping away from the sink, I take one last, long look at the outfit I've chosen.

I'm wearing a sexy black off-the-shoulder crop top, which stops at my navel. I've managed to pull on a pair of black leather, low rise bell bottom pants, which are faded at the knees and bring out my grey eyes. The entire ensemble is true black, to match the color of my stripes. I check the back pocket for a black eyeliner pencil, and go to work shadowing the area around my eyes. I'll admit it all looks a little trashy, but this otter's gonna love it.

The male bartender that he likes to hit on is a very feminine red fox, who's obviously gay, and obviously isn't into him. The otter looks like the kind of guy who'd prefer to be on top when it comes to sex. I've decided to use that to gain a slight edge over the competition. Hence, the "Please-fuck-me" outfit.

I double-check myself in the mirror one more time to make sure everything's fitting right, and give a slight nod when it all checks out.

Time to punch in for the night; it's payday, people!

I exit the bathroom, and switch off the lights with a flick of my wrist. I make sure to put a slight bounce in my step, and a wag in my hips as I snatch the key card off the bedside table, and make my way towards the door of my suite. I start thinking about what I'm going to do as I strut up to the elevator, and press firmly on the button for 'down.' I watch the numbers on the small LED screen near the door count up as the cab makes its way to my floor. I hear that familiar 'ding' as the stainless steel doors slide open, and reveal that the elevator is empty. I'm trying my best to steel myself for what's coming as I press the button for the lobby, before leaning back against the metal bar near the back wall. The elevator itself is spotless. There's some sort of fancy wallpaper covering the interior; some kind of art deco pattern. The music playing softly through the single speaker above the floor counter makes me cringe, but I grin and bear it as I'm carried towards the ground floor.

What am I gonna do? How should I play this? I can think of a dozen different scenarios, each one with its strong and weak points, but none of them seem to stick out as the course of action that I should take with this particular mark. As I reach the lobby of the hotel, I decide to just wing it. Why put so much effort into a plan that's probably gonna go wrong? No; let's try to have fun with this one.

The doors slide open with a gentle hiss of pneumatic air, and I step out onto the soft carpet of the lobby. My hips are swaying to and fro as I make my way towards my destination. I've managed to put on my sultriest smile. Several heads turn to gaze at me as I walk into the smoke-filled, beer-stained atmosphere of the hotel's private bar. I give them all warm smiles, and note with a smug satisfaction that my mark, the black otter with the security jacket, is already seated at the bar. I notice the three empty shot glasses in front of him; he's already well into his routine. That's just perfect. He tosses me a fleeting glance as I walk past the bar, heading for the digital music system positioned against the back wall of the dimly-lit room. I can feel his eyes tracing over my body as I lean forward, arch my back, and insert a dollar bill before I start searching for a suitable song. The music player is like a digital jukebox. You put in your money, and you can play a song. Unlike a traditional jukebox, however, your selections aren't limited to what's in the machine at the current moment. For enough money, you can search for any particular song you like, any specific tune that you know you could use to set the mood just right.

Fortunately, the song I'm looking for has already been listed. I choose Green Day's "When I come Around."

As the guitar and bass riffs begin to reverberate throughout the room, I twist my hips and snake my back to and fro as I sing along to the first verse. My tail sways seductively behind me as I dance. Several patrons have stopped talking to watch me. So has the otter. I turn my muzzle back to smile at everyone, before whirling around and skipping over to the bar. I'm giggling like a schoolgirl as I hop onto one of the thin barstools, and lean over the counter to talk to the fox who's tending the bar.

"Give me two blowjobs," I tell him, making sure raise my voice to sound slightly more feminine.

Yeah, I'm really laying it on. If I don't end up with my chosen mark tonight, half the guys in the bar are probably gonna end up following me to my room. That would be a helluva scene...

The fox chuckles as he pours the sweet, brown drinks, and tops them off with whipped cream. He sets them both on the counter in front of me, and I sneak a peek at the otter, who's watching me intently with those deep, brown eyes. Letting out a quiet giggle, I lean forward, and use my teeth to pick up one of the glasses, tilting my head back and allowing the booze to pour smoothly down my throat. I catch him smiling out of the corner of my eye as I repeat the process on the second drink.

