Dangerous by Default

9. The book

Work on how long he's had caine's work

Describe other 'current' works he has, how he's more excited to be accruing new criminal works

A pigeon flapped its wings helplessly as it struggled to break free from the plastic bag that had ensnared its legs. Jean-Auguste Dominique Pechaude observed the pigeon from the second-story balcony of his home as he dragged on his thick cigar.

I could rescue it so easily, he thought. Let's see, little pigeon, will you win the lottery today? Only then can you survive. Otherwise you will starve.

The moonlit hills of Brentwood lay at his feet as Los Angeles sparkled in the distance. Only the Getty Museum was higher in elevation than his villa. Getty inherited a pile of cash from his daddy, and even he had to find an ocean of oil hiding in the ground to make it to the big time. Lucky bastard. Nobody had offered a hand to help Pechaude get a leg up in life. He came from nothing. Everything he took by force or will was lost again, taken away from him. No, everything he got, and kept, came from luck. Damn good luck. He was a lucky bastard, too.

The sound of laughter pulled Pechaude back inside. His recently purchased mansion was sparsely decorated. As he walked through the darkened upper level, he let his strong hand drag on the artifacts that punctuated the hallway. He loved the deep contrast that filled his ever growing collection. A mixture of the very old; The letter by Voltaire to his mother, an unpublished poem by Rimbaud, the diagram of a microscope doodled by Benjamin Franklin. All of these historic artifacts made his more recent conquests shine that much brighter.

Diary entries, attack plans and performance relics all bore the same signature in some shape or form. They were all results of the famous danger artist's, Caine Blue, and his nearly forgotten career. Months before Blue's news of coming out of retirement had surfaced, Pechaude's helpers and hands had scoured high and low for these special pieces.

It gave him great pride to keep such a diverse catalogue. He long marveled at these objects, shreds of paper and knick knacks that preserved the private ideas of geniuses and radicals of the world. Some forgotten, and those that smoldered too brightly to be understood in their own time. The pensioners who were investing their life savings to purchase shares in these documents revelled to hear Pechaude illuminate their secrets to them, just as he revelled in the telling. There were no limits to his indulgence in these matters, and the anticipation for an upcoming score gave him a tingle of ansty joy as he tread towards the staircase.

Spotting the outline of his tall and muscular build in a long stretch of window, he stopped to assess that everything was in order. Not a silver hair was out of place, and with a small adjustment the purple carnation on his lapel was snuggly in order once more. Next, He inspected his neck, making sure the flicker of inked flames was still hidden. He entertained the idea of maybe showing a lucky lady the massive dragon tattoo that covered his spine later that evening. This thought was cut short when he noticed his old pocket watch. It was time.

As he walked down the marble stairs into the brightly lit hall where his guests were waiting, he felt the tinge of a feeling he was not expecting. His mouth curled as he tried to suppress it. Little did he suspect that this feeling would determine the course of the rest of his life: the inescapable odor of decomposition.

He sniffed as if to check the scent of the air. No, the feeling was only in his mind, but he couldn't shake it. His beloved manuscripts suddenly appeared to be mocking him. He felt surrounded by the rotting flesh of great men. Their thousands of pages spanning many centuries seemed, in that moment, to accumulate to a single message: a great man he was not. His only hope was that he, just like Caine Blue, could convince the world that he was worth watching.