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Sep. 29th, 2008 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
titusnowlIf you've never met the Saint, you can understand him quite readily by absorbing the simple idea that, although he is what one would consider a thief, he is not a burglar; audacity is always preferable to slinking out the back way. For instance, the ideal way to rob a bank is by making an appointment with the bank manager, sitting in the office, sharing a cigar, and then saying in a conversational tone: "By the way, this is a stick-up."
The bank manager makes an indescribable face.
The thief sits back in his chair with airy little laugh. "I know, it's like something out of a book, isn't it? But I'm afraid I'm quite serious. Cast those gorgeous little glims of yours out the side window, Harry darling. Those trucks you see lining your little driveway are packed just utterly full of some sort of highly explosive sciencey chemical, sweetheart - I'd give details but you know that sort of mumbo-jumbo goes straight over my head. The part that's most important for you to understand is that if I haven't got the better parts of the contents of your safe - your private safe, Harry, my love, the one behind that lovely portrait of your wife there - in my hot little hands in the next ten minutes, I'm going to have the better parts of the contents of the bank's safe instead." All of this still with a cheerful little smile on his face - not a smirk, but a genuine, pleasant, amused smile. It would be pretty easy to figure that it's just a joke, or else he's simply mad, but despite the lightness with which he's saying these things he sounds like he means it. Another good persuader: the shiny little gun that has just appeared in his right hand, even as his left lights a fresh cigarette. "Don't let's be difficult, bunnywugs, the clock's already started."
Most people will just freeze when presented suddenly with a gun, and the bank manager is no different. The thief - the Saint - chuckles a little and ticks a leg up over the arm of the chair he's lounging in, the very picture of comfort and relaxation. The revolver's not even levelled; he's swinging it gently by the trigger guard as he watches the manager's motions and murmurs in a soft, sweet voice.
"Really, Harry, are you being difficult? It's a very basic sort of ethical conundrum - yourself, or all of the people whose money my men are preparing to run off with right now?"
"Y- you can't - "
A soft sigh. "Sweetheart, I am. Why do people always say I can't do things when I'm right in the middle of proving them wrong?"
A nervous look, from portrait to window to thief to desk - and as the bank manager's eyes stray in that last direction the thief clicks his tongue chidingly, swinging the revolver to a neat standstill.
"I - need to get the keys out."
"Oh, Harry." The thief is smiling around his cigarette, manner indulgent. "It's a combination safe."
The bank manager turns, moves to unhang the portrait.
As he bends to lean the portrait against the wall, he sees from the corner of his eye that the thief is once again sitting relaxed in the chair, swinging his gun by the trigger guard, not even paying attention. He steels himself and lunges toward the third drawer of the desk.
His hand is on the drawer pull when the thief's weight falls on his back, slamming him into the ground and yanking his arm down. He feels the barrel of the gun tap the top of his head in gentle reproof.
"Harry, what am I going to do with you?" The thief slowly rises, nudges the manager. "Come on then, dear, we've still got work to do. There's only five minutes left."
The manager works the safe with trembling hands, sweat glistening on his forehead. The thief stands behind him, still looking utterly relaxed. As the door swings open he steps back and laughs. "Thanks awfully, honey. Don't worry, I've brought my own briefcase."
As the thief packs up the contents of the safe, the manager backs slowly toward the desk. The thief tosses his cigarette butt over his shoulder; it lands, smoldering, on the toe of the manager's shoe. "Oh, feel free to go in there now, Harry. I took the gun out last night, anyway - I just needed to teach you a lesson."
He turns and hops lightly out the window, pausing on the sill to add: "Namely, don't underestimate me."
He drops down, but pops back up again with a boyish grin.
"Oh, and - I'm awfully sorry, but I'm taking that money anyway - "
- and the explosions begin to shake the building as he drops back down.
The bank manager makes an indescribable face.
The thief sits back in his chair with airy little laugh. "I know, it's like something out of a book, isn't it? But I'm afraid I'm quite serious. Cast those gorgeous little glims of yours out the side window, Harry darling. Those trucks you see lining your little driveway are packed just utterly full of some sort of highly explosive sciencey chemical, sweetheart - I'd give details but you know that sort of mumbo-jumbo goes straight over my head. The part that's most important for you to understand is that if I haven't got the better parts of the contents of your safe - your private safe, Harry, my love, the one behind that lovely portrait of your wife there - in my hot little hands in the next ten minutes, I'm going to have the better parts of the contents of the bank's safe instead." All of this still with a cheerful little smile on his face - not a smirk, but a genuine, pleasant, amused smile. It would be pretty easy to figure that it's just a joke, or else he's simply mad, but despite the lightness with which he's saying these things he sounds like he means it. Another good persuader: the shiny little gun that has just appeared in his right hand, even as his left lights a fresh cigarette. "Don't let's be difficult, bunnywugs, the clock's already started."
Most people will just freeze when presented suddenly with a gun, and the bank manager is no different. The thief - the Saint - chuckles a little and ticks a leg up over the arm of the chair he's lounging in, the very picture of comfort and relaxation. The revolver's not even levelled; he's swinging it gently by the trigger guard as he watches the manager's motions and murmurs in a soft, sweet voice.
"Really, Harry, are you being difficult? It's a very basic sort of ethical conundrum - yourself, or all of the people whose money my men are preparing to run off with right now?"
"Y- you can't - "
A soft sigh. "Sweetheart, I am. Why do people always say I can't do things when I'm right in the middle of proving them wrong?"
A nervous look, from portrait to window to thief to desk - and as the bank manager's eyes stray in that last direction the thief clicks his tongue chidingly, swinging the revolver to a neat standstill.
"I - need to get the keys out."
"Oh, Harry." The thief is smiling around his cigarette, manner indulgent. "It's a combination safe."
The bank manager turns, moves to unhang the portrait.
As he bends to lean the portrait against the wall, he sees from the corner of his eye that the thief is once again sitting relaxed in the chair, swinging his gun by the trigger guard, not even paying attention. He steels himself and lunges toward the third drawer of the desk.
His hand is on the drawer pull when the thief's weight falls on his back, slamming him into the ground and yanking his arm down. He feels the barrel of the gun tap the top of his head in gentle reproof.
"Harry, what am I going to do with you?" The thief slowly rises, nudges the manager. "Come on then, dear, we've still got work to do. There's only five minutes left."
The manager works the safe with trembling hands, sweat glistening on his forehead. The thief stands behind him, still looking utterly relaxed. As the door swings open he steps back and laughs. "Thanks awfully, honey. Don't worry, I've brought my own briefcase."
As the thief packs up the contents of the safe, the manager backs slowly toward the desk. The thief tosses his cigarette butt over his shoulder; it lands, smoldering, on the toe of the manager's shoe. "Oh, feel free to go in there now, Harry. I took the gun out last night, anyway - I just needed to teach you a lesson."
He turns and hops lightly out the window, pausing on the sill to add: "Namely, don't underestimate me."
He drops down, but pops back up again with a boyish grin.
"Oh, and - I'm awfully sorry, but I'm taking that money anyway - "
- and the explosions begin to shake the building as he drops back down.