"Wow..." I hear him say, as I lower the second glass back onto the counter. "That's pretty impressive."

I give him a sultry smile, and turn my head to look him over. His voice is gruff and rich with bass, the side effects of old age and years of drinking and smoking. There's a slight hint of gray begining to form around his muzzle, and I notice that his legs are shifting uncomfortably. Good. That's a start. Up close, he looks to be in his late forties or early fifties, just a few years shy of being called a senior citizen. I find myself silently hoping that he can still get it up, at least. Otherwise, this night could get really boring, really fast.

"Thanks, mister," I slur, leaning towards him so that our muzzles are mere inches away. He gives a hearty laugh, before ordering another shot of scotch. I purr softly as he takes it from the bartender, and slugs it all back in one go.

"What's your name?" he asks me.

"Caleb," I reply, extending a paw. He takes it in his own, and gives it a gentle shake. Even though I can tell he's trying his best not to squeeze too tightly, I can feel the underlying strength in his firm grip. This old guy's got some muscle on him.

"Nice to meet ya," he says. "I'm Bill. I work nighttime security over at the diamond exchange across the street."

"Oh I know!" I squeal. "I've seen you out there... It must be hard for someone at your age, all that walking and the constant boredom. You probably don't get much time for yourself, right?"

Bill nods his head, and orders up yet another shot. "You'd be right about that. I usually end up coming to this place around midnight, just to take a break from the routine. A few drinks makes everything better, if you ask me."

I nod my head, and motion to the empty shot glasses sitting on the bar. "Oh, I agree. Is there any chance of you buying me one of those?"

His smile widens as he calls the bartender over to place another order. I've cast the bait, and he's already taken it. Now, all that's left is to reel him in. I watch as the fox pours the two shots, and slides one across the bar to me. Bill takes his own shot in his paw, and nods towards me. "So what brings you around here?"

I shrug my shoulders coyly, and nurse the drink in my paws. "I came to see some friends," I lie, "This guy I went to high school with moved out here recently, and he invited me to attend a fashion show in a few days."

"Really?" The otter huffs, "If you ask me, you shouldn't be going to see other people model on the runways. You should be up there, yourself."

I actually blush at his compliment. I guess it's been a while. I put on a shy face, and raise the shot glass towards him. "Well, here's to boredom and fashion!" I exclaim. "And all the interesting people they bring together."

He smiles as he tilts the edge of his shot glass towards my own. They make a soft 'clink' as they touch, and we toss back our shots simultaneously. I make a point of running my tongue slowly across the upper half of my muzzle after I swallow. "My favorite brand..." I purr.

"Really?" He inquires. I see his eyebrows raise in surprise as I smile. "Can you tell what it is?"

"Hmmm..." I purr, trying my best to look confused as I clearly recall the name of the brand. "Tastes like... Laphroaig. Ten years old... It's a single malt, from the island of Islay in the southwest region of Scotland. Kinda peaty, but it's got a smooth aftertaste, not to mention a nice kick..."

"Well..." Bill replies, nodding his head in appreciation, "You sure know your whiskey, kid."

"Oh, I'm NOT a kid..." I can't help retorting. "I may be young, but believe me, I know a lot of things...."

"How old are ya?" he asks.

"Twenty-five." I say. I decide that it's time to quit the bullshit, and cut right to the chase. He looks pretty wasted as it is; I don't need him slipping into a coma after I give him the drugs... I lean in close enough to whisper in his ear as I set the glass back on the bar.

"I've got another bottle in my room," I tell him. "Wanna join me?"

He seems taken aback at my brashness as he pauses to consider his options. "Well, I don't know..." he mutters, "I mean, I've gotta get back before the head of security comes downstairs and finds me missing...."

I lay a paw on his right knee, and slowly begin to work my way towards the seat of his pants. "Are you sure? I can make it worth your while..." I give him a pouty look as I start rubbing my paw against his crotch.

I wish I could've snapped a picture of the ear-to-ear grin which immediately flashed across the old otter's muzzle.

"You know what?" he begins, "Why not... Just let me settle my tab, and you can lead the way..."

