Albatross 'Round the Neck

Author: shutupandsing

Rating: K+

Comments: I don't dream or if I do, I never remember. So this little one I had last night came to me as sort of a surprise. Not only that, I loved it. I think this says something very dangerous about my character. Oh well. :) I enjoy it.

Mood Song: Limousine by Brand New

Four years.

Four years of being America's Most Wanted. Four years of living life precariously on edge and being chased by every police force known to man. Four years and 62 million stolen dollars later, it all ends here.

Travis and I are holed away in this office building, packed in with the rest of the sad saps of corporate America. SWAT have already stormed the ground floor so now the only way is up. They've stalled the elevators and I can tell by how Travis is beginning to wheeze behind me on the stairs that his usefulness has run its course. A year and a half with me and he shows me now he doesn't have what it takes.

My Pumas take the stairs almost three at a time and at 19, I feel like this is my last stand, my last teenaged rebellion. "They're coming to take me away!" I singsong down to my partner, just as the door at the bottom opens and the stairwell fills with the sounds of voices and heavy, booted feet.

I giggle to myself and fly up another set of stairs.

It's a game; everything's a game.

I make my choice and exit onto the next landing. The carpet of the hallway is a faded mix of dark blues and greens, the fluorescent lights flicker like fire overhead. I don't regret this.

Briefly, my mind wanders to how out of place I must look against this professional setting. Jogging pants and a red hoodie that has become my trademark calling card. On every security camera they've ever caught me on, I've always been wearing the same hoodie. They know me.

My feet feel lightweight against the thick carpet and I casually duck into the nearest office, hands clasped innocently behind my back. There is a group seated around a long rectangular desk and they all sit up and stare at me as I enter. I run my fingers over the tops of the heads closest to me before I walk around the edge of the table and take a seat next to a man in a dark blue blazer with a wet spot on the front of his pants that may or may not be piss.

Like I said, they know me.

I flash them my most charming smile and wave my hands to urge them to continue whatever they were working hard on. I'm curious as to what my tax dollars are going to; even if it is all moot, as I loot it all back eventually anyways.

I pick up a stack of papers on the table and flip through them, sniffing at the bad design of a new government office building they're constructing down the street. Like we need more feds in the neighborhood.

Speaking of which...

A swarm of SWAT is coming straight towards me from down the hall and I push my rolling chair back some, cross my ankles and rest my arms behind my head. Kick back and relax.

It's all a game; everything's a game.

"One...three....seven...nine guns. Don't you guys think that's a little overkill for just little ole' me?" I state sarcastically, playfully batting my eyes at the DA as he approaches me, 9mm pointed at my head.

"With the way you point that gun, Mr. Matthews, you'd think I'd killed a man."

He glares back in what he thinks is something menacing and spins my chair so that I'm no longer facing him. The cold heavy steel of handcuffs settle around my wrists and I wriggle my fingertips over the paunchy skin of his hand, feeling the chill that's set in them for, no doubt, the past decade.

"Poor circulation, Mr. Matt. You should see a doctor for that."

He pulls me to my feet with a surprisingly gentle force. Drat, I was hoping to go out of here kicking and screaming for once. The esteemed employees of Bob the Builder, Inc. all stare dumbfounded as the wildcat that could never be caught is finally kept.

He reads me my rights as we're in the elevator, his face never losing that hardened quality that I've come to adore so much. Four years of eluding this hardboiled eggshell of a man and he doesn't even so much as smile as I crack a joke about the classical music coming out of the elevator's PA.

Yeesh, tough crowd.

The lobby is crowded with SWAT and police. I feel like a celebrity. A martyr with a superiority complex.

It's a game; everything's a game.

A mob of reporters surround the courtyard outside the building and of course, Mr. DA Man is going to take me straight through them. He must know of my love for being in the center of attention.

In little under four years, I successfully robbed twelve of the largest banks around the country, evading and outrunning police every single time. My name is known around the world; people know me.

"Hey Joe," I call to the nearest policeman. "Could you do me a favor and raise my hood, sweetheart?"

The officer looks back and forth between me and the DA; uncertainty blotting his face. Mr. Matthews sighs heavily and nods, the simple action making the small roll of fat beneath his chin jiggle. Oh, these people and their "high" lives and expensive cars. After a while, even the most amount of money in the world can't afford you the will to buy Pilates.

Joe cautiously raises the red hood over my head and I thank him sweetly, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. If my mother taught me anything, it was respect and manners. He stumbles back and smiles, touching his cheek gingerly.

"Come on," the DA says impatiently, guiding his fat hand along my lower back and propelling me forward out the door. I start to grin widely as my feet step over the threshold of the door and the buzz and snaps of camera flashes erupt around me.

It's a game; everything's a game.

In all of my 19 years, I regret nothing.