by Eric Ugland
Scamps & Scoundrels
Eric Ugland
Air Quotes Publishing, Inc.
Air Quotes Publishing
Copyright © 2019 Eric Ugland
Cover design by Sarah Anderson/No Synonym
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of Fiction. Of Fantasy. All of the characters in this novel and series are fictional and any resemblance to people living, dead, or undead is purely coincidental and surprising. Mentions of places are incidental, accidental, and mostly mental. The magic and spells have been researched in absolutely no way whatsoever, and any ill-effects after you attempt to cast them are completely on you. Any science is likely wrong considering the laws of physics are different in places with magic, you dig?
Also by Eric Ugland
The Good Guys - Epic LitRPG/GameLit
One More Last Time
Heir Today Pawn Tomorrow
Dungeon Mauling
Four: The Loot
Dukes and Ladders
Home Siege Home
Roseland - Private Investigator Mysteries
Series One
Series Two
Series Three
Catherine,
This book would literally not be here without you.
Thank you.
1
It was a dark and stormy night.
Of course it was.
Of course, on the most momentous night of my life, it was a god damn cliché. And not just a cliché, it was the greatest cliché of all time.
Absolutely fantastic.
On that particular stormy night, I was in one of the nicest McMansions I’d ever visited. It was late, basically midnight, and it was dark, both inside and outside. I was dressed all in black and had a pair of crap night vision goggles I’d five-finger-discounted from an army surplus store downtown. They did an adequate job of making things visible in the house. Which was key, nothing gets you caught faster than turning the lights on in the home you’re burgling.
Right, there was that too, I was robbing a house. I was not a stranger to robbing houses; it was really the way I got all my spending money. My third job. And I was good at it. I had a system — bottom to top. And you never really find much on the first floor, so if you need to be quick, skip the ground floor. The second floor is always where it’s at. But, from what I could tell, I had all the time I needed, so I was going to take it.
I’d gone through the basement window and looted the basement first. Some sports memorabilia that might score me a few dollars here and there, but that was it. Sure, there were hundreds of movies and a full-on theater, plus a commercial popcorn maker, but none of that stuff was valuable. Not on the scale I needed it. I did manage to find a multi-media server running off a Mac Mini, so that went into the bag, but otherwise, it was on to the first floor. Nothing of value in the kitchen, but there was a lot of silver in the dining room. All bagged up and ready to go for me. There was an office with a crappy desktop. I popped it open on the quick, to check things out. My primary motivation for this particular thievery was the need for a new graphics card. I had been saving some money for it, but then my dad up and drank it all. I’d been getting my ass handed to me because my rig’s frame rate was so low it would have been faster to hire an Amish carpenter to hand make each one. I needed a 2080 ti at least. So, naturally, I popped the desktop open because if it had a 2080, I’d take it, and leave the rest of the crap there.
It did not.
Some damn integrated graphics nonsense.
I unplugged the hard drive and popped it in the bag. I hadn’t exactly gone down that far along the blackmail road, but my earlier attempts at extortion had been marginally lucrative, and I wasn’t above trying out new money-making opportunities.
A quick peek in the drawers yielded a checkbook, but I didn’t take it. I looked into check fraud once, and it really takes more time than its worth these days.
Up to the second floor. The McMansion had a mah-hoosive stairway in the foyer, spiraling up in a big half-circle, a crystal chandelier dangling down nearly to the marble floor of the entrance. I just shook my head; these assholes had a bigger foyer than I had a house.
The second floor had super soft carpeting, which, you know, as a thief, I appreciated. I was a pretty sneaky fellow as it was, but carpet let me get away with a lot more.
The first bedroom was a kids room. Bunkbed. Little dude, maybe three, snoring away, tucked in a menagerie of stuffed animals. I closed the door immediately. I may be a thieving asshole, but I was a thieving asshole with rules.
Never steal from kids.
Only steal from rich assholes.
And a few more guidelines, but those were the critical rules.
Next bedroom was the same story, more or less. Young girl, pink four-post bed with a full Barbie dream house village along her wall. I closed that door too.
The third bedroom was the guest room. Empty. And nothing of value inside. I checked, not even a bible in the nightstand.
So it was on to the main event.
Master.
This particular master bedroom was one of those where half the second floor was devoted to the master suite. Double doors led down a hallway into a sitting area. There was a king-size bed in the sleeping area, and a woman laid there, pretty much passed out. She had a dark blue face-mask over her eyes, and there were brilliant orange earplugs in her ears.
I laughed; this was definitely the best-case scenario for me. The only thing better would be someone hopped up on Ambien. Or my father passed out drunk by 8 pm nightly. Sometimes earlier. Whee.