I get up from my seat, and slowly start walking towards the elevator in the center of the lobby. Bill has to run to catch up to me as the stainless-steel doors begin to close. I wait until they're almost completely shut, before pressing the button to reopen them. "You almost missed your chance, there..." I murr, as he steps into the cab, panting heavily with the physical exertion. I press the button for my floor, and the doors close as the elevator begins to rise.

Three minutes later, the two of us are in my suite. The black otter's paws are all over me, stroking the fur on the back of my neck and caressing the curves of my waist as we kiss. We're standing next to the bed, and I'm in a bit of a hurry to get things started. He groans as I grip the fabric of his security jacket, and peel it back off of his thick arms. He's wearing nothing underneath. His paws begin to rub my fur once more, and I start backing him towards the bed as I fling the jacket onto the table near the window. I hear him let out a slight yelp of surprise as I push him onto his back on top of the king-size mattress.

I chuckle at his apparent shock as I grip the bottom of my top, and use both paws to tug it over my head. I watch as his small ears perk up, and a noticeable bulge begins to appear beneath the folds of his black khakis. Judging from the size of things, I'm beginning to think that this might get interesting...

I lay my naked chest on top of his, and purr softly as I bring my muzzle up to give him a nice, long kiss... I can feel his paws trying desperately to work the buttons on my leather pants free, and I break the kiss just long enough to offer him some assistance. The pants come off, and all I've got on are my boxers. I instruct him to lay flat on the bed, and he obeys, slipping his paws behind his head for support as I begin to kiss my way down his hard, well-built chest, towards his crotch. I hear him moan softly as I undo the buttons on his pants, and slide them down his legs, to the floor. I can already see the pink tip of his cock poking out through his boxers as I pull them off as well, tossing them in a messy heap on top of the rest of our clothes.

I lick my lips and murr as I lower my muzzle towards his sheath, teasing him with my rough tongue as I massage him to his full size. I can hear him sucking in slight gasps of air between his teeth as I work him over, drawing out into moans of pleasure as take his entire length into my muzzle. 'He's pretty big, for an older guy,' I find myself thinking, 'Who knows, I might actually enjoy this.'

Bill continues to moan loudly as I work my way slowly up and down his shaft, letting my tongue roll slowly over his hard flesh as I bob my head up and down. I use a paw to stroke the base of his sheath and fondle his balls as I keep going, increasing the speed and duration of my licks and sucks as I feel him drawing slowly closer to orgasm. His thick tail begins to slither around underneath me as I give it everything I've got, and I feel his paw pressing gently against the back of my head, guiding me down even further as I do my best to please him.

I savor the salty taste dripping from his cock as he gets close to the edge. His moans are growing louder, and the muscles on his legs are tensing up. Suddenly, I hear him telling me to stop. That's a new one on me. I can't say it's ever happened before...

"Wait, wait... Not yet." he groans, as he slips a single claw under my chin and slowly lifts my muzzle away.

"Why not?" I ask him, a look of genuine confusion written across my face as I wonder what I've done wrong.

He gives me a reassuring smile, and pulls my head towards him, locking our muzzles in another fierce kiss, before breaking away. "Don't feel bad. That was amazing. I just don't want to waste it all at once," he tells me.

I feel his paws slipping past the soft silk of my boxers as he lowers them down my long, thin legs. He kisses me again and pulls me on top of him. I flinch involuntarily as I feel his hard cock pressing against my tailhole. THAT's why he didn't want me to finish him off...

I nod my head towards the two glasses of scotch sitting on the bedside table. "Wanna have that drink first?"

He shakes his head, and takes my body in his arms as he gently flips me onto my stomach. I feel his hot breath against my neck as he mounts me from behind, and gives me a tender lick across my cheek.

"We'll save that for later."

I let out a short gasp as I feel him slipping slowly inside of me, his thick cock stretching the walls of my insides as he maneuvers it in. God, he's bigger than I thought... He seems to sense my discomfort, though, and he leans over to look into my eyes before continuing.

"Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

I give a slight chuckle, and shake my head. "I'm fine... You're just a little.... big."

I feel his body shake as the otter lets out a burst of wheezing laughter. "Yeah, I get that a lot... Especially with my age."

I feel him withdraw slightly, before thrusting himself into me again. I can't stop the loud moan from escaping my lips as he buries himself inside of me. I tell him to go ahead, and he starts to fuck me at a slow, steady pace. I take in a gasp of air each time he pushes himself into me, sinking more and more of his hard flesh inside of me with each thrust.

