He wakes up to the morning sun coming through the windows. At first he thinks he's in jail, but there are no bars on the window, just dirty glass and a torn screen. He's in a hotel room, but one that hasn't been used in a long time. There is dust on the walls and the bed he's lying on smells of mildew.
When he tries to sit up, searing pain tears through his abdomen. He has lain back down now and he stares at the ceiling. It hurts to breathe so he draws in air in short, shallow gulps. After a while, the pain ebbs to a throbbing ache and he is able to breathe more normally. It still hurts though. He knows he's in bad shape.
The last thing he remembers was feeling something like a hornet sting on his left buttock. He remembers reaching back and removing a dart, staring at it for a moment, feeling this strange wooziness, and then ... nothing.
But what came before that? How did this all start? Yes, he remembers now. He was at home, putting on new shoes that had just been delivered that day. They were great shoes, the kind of shoes he would kill for, the kind of shoes he had stolen for. They had stylish Italian leather uppers and rubber soles, fashion and function. They were perfect for a guy like him, a guy who knew if he looked good enough and could move fast enough, anything in the world would be his for the taking.
Just like it was with that phishing scheme. Somebody fell for that and he made himself the proud owner of a debit card with someone else's name on it and full access to someone else's bank account with a bunch of money just begging to be spent. He bought himself fancy dinners and nights on the town, all of them fleeting little pleasures, but the shoes he bought with that money, those were his to keep.
After lacing them up, he heard the sound of footsteps coming up to his front door. There was no mistaking that sound. It was the sound of cop shoes, dull and stupid cop shoes worn by dull and stupid cops who weren't going to catch him this time. They may have been able to find his address to this apartment (which of course he rented under an assumed name) from where the card and shoes were mailed, but he had his escape plan firmly in place. From the day he moved in, he planned for this very moment.
He dashed into the kitchen and went out the window there, slipped through a hole in a wooden fence outside. He then made his way along the bottom of a drainage ditch running adjacent to a vacant lot and emerged onto a sidewalk on the other side of an abandoned warehouse. He picked up the pace, the sound of his rubber soles hitting the pavement comforted him as they propelled him toward freedom.
And then out of nowhere there was a rifle shot, followed by that hornet-sting dart in his rear.
Did all that happen an hour ago, or was it a day or a week? He has no idea now. It doesn't matter though. The important thing is that he needs to get away. He doesn't know where, but knows that anywhere is better than here. Whoever brought him here will no doubt be coming back. If he can get to his feet, he figures he could make his escape no matter how bad his side hurts. It's at this moment he realizes that he is no longer wearing his shoes.
Rather than sit up again, he rolls off the bed and onto the floor, letting out a howl as his torso smacks down on a carpet carrying old stains of spilled wine and tawdry affairs. He sees the door is wide open. He begins to crawl toward it, but every time he drags one of his knees up under him, he feels like his insides are going to explode all over the floor and he has to stop. After twenty minutes of this he is only halfway to the doorway.
About a foot ahead of him he sees an envelope on the floor with the single word "THIEF" written on it. He reaches for the envelope and opens it. He has given up on the hope of a clean escape and now just wants to survive. Restitution, a full confession, it doesn't matter. Whatever it is they want, he'll pay.
The note reads:
Dear Thief,
Yes, thief, because we both know that's what you are. That money you stole to buy those shoes? That was my money, money I worked hard for but no longer have because some thief decided to steal it and buy himself a pair of shoes. Since you've probably never worked a day in your life, I'm going to tell you about the kind of work I do to earn your shoe money. I work in a doctor's office where we don't steal, we heal. I often thought I'd make an excellent doctor, especially a surgeon. I am an accomplished taxidermist, which is just like being a surgeon but you don't have to worry about malpractice suits ha ha.
Where was I? Ah yes, the shoes. I figured they're really my shoes since I earned the money so I could do anything I wanted to do with them. It turns out what I wanted to do was sew them up inside of you (If you pull up your shirt, you'll notice an excellent stitching job if I do say so myself). I probably should have cleaned them up first. Goodness knows what kind of icky stuff you stepped in while you were fleeing the cops.
If I were you, I'd go get some medical attention. There's a hospital 20 miles from here. I'm sure they'd fix you right up if you make it there, but we both know you won't.
I do hate thieves, but credit where credit is due. Those are excellent shoes. I bet when they arrived in the mail, you swore you'd never part with them. Well now you never will.
