Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 11.

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Freedy woke sprawled zigzagged over a pile of broken crockery near the fireplace.  Every soft tissue part of his body was gouged as if he'd spent a night moving his bony parts off the ceramics and plopping his fatty parts on.   He vaguely remembered dreaming he could barely move, but that all the contortions somehow made it more comfortable.

But that isn't what hurt.  His head felt full of shattered shards,  as if all that broken pottery had used the point of his head as a nexus.   He vaguely remember running out of beer and resorting to his wine cellar, always a bad idea for the next morning.  He felt faintly nauseous, beer and wine mingled on his tongue tasting like -- something rude.

A dream.  It all had to be a bad dream.  He pried his eyelids open with one hand.  Nope.  No filthy loggers to be seen.  He winced as he saw a red stocking cap over in the corner.  Well, maybe they'd been here, but thank god they were gone.

"Finally!" he heard a cheerful voice from the hallway.  It was Garland, his gray suit looking immaculately spiffy and his long flowing beard and hair combed and shined.  "The crew got tired of waiting and started loading up the vans."

Freedy tried to get up, and his hands met the sharp remnants of his mugs.  "Ouch!"

"Sorry about that," Garland said.  "I tried to stop you, but you kept encouraging them to throw the mugs into the fireplace after every few rounds.  Shouting 'They'll be tossing me out into the street any day now.  I'll not let the creditors have them!'

Freedy tried to answer, but it came out as a moan.

He looked around the room, thinking something felt different.  It was darker, and he looked up to see that the broken skylight was covered with a tarp.  Most of the room looked clean, except for the pile of crockery near the fireplace.

"They went to get gas," Garland continued, sounding piercingly awake.   "As soon as they're back,  we'll load up the perishables and be on our way.  I took the liberty of packing for you."

Garland threw a backpack at Freedy, who almost fell down trying to catch it.  

"What...what are you talking about?"

"You're coming with us, don't you remember?'

"No...bloody way." Freedy said.  His head was spitting open, his brain was threatening to plop onto the floor, he felt like he'd been sleeping on broken pottery all night, and he was in no mood for jokes.

"Hey, you signed the contract!" Garland shrugged.  "Your copy is over on the table."

Freedy stumbled over and sat heavily on one of the few upright chairs.  His hands were smudged with greenish ink, the same colored ink that smudged the paper. The contract was handwritten in his most careful scrip -- the sort of thing he found in the morning after a night of binging when he had thought the most profound thoughts and found them written out in neat concise gibberish the next morning.

"I, Freedy Filkins, a Master Thief coming from a long line of Master Thiefs, do hereby agree to steal the object (to be identified later) that is the purpose of our mission.  In return, we the below signed parties agree to pay said Thief an equal share (one/eighth) of it's value. 

Freedy F. Filkins.

Billy and Bob Boppin.
Jay and Jim Jarps.
Steve and Sam Surky
Charles E. Emmit.


And in different writing below, there was a different, larger and more flowing handwriting.

"P.S.  The above parties have agreed to make 2 months mortgage payments for Freedy Filkin's house, that it might not be foreclosed on in his absence, to be deducted at the successful conclusion of our mission.  Oh, and we'll pay you back for the food in the pantry and the next brew party is on us!"

G.G. Garland,  witness and agent of above enterprise."

He knew he was staring with his mouth open cause he could hear his own breathing, but he couldn't move.

"This isn't legal!" he declared, feeling more and more certain of it with every word.  "A contract to commit an illegal act?  That's crazy."

"Oh, the contract is with Charlie and the others.  I don't suppose they'd do much more than make your life miserable when they get back.  Then again, the chances of them getting back safely are pretty small, so that's in your favor."  Garland had been almost laughing, but now he suddenly turned serious.

"Aunt Tessie told me that Filkins never break their word, but I suppose that's just family lore bullshit."

"Tessie?  You knew Tessie?"

"Tessie was a fine woman, and she thought highly of you, Freedy.  Not that I could ever see it.  Still, when the lucrative opportunity for some real money came up, I thought of you."

"Well, I was drunk," Freedy said.  "I don't even remember signing it.  Surely they'll realize it was a mistake.  I'm no thief, master or otherwise!"

"No?" Garland asked.  His eyebrows were bushy and intrusive over his piercing black eyes.  "Very well.  We'll be at the bottom of the hill for another half an hour or so.  If you change your mind, come on down."

He turned and walked out without a backward look.  Freedy felt slightly, what?  Disappointed?  As if he'd hoped to be talked into it?

After that momentary letdown, though, he felt vast relief.  He had more than enough of his secret stash to last for awhile longer, and he was certain a new less provocative opportunity would come along soon enough.

He trudged down the hallway to his private chambers to shower and change.

Freedy slid to a stop at his door.  He brain blanked, his legs weakened, his eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, before sharply coming back down on the disaster before him. 

His dresser lay smashed on the floor, the hollow leg pulled out and staring him in the face as if mocking him.

His stash was gone!

Freedy rarely got angry.  He just avoided any situation which called for anger.  But his face flushed and he stamped his huge feet on the wood floor with a giant slap.  Damn!  They steal from him and then want him to join them?

Lucrative opportunity indeed!

"Oh, dear..." he heard a voice behind him.  It was Billy -- or Bob -- one of the two, looking at him with real concern on his face.  "We didn't do this, I swear.  We never steal from our own."

For some reason that Freedy never understood, he believed him.  At the same moment, he saw several blond hairs caught in the splintered wood.

Freedy had always feared his neighbor Stu would become dissatisfied with his 10% share, which was why Freedy had never complained about the almost certain larger share the huge man was taking.

A huge, mean man.  Freedy felt helpless.  He couldn't do anything about it -- he couldn't report it to the police because he understood that Tessie's hoard wasn't legal.  He couldn't fight the monster who lived at the base of the hill, who would just laugh at him and deny it.

 He was screwed, screwed, screwed.

"I gotta say," Billy said, looking slightly puzzled.  "For a Master Thief, the old hollow leg trick is pretty lame.  Unless..." his face brightened.  "It's so obvious you thought they'd never look!  Pretty canny!"

Freedy didn't say anything.  He felt numb.

"Charlie said to hurry," Billy said.  "We're leaving in just a few minutes."

Freedy stood in the middle of his room.

Paralyzed.

Pondering.

Remembering Tessie and how excited he'd been at her stories.  Yes, he had to admit it -- he'd seen himself in her daring tales.

Maybe he was still drunk.  Maybe he was scared of being broke.  Maybe he really did want an adventure.  But he found himself running out of Filk's End shouting,

"I'm coming!  Wait for me!"