After a minute, he's burying himself to the hilt, causing me to groan loudly in between thrusts whenever he pulls out. I can feel my own cock starting to poke out of its sheath as he wraps my tail around one of his paws, and pulls me into his rhythm. God, he knows exactly what he's doing... I guess experience does come with age... I'm seeing stars dance before my eyes now, and it takes me a moment to realize that I've been holding my breath. When I exhale, however, it comes out as a loud, needy moan, and he responds by thrusting harder, faster. I dig my claws into the bedsheets for support as he begins to speed up.

I can hear him grunting with the effort as his thrusts start to come faster and more often, his sheath slapping against the fur around my tailhole as he draws closer to orgasm. I start wishing that I could reach down and pleasure myself while he fucks me, but he's drilling me so hard I'd probably fall onto the bed and ruin it for both of us. Then, as if he's heard my silent prayers, I feel his soft paw wrapping around my cock as he begins to stroke me in tune with his own thrusts. I can't help it; I moan even louder, and beg him to keep going. I hear him chuckling from behind me as he grants my wish, and begins to slam into me with such force that it rattles my vision. I'm pushing my hips back to meet his thrusts, and this seems to enhance his pleasure. He starts to murr as I feel my abdominal muscles tighten around his cock. I can't take much more of this. I'm gonna explode...

I let out a whimper as he drops my tail and cock and grabs my hips with both paws. He starts to thrust with a reckless abandon, pulling out almost entirely, before slamming in to the hilt, going so fast and hard that I'm sure he should be having a heart attack by now. My sharp claws tear the bedsheets and the soft fabric of the mattress to shreds as I struggle to maintain my position underneath him. For an older guy, he's really giving me a run for my money. I hear him cry out in pleasure as he gives a few more thrusts, before pulling out entirely, and stuffing himself back in with enough force to send me falling face-first onto the mattress. I feel his hot seed beginning to fill my tailhole, and the sensation brings me to orgasm as well. I let out a loud roar which almost rattles the windows. The volume of it even surprises me.

Bill, now physically exhausted, slowly pulls out before collapsing onto the bed. I manage to turn over onto my side, and heave a sigh as we both do our best to still our pounding hearts. I find myself running a paw down his chest absentmindedly as I stare into his eyes. He's got this look of smug satisfaction across his face that just seems so precious....

I mentally slap myself. I can't worry about that shit now....

"So, how about that drink?" I say, motioning to the two glasses sitting on the bedside table. He gives a slow nod, and reaches over to retrieve them. "That's not a bad idea..."

He hands me one of the glasses, and I toss it back without hesitation. The whiskey burns a path down the back of my throat, but it's still so refreshing... I watch as he swallows his drink as well, before reaching my arm over his body to grab my pack of cigarettes. I lay back on the soft pillows and light one up, inhaling as deeply as I can. God, I feel so good...

"So, how was it?" I hear him ask. I turn to stare at him for a second, unsure of how to reply. After a moment of thought, I simply shrug my shoulders and say,

"It wasn't bad...."

Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I'm proud to accept this award for the biggest understatement of the year. I'd like to thank the Academy...

He seems to accept my answer, and rolls over to kiss me on the cheek. "I guess I'm calling in sick tomorrow." he mutters. I give him a smile, and stroke the graying fur around his muzzle before kissing him back. "I guess you are..."

He rolls onto his back, and smiles as he stares at the patterned ceiling. Great... Now, all I have to do is wait for him to fall asleep so I can start going to work. As soon as he's out, I can get his keycard and set this whole thing in motion..............

---

I'm awoken by the incessant ringing of the phone on the bedside table as my head throbs painfully. I use the back of my paw to wipe away the crusts that have formed in my eyes as I squint against the harsh sunlight streaming in through the giant windows. What the hell?! I check the clock and see that it's almost noon. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ME LAST NIGHT?!

The phone continues to ring, and I grumble a few curses as I snatch it up, and press the receiver to my ear.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Good morning, Mr. Ludington. This is Preston, I'm the hotel concierge. This is your wake-up call for eleven forty-five A.M. Have a nice day, sir."

