Jim
The Gallbladder incident was the seminal moment in a life of mediocrity, transforming me from non-achiever to untouchable in a heartbeat. From that point onward I would never be accused. I would hone my skills, whatever shape they took, and ensure that I was above and beyond reproof.
I had no idea then, of course, that this pathway would meander through the garden of illegal temptation and follow the banks of the River Theft in the dictatorial kingdom of Capitalist Excess.
Yet through this opulent terrain it led me. And being somewhat opportunistic and daring of spirit, I learned how to lightly lift things that didn't belong to me, adeptly acquire goods, professionally purloin and pilfer pickings of a personal persuasion previously possessed by privileged people. And more than asinine alliteration I found myself curiously inspired by my actions - a dog that had just mastered a new trick and had to do it repeatedly rather than simply wag a glaringly obvious tail.
That was how my life of crime began but the route it followed was filled with glamour and excitement, the like of which far surpassed the rush I'd gleaned from any drugs sampled through my anarchic adolescence. And there had been a few.
But the best cocaine, albeit hyper-inspirational at times, fell way short of the heart-thumping waves of anticipation I'd experienced time and again as I stole furtively through a manicured garden on a moonless night clad in matte black and packing the tools of my trade. This sensation only grew as I scaled a drainpipe to a first floor balcony and silently alighted on synthetic soles that failed to raise even the slightest of squeaks on the highly polished flagstone finish. It had taken months of searching before I found shoes with grip and no groan. To this day this remains a trade secret as I'm sure the designer hadn't aimed his application toward activities quite so nefarious.
Then the thrill of gaining entry to "secure" buildings and bypassing sophisticated intrusion systems thanks to intelligence, research and after time - experience gained in-situ - remains my all time high. Aside perhaps from startling sex experienced from time to time with certain select partners who shared my passion for things - shall we say - different. But burglary of this style was an orgasm you could have on your own without touching yourself and it ran on and on. Put you in the zone.
The fruits of my labours had returned wealth far beyond that of my peers, colleagues and friends. As far as the world at large was concerned, Jim Juno was a broker of sorts who freelanced in stockmarket enterprises using other people's money to grow wealth while extracting generous commissions for his efforts. I mean, let's be honest, that sounds totally plausible doesn't it? And it is. But I didn't. I couldn't. Not that I didn't know how. I just didn't want to...
It did, however, involve countless hours of research and I even put myself through a financial futures course at a local college so I could display a diploma on my office wall pronouncing my meritorious graduation achievement from this little known school of commerce. I could talk the game you see. I followed the markets and to be honest (and I am - I steal, I don't lie) I even dabbled in the world of speculative investment returning fairly admirable results for an amateur. I followed the stock market so I could advise or counsel mates who were always on the cadge for free tips, intelligence they would usually have to buy from genuine stockbrokers with far less integrity than a self-confessed thief such as myself.
The cover worked and I could believably work from home armed with little more than a laptop, a few well labelled files and a mobile link to the Internet. No-one asked about my clients. They were private individuals and their personal investment information was sacrosanct. Even my most probing of friends realised this and grudgingly respected my wealth as it grew over the years, never suspecting for a moment that I was robbing the elite blind as voraciously as a piranha with an eating disorder.
By the time I was twenty three I had amassed a considerable amount of money and resellable trinkets, many of which weren't even reported missing as they themselves had clearly been obtained through questionable means.
This lifestyle forced me to study art and keep abreast of high societal foibles - what was in vogue, who was buying what, whose names appeared on the boards of which companies and where their personal passions lay. I got into the heads of my victims and even befriended a few. I could quite easily break bread one day with a corporate executive with fingers in many pies while on another day I would be discreetly removing a priceless Gauguin from the frame in his drawing room. It was business not personal and I never robbed anyone who couldn't afford the money or whose portfolio was on shaky ground.
The insights I gained into the murky world of blue chip commerce and ersatz sophistication was invaluable and I could easily flit between the worlds I had created - the high flying yuppies and the childhood friendships - like flicking a switch.
The biggest problem I had ever faced was establishing a reliable network for passing off the stolen goods. Money was kept (obviously), bonds traded, certain goods hoiked on e-bay and other more obscure Internet outlets. But artwork, coins, collectables and jewelry were another problem altogether.
Until I met Fizz.
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