There was a single door coming off the bedroom, which meant a combined bathroom and closet, so I went there, opening the door up and wincing a little at the squeak of the hinges. I looked over my shoulder, and the woman had not moved in the slightest. I pulled a pocket-sized can of wd-40 from my pocket and gave the hinges a little spritz. Might as well do a spot of home repair while I burgled. The bathroom came first, the closet after. Both were ridiculous in size. I did a quick check of the medicine cabinet, but it was just over-the-counter stuff there. I wasn’t a huge fan of selling drugs. There was good money in it, but the people you have to deal with, not worth it. But, you know, there I go passing judgment when I’m probably just as big a piece of dirt as them. Oh well. One more bad habit to tack onto the list.
I snagged some of the daily jewelry in a small bowl next to the bathroom sink, gaudy platinum diamond rings, with two diamonds so big I could have used them to shoot dice.
Into the closet.
A safe dominated one wall, a large sort of thing about two feet by one foot. I’d save that for last, mainly because I had no idea how I might go about opening it. Instead, I went through the drawers, and I hit a minor jackpot. The husband’s underwear drawer had cash stacked in the back — a couple of thousand dollars in twenties. The wife had her big jewelry box in her drawer, and I pawed through the jewelry for a moment, and also her underwear. Nothing else hidden in the unmentionables. Back to the jewelry box, I did my untrained best to gauge the quality of the goods. Not as much costume jewelry as I feared, this lady was buying the real stuff. I chucked the whole box in my duffle bag. Sort it later.
I pondered the safe, then gave the handle a try. Sometimes, people didn’t bother to lock the safes, and then I got an easy payday. Not today -- locked.
Then it was the last step in any cl
oset: purses. Handbags were definitely a great way to make some extra scratch. It was, like, half my eBay store. On that particular stormy night, I got super lucky. The lady of the house had good taste in expensive bags: three Louis Vuittons, two Chanels, and something called a Goyard. It was a tight fit in my duffle, but a little Pimp My Pilfering — I heard you liked bags so I put bags in your bags — and I made it work.
I looked at the safe one more time, then realized it was better to get out clean than get out with everything, so I left the closet, then the bathroom, and was on my way out of the master bedroom when I heard something downstairs.
Correction, when I heard someone downstairs.
2
I froze, convinced that whatever I heard was merely something that echoed from my subconscious. That it was an imagined noise which—
Nope. I heard it again. It was someone who was trying to be quiet but was not at all skilled at being quiet. And the someone was carrying something, something metallic which was banging against the stove. They were in the kitchen. Which I had to go through if I was going to hit my exit point.
I walked out of the master bedroom because while I wasn’t exactly sure the noise would wake the missus up, I didn’t want to risk it. Nothing like me being a stealth ninja and some other asshat wrecking it. At least if asshat made a big noise and I wasn’t in the bedroom, I’d be able to make a runner. Once out of the bedroom, though, I dropped to my knees and crawled along the carpet. Sure, it looked stupid, but it was a remarkably effective way to keep out of sight. Closer to the stairs, and I slid on my belly.
There was a dog. Well, the homeowners had a dog. I could smell it in the carpet. Also, they needed to get their housecleaner over because the carpet smelled like dog and I had dog hair all over me. But where was the dog?
The asshole in the kitchen was still making noise trying to be quiet, so I crept down the stairs, happy that the purses I’d pilfered were keeping the silver I’d stolen from rattling in my duffle. Thief-world problems, you know?
Ground floor achieved. At that point, I was debating just making a break for it out the front door, hoping that whoever was farting around the kitchen would catch the blame for my night mission. But damn curiosity got me. Always got me. I always wanted to know more. I couldn’t help it, it was an intrinsic part of me.
I slid along the cold tile until I got to the wall that separated the kitchen from the formal living room and foyer. Then I very carefully peeked around the edge, just as someone flipped the lights on.
Cursing, I pulled back. Because I was also blinded. God damn night vision goggles.
The asshat in the kitchen was humming a familiar little song.
My world was little more than an explosion of color for a moment, but while I waited for my eyes to readjust to normal, I managed to pinpoint the asshat’s song.
We’re In The Money.
Are you goddamn kidding me?
Eyes fixed, I leaned back out and around the doorway.
Asshat was a middle-aged white man who looked remarkably like the asshat in all the photos all around the house.
The hell is going on, I thought. The first answer that came to me was simple, dude got home late and was making some midnight snack.
That idea disappeared when I caught a whiff of hot oil. Nobody comes home and fries food in the middle of the night. And definitely not with a match.
I watched him light a match, and, as if slow motion, it flew through the air, extra bright as the sulfur flared, and then it disappeared into the pot of oil.
The oil whooshed a fireball into the air.
“Whoa,” asshat said, taking a step back from the range as the oil fire licked the ceiling.
This asshat was insane, and I had to leave. And yet, I couldn’t stop watching.
He poured water on the oil, and the fire spread like, well, like an oil fire that’s had water poured on it. But the guy wasn’t stupid, he was acting with purpose. And he made sure the fire spread to the big plastic jug of oil sitting on the counter. Which, you know, reacted fantastically to the fire in that the plastic of the bottle caught on fire and let oil flow out all over the counter and then off the counter, right onto two barbecue propane tanks.
