prompt: fair, title: the type of thief in misc. flash fiction

They say the place is thief-proof and that’s fair, it probably is, at least for certain definitions of “thief”. Even if you’re the greatest thief alive, as some say of me, which is also fair, I probably am, by certain definitions of thief. There are, though, so many varied sorts of villain one can be.

If you mean “thief-proofed” in a sense that things can’t be physically taken or “thief” in a sense of taking that claimed by others then, yeah, that’s probably fair. If, however, you see theft in the accumulation of hidden idling wealth, a second-story man like me could never hope to compete.

The place in question is The Geneva Freeport, a sterile name for the largest thieves’ stash ever assembled. The Freeport, a warehouse that by tax laws byzantine allows its contents considered in transit despite collecting dust for decades, immune to fee or lien in perpetuity.

At least one-hundred billion worth of art treasures, secreted away by investment assholes looking for stable assets in unstable times, and that’s just what we know about. Who can say which relics sit cobwebbed unseen beside priceless masterpieces tarred with the greasy stain of price after all?

The greatest museum no one ever gets to see, indeed proofed against theft. The rich will pay any price under the sun to hold onto whatever they’d stolen, The Freeport’s security better than some parliaments. Thieves understand their own. They’d pretend us not the same but, honestly, they’re really just better thieves than me.

Cancer’s another type of thief, stealing life instead of culture or cash but our security against it rudimentary at best. The affliction had me on the ropes once and though my stolen funds beat it to remission once, now it’s back and it isn’t fair. Noting the unfairness doesn’t change facts one whit but I’ll steal the chance to note it, nonetheless.

The poor steal baubles, the rich steal histories entire then thief-proof their hauls with spy cameras and armed guards. Cancer torches us at random and it isn’t fair, no, but saying so doesn’t change the ashes. All we can do is piss in the wind and see which way it splashes.

The loophole lies in knowing how rich thieves think, believe everyone as greedy as themselves, so while they built Geneva Freeport impervious to thieves who’d leave, they could not imagine someone who would break in simply to stay, bringing a cache of high-explosives along the way.

Which is to say, if you’re reading this, I’m dead.

It’s only fair, stealing my death back from rebellious cells, going out on terms befitting my type of thief. Burnt away along with endless billions worth of history the rich would never let us see. It’s not that big a loss, really, there’s pictures of those paintings somewhere and anyway I’m just a dirty thief. But at least those money monsters will suffer some for levels of larceny that wholly dwarf my capabilities and basically beggar all rational belief.