The Thief

Foreword
It has been nearly a year since that strange series of events transpired. I can only
now begin to frame the entire story, finding the survivors of those that were involved and
interviewing them has taken much of that time. The rest, some weeks immediately
afterward, I will admit to spending in a state of profound shock; amazed not so much by
what I had seen but that I would have to live the rest of my life having seen it. When I
began my career as a journalist it was for this very kind of story that I had the highest
regard; the kind of scoop which changed the world with its revelations. Now that I am
close to going to print, I struggle intensely with the question of whether it should be
revealed at all. There are certainly those who believe it should not, as I found out when I
first submitted an early draft about the incident into which I had been dragged. Knowing
now about a side of this world that is a secret perpetuated through the ages, I have to
wonder about the true motives of those who would suppress any mention of what
occurred in Crossburg last summer. It is probably because I was there at all that it seems
so important that the world should at least hear of the horrors and triumphs of those few
weeks. What the majority will decide for it to mean is something I neither want to guess
nor to shape; I will content myself with faithfully reporting on the facts of the matter, as
best as they can be pieced together.
A slice of middle-America, vast in its smallness and tiny in its grandiosity, that
city which was for so long haunted by the specter of two warring families was finally
haunted by some specter all the more grim. In such a troubled environment there was no

room for anything short of a full exorcism, a purging by fire which would see all evils
cast out or the community burned to ashes. Amongst the flames danced a pair of monsters
in desperate struggle with the forces of good and forces beyond this world. Many would
say that the events started with those monsters murderous wedding, but a few more
knowledgeable in these matters will point instead to a humble thief as the catalyst for the
twisted times that followed. Indeed, it is likely that his presence is the sole reason that the
situation spiraled so completely out of control.
Because I felt he deserved, if not needed, a rest; I have delayed in seeking his
viewpoint until last. Now I have no one else to turn to and the hour has grown late
enough that I have hazarded a journey back to that place to speak with that man. My
arrival was not met with any of the myriad disasters I feared awaited me and no
auspicious events heralded a return of the doom that had swept through this place. Instead
I am greeted by the pleasant bustle of a quiet spring; the sun shines and birds sing. In the
heart of the city, just east of Main Street, a ravine hides between neighborhoods. Sloping
banks green with growth provide a cushion that makes the city sound far away as one
strolls across the dry rocks. A cool breeze flows in this sanctuary as I approach my last
subject, a young man covering himself with a drab cloak that nearly matches the color of
his brown mess of hair. He regards me, as always, with a look of disinterest. To say that
there is no spark in his eyes is to ignore the seriousness of the occasions during which his
gaze became piercingly fixed. None would suspect that he had been at the center of one
of the insane events which are to follow in this account, but the story starts and ends with
him.

Chapter One
Martin Braumstead was a born thief. That is to say, in the same way in which the
greatest examples of any profession or craft are born into a disposition, environment and
history that forges their greatness, Martin was a born thief. Popular legend dictates that he
performed his first heist before being able to speak. One story says that even as a
newborn babe he had reached out to take the shining bit from his mothers ear when first
she held him. Martin himself simply quipped that any such memory was something stolen
from his own mind long ago.
It goes without dispute that at a slightly more advanced age he began a pattern of
shoplifting that goes unbroken to the present day. Yet it speaks to the mentality of a true
thief that while other children stole candies, he took only what water and food his parents
were unable to provide to him. When the time for schooling came, stores and other
students noticed a sudden disappearance of supplies and the appearance of a new face
carrying suspiciously familiar goods and a generous amount of plausible deniability. The
things which one needed to get by in the world were his only targets and his only victims
were those who would never truly be hurt by the crime. His talents did not go unnoticed
by his peers and the previously friendless boy became popular in that way in which
someone who can be useful to others is popular for as long as that usefulness is desired.
The thefts precipitated by the urging of these false friends were of the sort that the law
would not grudgingly dismiss. By the age of ten Martin had acquired enough of an

entanglement with the establishment that his only recourse was to never be caught again.
This also marked the end of his crimes committed for the attention of others and the
waning of his popularity.
At the age of twelve, Martin was irrevocably caught in the history of Crossburg.
The town had begun as an almost uninhabited railroad interchange in the 1800s, but war
and industry sewed seeds of civilization around the transportation hub. While many small
towns disappeared or grew into great cities in the early 1900s, Crossburg remained
relatively unchanged. That is, until the Prohibition. A new segment of society became
interested in the shipping of goods for which the towns great train yard could prove
useful, bootleggers. It is in this Prohibition era that the first embers of the events to come
were kindled. None of prolific mafia families of the Eastern seaboard had roots in
Crossburg, but those terrible trees had grown large enough that their shadows fell upon
the place. Supply arose to meet demand, minor criminal enterprises working at the behest
of the far off empires. Weeds that could grow in the nutritious soil despite the shade.
When the times changed again, the town again resisted change. The great
crusaders of justice began to cut away at the trees in the east, the demand which had
nourished the flora of criminality fell as Prohibition ended, and the Great Depression
turned mans concern from morality to survival. Weeds are well adapted for survival.
Those small criminal families had not grown tall enough that the shadows they cast
would attract the eyes of the champions of peace. Yet, their thorny roots had dug deep
into the earth and their spiny foliage was too sharp to be removed by non-calloused
hands. The soil was no longer rich in nutrients and so the greatest threat to those weeds
were each other. Gang warfare overflowed into the streets and the most available form of