"Wait, wait!" I shout, before the voice on the other end can hang up. "Wake-up call? Who the hell told you I needed a wake-up call?!"

"I'm sorry, sir. He didn't leave his name."

"Well, what did he look like?!" I almost scream.

"Let me think... He was a tall, black-furred otter, I believe. Quite the gentleman, in fact. He left me a very large tip. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I have other duties to attend to. Have a nice day."

The other line clicks dead as the hotel concierge hangs up. I stare blankly at the receiver for a moment before slamming it down on the base. What, in the name of all that is good and fucking holy, is GOING ON HERE?!

I'm about to take a moment to figure everything out, when another sound makes my ears perk up and causes me to leap out of bed. It's a siren. But not a cop's siren. This is the loudest screeching noise I've ever heard in my life. It seems to be coming from across the street. I haul ass over to the window and press my paws to the glass to block out the sun as I struggle to get a better view. No way... This CAN'T be happening.

A crowd of people is standing outside of the diamond exchange, chattering excitedly and pointing fingers towards the roof of the building. I shift my gaze to see what they're looking at. My jaw drops.

There's a long, black climbing rope stretching from the rooftop of the parking garage next door to the roof of the diamond exchange building, secured at the target building with a familiar steel grappling hook. The roof-access door is wide open, and I can make out the blurred form of a keycard lodged firmly in the slit next to it. The climbing equipment looks somewhat familiar to me...

No, wait. That's not possible...

I tear myself away from the window, and run over to the armoire. Grabbing the two knobs in my paws, I throw it open, expecting to see my robbery gear sitting exactly where I'd placed it.

The armoire is empty. My IR suit is gone, along with the climbing rope, grappling hook, blueprints, and every other tool and piece of equipment and scrap of intelligence that I'd spent so long acquiring and manufacturing just to pull off this job. It's all gone. I find myself thinking back to the night before. What the hell happened to me?!

I remember going downstairs to seduce the security guard, the black otter who liked to leave during his shifts to enjoy a few drinks in the bar downstairs. I vaguely remember having great sex, before lying in the bed and waiting for him to fall asleep. What am I missing here? Did I pull off the robbery already?

No... Oh, fuck me...

The whiskey.

I'd placed the drugged glass on the right side of the table, and the clean glass on the left. I remember watching him lift up the two glasses, before handing me one. I can't recall exactly which one it was...

Well, judging from the throbbing migraine I've got right now, not to mention my hazy memory regarding the events of the previous night, I guess I know EXACTLY which glass I was given...

All of a sudden, the questions begin to pile up. Who was he? Was he really a security guard? Was he a fellow thief, using the security job as a cover to scope out the place? How could I not have noticed? What was his name?

Bill...

But was that his real name? Or was it just a cover identity? Any smart thief knows better than to give out his real name... Except for me, I guess. But that's because nobody's ever seen my face...

Oh well... Oh, SHIT.

A wave of panic washes through me as I consider what has happened. Somebody has used MY equipment to pull off MY heist. That means they've got samples of MY fur on the rope and the suit. Not that my name or DNA is in any database, but it's still enough to make me flip out. I silently pray that this guy at least had the decency to dispose of my equipment properly...

I dash over to the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, and start pulling on my outfit from last night. It's not the kind of thing I'd normally wear, but all of my other clothes are in the trunk of my car, which is parked in the garage next door. I pull the crop top down over my head, and tug on the leather pants. I see the pack of cigarettes and the hotel room key sitting on the bedside table, and I snatch them up and shove them into a pocket. Opening the small drawer on the table, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that my car keys are safe. I guess every dark cloud has a silver lining... I grab them, and clip them onto one of the belt loops on my pants using the carabiner that holds all of my key rings. It's time to bug out.

After checking the room a second time in an effort to locate my property, and confirming, once again, that everything is indeed missing, I do my best to cover up the deep gashes on the bed. Before heading out the door, however, I catch sight of the half-empty bottle of scotch sitting on the carpeted floor next to the bed. Whoever he was, he must've drank a good portion of it after I'd blacked out. I pick the bottle up from the ground, and tip it over my muzzle. There's not much else I can do right now... I finish the remainder of the whiskey, and toss the empty bottle into the small garbage can next to the bed, before leaving the suite and making my way to the elevator.

