A Crowbar & Some Dare (Burglary gone awry)

A Crowbar and Some Dare (2021 to 2026)

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved beyond display on websites.

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Disclaimer: No warranties!

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I have become an aging remnant of a once vibrant existence, sustained solely by the charity of others and the fragile graces of a social system that barely acknowledges my presence. Yes, this is a part of me—a facet I present willingly, for it serves as a clever disguise for my deeper struggles. It is not only a means to avoid the suffocating confines of prison but also a way to lessen the burden on those in uniforms who, bound by duty, might feel compelled to deepen our acquaintance. I shy away from this unwanted attention; I have never wished to impose on those driven by financial constraints, forcing them to exert extra effort. Solitude, oddly enough, felt more within my rights to navigate, and I found a strange comfort in that.

While it is an undeniable reality that poverty devastates our health and warps our attitudes—an insidious facet of capitalism that denies millions the chance at a meaningful existence—it also imparts profound lessons that the deceitful and fraudulent struggle to replicate. When one reaches the depths of despair, the imperative becomes clear: to rise and rebuild a life anew. The art of deception cannot shield us from the burdens and afflictions that others carry, each person grappling with their own weight of ambition and chaos.

Three years ago, I embarked on the path of a self-taught burglar. I am no acrobat. I am not a master of surveillance technology, nor the stealthiest shadow of the night. Still, I am convinced my introspections about my downfall and lurking dangers relate to my distinct approach. However, these professional secrets shall remain under wraps. I will share them only when I secure a more sustainable income than social assistance.

My strategy was simple. I focused on low-income establishments with minimal surveillance. I infiltrated smaller corporate offices and suburban supermarkets. I also searched hidden corners where innocuous souls dabbled in the drug trade. The irony was not lost on me. Siphoning funds from Neo-Nazis felt like extracting life from a cause we all learned to abhor. I dismissed my German heritage. My political knowledge was limited to a yearning for recompense for my cynical existence.

Though practice may not have rendered me perfect, it certainly sharpened my wits. I became adept at concealing a medium-sized crowbar—my trusty pry-bar—up my sleeve, favoring it over more cumbersome alternatives. I refrained from letting curiosity or greed lead me astray. The memory of my first burglary, where I secured only five notebooks for a mere three hundred euros, served as a humbling reminder that I was no master thief. Yet, even as security tightened nearby, I wore a notorious roguish grin, for my chosen target was blissfully unaware of its vulnerabilities.

Then came the construction of a new motel in our beleaguered corner of the city—a place poised to become a wellspring of opportunity for those with keen insight and the resilience to navigate its shadows. However, my advancing age and certain health concerns instilled a wariness regarding the risks associated with the sex work scene, a world for which I felt ill-prepared.

This motel, nestled in a nearly forgotten part of the city, blossomed into a bustling hub for young adults and budget travelers alike. Regrettably, these were often the less affluent tourists who found central prices exorbitant.

Yet, as I had observed, the motel boasted diminished security and less competition, as most sought wealthier targets elsewhere.

“So, Slenderman has finally taken up with Bloody Mary?” I murmured with a half-hearted chuckle when paranormal investigators set up their dubious operations in our neighborhood.

On the upside, this influx rendered my targets more enticing. Those desperate souls in ill-fitting suits masqueraded as something grander, concealing their struggles beneath layers of makeup and fabricated narratives. Newspaper reports, cleverly orchestrated, painted a facade of credibility that ensnared the gullible.

When the curious and intoxicated indulged in their fantasies, it created a splendid diversion, allowing me to operate with ease, while a weary night clerk, too absorbed in his own indifference, manned the desk. The local police, preoccupied with supposed hauntings, were rendered ineffective.

Criminals, like muggers, lurked in the shadows or blended seamlessly with the throngs of paranormal enthusiasts, equally distracted by their own diversions.

I navigated through car trunks and motel rooms, seeking out anything of technological value or anything I deemed precious. Steering clear of modern vehicles helped me avoid triggering alarms, allowing me to maintain a serene composure throughout my endeavors.

This tranquility persisted until I approached room number five. This modest complex housed eight humble apartments, and I had already noted that room one, closest to the night clerk, posed no threat; his inebriation rendered him oblivious. With two smartphones and a notebook equipped with a docking station filling my slim backpack, I felt a sense of satisfaction with my haul.

But it was not the specters of Slenderman and Bloody Mary that disrupted my venture; it was a fateful error on my part.

After four doors, I had grown accustomed to swiftly maneuvering my crowbar against each lock, and my confidence had swelled. A grave miscalculation indeed.

Stress can lead to such blunders, and in that moment, I was reminded that even the most seasoned among us can falter.

"N-word rhymes with think bigger!” flashed erratically through my mind.

I was quick at the door, ready to step inside, ensnared by whatever spell had clouded my judgment. I recognized the brown-skinned sex worker kneeling on the floor, bloodied and battered, his once-decent physique now a canvas of violence. He was typically a silent observer of his world, yet today, he had become a target for an all-too-familiar display of aggression.

"N-word rhymes with the trigger!” echoed another erratic thought.

Then I spotted them—the three Neo-Nazis, utterly devoid of any paranormal inclinations, had summoned a sex worker to their motel room, intent on imparting their twisted version of entertainment. I have never excelled in the language of violence.

And they noticed me, illuminated by the harsh lights of the room, making my presence impossible to ignore.

“Look at that! Now we have an N-word and a vagrant!”

I felt the sweat pooling in my grip on the crowbar as adrenaline surged through my veins. But it was too late. In the midst of their heinous act, the Neo-Nazis acted with reckless abandon, drawing their handguns with no regard for consequences, witnesses, or the law.

And with that, my story reached its abrupt conclusion.