Billies Seasonal Weather Anomalies

|| Eight ||

Surprisingly enough, sticking what feels like twenty thousand M.C.a.Ts around the place isn't too hard. Stretch your arms above your head while doing a totally exaggerated and totally fake yawn, then sneakily slap it onto a patch of wall covered in posters. "Accidentally" bump into the boss of your boss when you're off at an entirely different universe to have a meeting.

The hard part, the bit where I really need to grind my teeth together and chant the positives to having self control in my head, is when Clay Watson decides that since we'll be breaking into the vault together, we're now best of buds. And according to Clay, best of buds are allowed to give each other "constructive criticism". Such as pointing out when a M.C.a.T splats down behind a metal beam a tiny itty, bitty, slice of a fraction of a millimetre too much to the right. It's gotten to the point where I'm actually hoping for my irritating excuse of a parallel twin to teleport me away like he did on Saturday.

"You put one in Storage Room 3B, yet?" Clay whispers in my ear as I make myself a cup of coffee in an empty kitchen.

"Yup."

"4B?"

"Yup."

"5–"

"Yes Clay! I've done it!" I angrily cut in. "Can't you do something useful instead of watching my every move? Like finish planning out tonight? Just because you're an apparent expert on serious robbery, doesn't mean you don't need to polish up a few rusty skills."

Clay sighs deeply next to me. He places a wrinkly hand on my shoulder, waits until I look at him, then starts speaking in his usual scratchy voice, "listen Kiddo, I know you've got a lot of skills. And I do too, you can take my word on that. But when you reach a certain age, one that's pretty close to mine, rust becomes a particle that doesn't reach you anymore. Which is why you study these things. I, the old wise one, has no need to suffer through such pointless tasks."

"Right." I say sceptically while moving his unwanted hand off my shoulder. I make a mental note to look up some helpful tips later on this evening. How many websites will be supplying information on how to break into a vault, I'm not sure. Either way, whatever little information is bound to be needed with a partner like Clay at your side.

When five-thirty comes along that evening – end of work hours – I slip my final M.C.a.T behind the tire of Bradley's expensive vintage car. One job done, one to go.

Clay and I had agreed to meet each other in the park across the building at two-thirty in the morning. The security guards shift at one in the morning. At which time Mason takes over the big black swivel chair put in place just for the night guards. He's one of the older, less fit, security guards. He's also got to be the laziest man I've ever had the wonderful pleasure of meeting. And yes, it goes without saying that he's good friends with Clay.

After a rather restless few hours of sleep, I pop on a pair of black cargo pants, large black hoodie and dark beanie. I haven't actually gone clothes shopping for a robbers outfit before, so this is the best I can come up with. In the pockets lined across my pants, I slip in a pocket knife, small torch, two walkie-talkies, a couple of lock picks and a folded slip of paper containing some helpful notes for tonight. Just in case.

When I get to the specific tree in the park Clay and I designated as our meeting spot, Clay's already there. He's wearing some ridiculous black jumpsuit. "Ah, there he is," Clay says to no one. He jogs up to me, then when he reaches me he bends down to do some overly dramatic stretches. I keep walking, doing my best to ignore him.