This has got to be the absolute worst day of my entire fucking life....

As I'm being carried down to the lobby, I start thinking about what I should do now. I've got no equipment. I've got no jewels. I've got no money, but thank god I paid for the hotel suite in advance... Hell, if I'm lucky, I may just be able to salvage something out of this disaster... If not, I guess I'm making my way to the nearest homeless shelter...

Everything seems to be muted as the elevator doors slide open, and I make my way silently over to the checkout counter to return the key to my room. It's as if God has suddenly picked up the remote control to my life, and turned the volume all the way down. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to say. I don't know where to go....

I give the rabbit behind the desk a faint smile as I turn around and exit the hotel, trying my best not to pay attention to the dozen or so police cars which have converged on the diamond exchange. My heart is in my throat as I walk past an officer who's directing traffic out of the hotel parking garage, telling people that there's nothing going on and that they should go about their business.

I feel like any minute now, one of the boys in blue is gonna grab me by the shoulders, and shove me headfirst into the back of a cruiser. I feel as if everybody already knows I'm responsible; they just haven't said anything yet. I quicken my pace as I walk hastily up the long ramp inside the concrete garage, towards the second floor, where my car is parked.

Something like this has never happened to me before. I can't recall the proper method for reacting to being screwed over by somebody I've only known for one night. I don't think there is one...

As I approach my silver Mercedes, the one thing in my possession that I actually take pride in owning, I decide to proceed immediately to the trunk of the car. I use the remote to open the trunk from several feet away, and I'm already pulling my top over my shoulders as I prepare to change my clothes. When I reach the car, and see what's waiting for me in the trunk, however, I stop. This must be some kind of prank; someone's idea of a cruel joke.

All of my gear is sitting in a neatly organized pile in the trunk, each item packed away carefully, as if someone had taken the time to make sure that everything would fit perfectly, and appear as inconspicuous as possible. I even notice my IR suit folded expertly, resting atop my duffel bag like the cherry on top of some obscene banana split. I have to reach out a paw to feel the soft fabric, and make sure that I'm not dreaming.

I shake my head to clear away the confusion, and move the suit aside as I examine the bag. I grip the straps in one of my paws, and lift it out of the trunk. That's strange... It actually feels pretty heavy. The last time I saw this bag, it was empty. It was where I'd planned on stuffing the loot I'd been hoping to retrieve from the diamond exchange...

My paws are shaking slightly as I set the bag down on the rear bumper of the car, and slowly unzip the top. I'm silently praying that my competitor hasn't returned it to me with a bomb packed snugly inside.... I'm hoping that whatever it is, it's not gonna burst into flames and take me out, along with half the other cars in this densely packed parking garage.

Imagine my shock and surprise when I see the glint of something shining brightly in the rays of the afternoon sunlight. Imagine my disbelief.

I slowly part the the two halves of the bag, and let my eyes wash over the solid gold, diamond-studded rings and bracelets, the glittering white diamonds, flawless blue diamonds, and perfect black diamonds, all of which seem to shimmer in the light. What kind of thief would do something like this? I dip a paw into the bag, and lift up a handful of the precious treasures, letting the cool feeling of the priceless stones rub against the pads on my palm as I try in vain to piece together this mystery. I must be holding a good half of the stash from the diamond exchange vault. Why would he do this? Who the hell IS this guy? I drop the jewels back into the bag, and I'm about to zip it shut, when I notice something tucked into a corner of the duffel bag that sticks out like a sore thumb.

It looks like a small, rectangular piece of stiff, white paper. I reach down and pick it up, raising it towards my face to get a good look. One side of the object is blank, so I flip it around. My tail flares up and my eyes go wide as I see what's on the other side. No fucking way... This can't be real...

I'm holding a playing card... An ace of Spades.

I'm hyperventilating and shaking uncontrollably as I hold the card in my paw. I can't believe it... This HAS to be a dream... Out of the corner of my vision, I catch a glimpse of another object, a slip of paper, placed directly behind the spot where the card had been. Still gripping the playing card tightly in my claws, I extend my free paw to retrieve it. I unfold the slip of hotel stationery, and my look of shock slowly turns into a soft smile as I read the unfamiliar gentle, looping script.

