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The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are creation and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
Don't ask me what made me target this apartment,
all I wanted was the guy's T.V. and VCR.
Jesus, he didn't _have_ anything else.
Electronically.
Okay, I'm a thief. It sucks. I had a shitty childhood
but I'm getting myself out of the gutter by going to
day school and working nights, haha, and if you wonder
why I'm not out on the streets selling my flat ass and "B"
titties, well, this is D.C.! B & E's are one hell of a lot
safer, got it?
The place had been empty at this time every friggin' damn
night all week and so I figure it would be easy. Pick the lock,
get in, get the goodies and get out. Not a building that had
cameras or security guards. I checked last week on my way
home from class. I asked an old woman who was making her
way up the front steps if she knew of any vacancies and what
kind of place was it? She was very obliging and I gleaned that
it was a place just barely this side of a hole.
One more cracked pane of glass and it would qualify as
scummy.
I also noticed other things on my way home night after night,
like which windows were dark, who came and went. That sort
of thing.
He, the fellow who's apartment I'd marked for knocking-over,
had left at his usual time, and I knew by previous observations
from across the street that he'd be gone at least an hour.
So plenty of time. No problem.
I hadn't counted on him coming back early. And I, by the
chuckling grin of Satan himself, I just _had_ to have gone
and picked the one prick in the whole semi-scummy building
who's a cop. F.B.I. no less.
Big mistake.
I can just see my daddy gesturing at me with his beer can about
this one. I can just smell his bad breath and him saying it:
"Why don't you make something of yourself?! You're gonna end
up just like your momma. Loser! Can't tell your behind from
a bag of melons."
Good old dad and his leg-long record. I hated him.
I don't intend to do this sort of work forever. I'm getting my
Business Operations degree and I'm going to make it. Escape
the dubious legacy the folks had left me: child of low-life's.
But in the meantime, daddy's words are ringing true and I've
fucked this up good. It's uncomfortable as hell squatting behind
this overstuffed chair the way I am but I have no damn choice.
I was seconds from being done here. Seconds away from
another deposit toward my tuition and I hear the key in
the lock and shit-shit-shit!
So I dashed back into the bedroom to hide and here I am still.
No, I don't have a gun. I hate them.
This guy doesn't, though, and I see him pull one out from
the back of his jogging pants and toss it on the chair just
inches from my nose and right next to his I.D. (and wallet
which I'd previously overlooked, half hidden under and
ragged T-shirt) and I take another good peek at the I.D.
I'm swallowing my tongue again because here I am knocking
over the apartment of a federal agent.
I'm here, _inside_ his place and he's here too and how the hell
am I
supposed to get out of this one?
F.B.I. hasn't turned on the light but there's just enough from
the moon outside to give me a pretty good look at him.
He looked kinda stiff in his I.D. photo. Young too.
I figured with his apartment always empty ( It had been, I
swear to God, every goddamn night; _Empty_. I'd watched
and made sure. I may be a petty thief but I'm not a stupid
one most of the time), that meant the occupant didn't
spend much time at home. I knew he'd been out jogging!
(And who the hell jogs at one in the blinking morning
in D.C.?!)
This guy does but for some reason he came back early, and
he's dripping sweat, so he must have gone ten miles or more.
I spent at least half an hour in the place and fifteen minutes
watching it before that prior to picking the lock.
Forty five minutes. Had he stayed true to his habits, I would
have
been long gone before he returned. But he'd cut short his
midnight
run.
Sweating F.B.I. man sat on the bed and blew air for a
minute or
two, untying his shoes.
Guess he ran to keep in shape.
Pulling his sleeveless sweater up over his face, he used it to
wipe off the sweat before he quickly stripped it off and tossed
it in the general direction of the closet. I was hoping he
wouldn't notice anything out of place. I'm pretty careful about
putting things back in their more or less proper spot. Why be
a slob?
I had watched the sweater sail across the room and land and
when I looked back...
Well...
Yeah.
He _was_ in shape.
Nice shape.
Some pretty goddamn sweet n' fine shape.
His face was older than the photo in the leather I.D. I was
holding.
But older's good.
Nice eyes. Nice, long jaw, nice hair, nice cheek bones, nice
stubble. Nice sweat. Nice long nose.
All in all, a fucking tasty treat for the eyes, bonafide baby-doll,
winner of the blue ribbon, goddamn son-of-a-bitching knock over.
Knock out. Over. Out. Whatever, fact is he's seriously fuckable.
And that long nose, too. What do they say about a big nose
on a guy?
I still had the I.D. in my hand and took a look at the name.
Gotta be a nickname. Got. Ta'.
Fox, huh? Wonder how many bitches in heat sniff him
out every day of his life?
(continue)
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