A second later, that oil caught on fire.
Asshat grabbed the flaming propane tanks and took them into the pantry.
I froze, trying to decide on my course of action. But, by that point, asshat ran back into the kitchen and turned the lights off. Which, you know, was of minimal effect considering that the fire had taken over that entire wall of the kitchen and was doing an excellent job of illuminating the open floor plan.
His footsteps echoed on the floor as he ran out of the house, right through the front door. I heard the locks click over.
The psychopath was burning his house down for the insurance payout. Had to be.
Well, not my problem.
I got to my feet, and ran to the basement steps, jumped from landing to landing (thanks, high school gymnastics), and then made a bee-line for the window I’d crawled in, slipping right back out into the cold rainy night.
The mud sucked at my feet as I ran through the grass.
Then I slid to a stop and looked back at the McMansion.
The fire illuminated the entire downstairs.
Not a single smoke alarm was beeping.
Not my problem.
I made it to the property line before I stopped again.
I looked back at the house.
The fire inside was a brilliant orange and had definitely spread to more of the first floor.
“Balls,” I said.
Tossing the duffle bag to the ground into the trees, I started trudging back towards the McMansion.
I can make up reasons I did it, say that I thought of the kids, or that I saw a favorite toy of mine among the pile of stuffed animals the boy slept under, but the truth is darker. I wanted to mess up the husband’s plans. I didn’t want him to get away with anything. I wanted him to get caught and crushed by this woman. Partly because I hated my parents and even though I’d never been able to do something against them, at least I could muck up one dude’s jacked up plans.
And the kids. I like kids. They had no part in this nonsense, they were innocents. And, really, nothing gets me as angry and self-righteous as parents putting their children in jeopardy. We can smell our own.
Trudging turned to running when I finally was honest with myself and that I actually wanted to save the kids and not just screw over the dad.
3
The first floor was basically totally enflamed. Because of the massive stone staircase, though, I managed to get upstairs with little trouble, and, like I always was taught in the fire-safety classes I slept through, I dropped to the floor, and crawled under the smoke. Little girl’s room first, hers was closer to the kitchen.
It was thick with smoke in her room, and when I opened the door, I saw the bright orange of fire running up the corner walls.
Moving quickly, I ran/crawled (cran? rawled?) across the floor and slid to a stop next to her bed, pushing the Barbies out of the way.
I grabbed her arm and slid her out of bed onto my shoulder. She woke up as I got to the hallway, and she started screaming.
“Knock it off,” I shouted at her. “That’s right in my ear.”
“What’s happening?” She stuttered out through tears.
“House fire,” I replied, and by that point, we’d reached the stairs.
I helped her get out, which involved trying to figure out the stupid automatic ‘smart’ door lock that seemed to have malfunctioned that night, but then I gave her my phone and told her to call ‘911’ while I went back in for her brother.
The brother was smaller and easier to grab than his sister. And he didn’t wake up until I was outside and the rain hit him. The little guy didn’t deserve the life he was going to have.
I stood there in the rain, hearing the sirens in the distance.
I was done. Good deeds had bee
n finished.
“What about my mom?” The little girl asked.
“The firemen are almost here,” I replied.
“But mommy,” the girl said, a forlorn look to the house.
“Seriously?” I asked. “Saving you two isn’t enough?”
A sob came from the boy.
“Dammit,” I snapped, “fine. But I want a really nice thank you note after this nonsense.”
I stomped back into the house. Immediately, I dodged left, diving out of the way of the beautiful and massive chandelier falling to the floor. It was a tremendous thing to watch, as layer after layer of crystal crashed onto the marble tiles sending a cascade of fragments out and around.
That’s when I noticed that the roof was on fire.
I picked some of the glass out of my arms as I got back to my feet. The top of the stairway was burning now. I’d have to go through the flames to get to the master bedroom. I turned to leave, because, you know, firefighters would have the gear to do that, and I caught sight of the kids outside. Hopeful looks on their little faces and I suppose my hard heart melted just enough, and I ran up the stairs. I did the crawl/run thing again, powering through the flames as quickly as I could, but I definitely set my hair on fire, burning what little beard I’d managed to cultivate, and catching my pants too. The plush carpet was some sort of synthetic weave, and in its semi-melted state, it covered my hands pretty well.
But I didn’t stop when I got to the door, I just bull-rushed through it.
The master bedroom was alight.
Not entirely, but the bathroom and the closet, which were directly over the kitchen, were burning bright, and flames were reaching into the master bedroom. The sitting area, however, was peachy keen.
I dropped and rolled over the carpet until my body was no longer actively on fire, and then I swallowed the pain I felt all over. Another thing I could thank years of gymnastics for. Lack of height, chronic injuries, athletic prowess, and the ability to ignore pain for immediate gain. Thanks, mom.