"Don't take it personally; I only borrowed your stuff. Thanks for a great night. Bill."

I can feel my cheeks flushing with the blood rushing to my face as I fold up the note, and press it, along with the card, into the soft fur on my chest. My heart is pounding. My tail is darting back and forth. I zip the duffel bag shut and place it back in the trunk, before slamming it closed. I've completely forgotten about the change of clothes I'd been meaning to find. I whip my head around to scan the parking garage. I check my left; I check my right. I examine every possible hiding space, hoping to catch a glimpse of that deep, black fur... The soft, warm coat of my lover from the previous night...

The fur of my idol.

I heave a sigh as my eyes find nothing. I take another look at the card and the note clutched tightly to my chest, and smile. I've finally met him... My master thief... And now, I even know his name... The thought makes me feel special somehow; excited, even. I think back over my memories of the previous night; the sex we'd shared... I can't stop the purr escaping my muzzle as I remember the feeling of his body pressed so firmly against my own; the fleeting passion and love in our final, gentle kiss...

I make my way over to the driver's side of the sedan, and enter the vehicle. I take a final peek at his calling card, before opening my glove compartment, and placing it carefully inside, along with his note. I close the small door, and lock it shut with my key, before digging around in my pocket for the pack of cigarettes. Removing one of the fragrant smokes, I stick it between my teeth, and light it up. I take a moment to process everything that has happened as I stare at the sun, shining in through the gap between the floors of the parking garage.

'What a day...' I think to myself. 'What a strange, shocking, and somehow perfect day...'

I slip the key into the ignition, and twist it. The car's engine roars to life. I inhale deeply on my cigarette as I shift the Mercedes into reverse, and begin to back out of my parking spot.

---

The otter gives a slight chuckle as he takes in the scene unfolding through the lenses of his binoculars. He stands on the second floor of the parking garage next door to the diamond exchange, sipping calmly from a flask as he watches the tiger press his familiar calling card against his heart. The young feline looks around, searching in vain for his mysterious messenger, but he knows that the otter is nowhere to be found...

As the tiger closes the trunk of his car, and gets into the vehicle to leave, the otter lowers the binoculars, with a smile forming across his aging muzzle.

'He's a sweet kid...' he thinks to himself. 'Who knows? Maybe one day, we'll cross paths again... Only time will tell...'

As the Mercedes pulls out of the parking spot and begins to make its way down the ramp, the otter twists the cap on his flask shut, and tosses it into the small, open backpack laying at his feet. The binoculars follow soon after. He pauses to brush some dirt off of the fake security jacket he'd been wearing daily for the past few weeks. He lifts the bag up from the ground, and savors the wonderful sound as the precious gems contained within rattle noisily underneath the two heavy objects as he zips it shut.

With one last, parting glance at the Mercedes' red taillights, the otter slings the backpack over his shoulders, and begins to walk slowly towards the black pickup truck that sits quietly amidst the completely deserted parking garage. He makes his way around the rear of the vehicle, stopping to clean some dried mud off of his license plate before entering the cab, and slamming the door shut behind him. The pickup's V8 engine rumbles loudly as he backs out of his parking spot, and floors the gas as he begins the journey down to the ground floor.

If anyone had been watching, they'd have noticed that he'd left two very long skid marks on the smooth concrete of the parking garage. If anyone had been there to see it, they'd have noticed that his license plate was actually a vanity plate, and it only contained one simple, three-letter word:

"ACE"

---

Well, that was the story that I had a dream about. It's kind of a one-shot thing for now, but who knows? Sometimes, my stories take on a mind of their own. I hope you all enjoyed the read. Now that I've poured out this little gem, it's back to work on Charlie and James! My mind feels so refreshed now that I've had a chance to work on something new.

I'd like to thank my friend Z for the details on foiling security systems, and planning and executing the perfect heist. I don't know how or where you get your info, man, but it checks out on the web. I'd also like to thank my friend H for her expertise on the art of seduction. You guys are some of the coolest, and yet craziest people I know.

Oh, and Z, if you happen to be reading this, you owe me a pack of cigarettes, you thieving bastard. The next time you decide to pick my pocket, I'm breaking your arm.

--Ken.