employment in those dark days was as a foot soldier in a battle for control of the
lawlessness of the town. One by one, the weeds strangled each other until only two
remained. Two rival families, Lanton and Carvold, who recognized that the price of total
victory was too great. A strange sort of peace descended upon the town as the outside
world seemed to forget that it existed. The local law enforcement certainly couldnt
intervene, an officers own roots were twisted up precariously in the fanged roots of those
weeds. The mayor and other such officials relied upon a dual endorsement from those
families and thus they in turn enjoyed a joint tyranny over Crossburg.
Historically, neither Lantons nor Carvolds were brutal tyrants. These were men
who had conquered under the banners of greed and control rather than violence and
cruelty. Businesses paid protection and in fact received a service of shielding and
retaliation. Unaffiliated, petty criminals that slipped through the hands of the law were
properly chastised by far rougher criminals. Of course, extortion, blackmail, robbery,
assault and other such products of organized crime became commonplace. Complaints
and resentment built up, people balked at the unspoken truth that the town was ruled by
criminals, but their ordinary lives were not impacted so harshly as to make the condition
intolerable. Years passed. Years turned into decades. The post-war era became the modern
day, or rather, ten years ago. At the age of twelve, Martins parents were caught in the
crossfire of a street battle between lackeys of the Lantons and Carvolds.
No relatives came to claim the boy. The small city was slow to move about its
course in placing him in foster care or in keeping him as a ward of the state. A heist of
unprecedented complexity occurred. When the workers of the government finally found
the time to deal with the boy, he was gone. Not just physically absent, but now absent

from records too. More and more of the paper trail proving the existence of a Martin
Braumstead disappeared and at the same time, appearing in the accounts of the dead was
a great deal of money. Wealth which quickly slipped away, paying off the mortgage of the
Braumstead home which had always been out of reach of the now dead couple. The
mechanisms of society ground to a halt, or rather, they continued to churn on at the same
ponderous pace. Social workers gave up a search they increasingly failed to remember
their reason for conducting. Taxes, fees and payments made by the dead went unnoticed.
Martin had stolen his own existence from society, existing forever more as an exile.
The main source of the funds and material he would require in the following years
was his newfound hatred of those criminal dynasties. From their businesses, legitimate
and otherwise; their thugs; their parties; and truly anything connected to them, he stole
mercilessly. With no lawmen interested in pursuing the one person to ever best those
untouchable families, Martin was free to take as much as could be taken. It was because
he had taken just about as much as he could have taken that he now found himself, a
decade later, trapped between two overturned table that were rapidly becoming more
bullet-hole than table. The date is June 11th and what had been an entirely bland lunch in
a quiet diner was moments ago dispelled by the shattering of the glass of the faade
window and a hail of gunfire from the sidewalk. It would not have been the first time that
Martin was faced with the prospect of death by armed goons, but it would be the first
time that the first hit squad was joined a moment later by a second squad entering from
the back door. It was because of this pincer attack that Martin found himself with no
recourse but to wait, trapped between two overturned table that were rapidly becoming
more bullet-hole than table.

A few moments passed and the gunfire petered out, leaving only the ringing echo
of its passing and the general hysteria of a people-filled room now filled with dead and
wounded people. Martin dared not peek out from his tenuous cover, but from his position
he tried to locate some avenue of escape. Unfortunately, both of the blood-soaked, dust
filled rooms exits were currently occupied by people who very much wanted to kill him.
His mind raced down every possible corridor of thought reaching no conclusion other
than that the jig was truly up this time. It was such hopeless thoughts that were cut short
when a gruff voice from the store-front yelled into the room, Hey, what the hell are you
doing here? The voice was followed by the sound of someone vaulting the now open
front window and landing amidst the glass newly decorating the floor.
I should be asking you the same question, mongrel A womans voice from the back of
the room spat so much venom over Martins head that he was sure he had seen the words
blacken the air as they passed. The exchange sent a jittery confusion of excitement
through his brain. Had he not been the target after all? Was the ingenious flanking attack
not orchestrated for the sole purpose of ending his run?
Im here to kill a rat, bitch. The man couldnt match her pure hatred, but
perhaps that was because he had divided it between rat and bitch. Rat definitely
referred to Martin, dashing what hopes had briefly ignited. The crunching of glass
informed him of the mans approach, it stopped with the menacing sound of several guns
being made ready for their deadly work, a sound he had to assume was accompanied by
their being leveled at the man.
Thats funny, I came to kill a rat too. The hint of amusement was far more
disturbing than the continued flow of venom. He could only imagine that a grinning

cobra was lobbing shots of its deadly juice around with abandon.
No, you cant, Seemingly heedless of the standoff, the man childishly began
ranting, I refuse to let you kill him. No Lanton is going to take away my right to run my
blade through his flesh a hundred thousand times. Not while Im standing right here, no,
no, I wont let you kill him. Martin had to fight the urge to peer out from his cover in
disbelief. A young Lanton girl could only mean the feared Iron-Fist Noel Lanton. The
only man with the gall to stand in the same room as her on unfriendly terms and
displaying a fiendish desire to do terrible things to someone, him, with a sharp object had
to be the equally feared Joshua Carvold, the Carvold Butcher. To have both of them
standing within ten feet of each other, both lusting after his blood, was a joke so funny
that he could almost laugh at it even with the fact that one or both of them would likely
be getting his blood.
Well since thats the case, Ill just have to take the opportunity to kill a rat and a
dog. Noels words had started with a startling sweetness that slid into a deathly chill.
The proclamation seemed to snap Carvolds thugs to attention as the mechanical sound of
battle readiness issued from their corner of the ring. Martin worried that his greatly
diminished fortification would be unable to stand another round of the fire fight, but there
remained the hope that both sides would perish and leave him a chance at claiming
survival in this fight. A stamping of feet in the broken glass demanded the attention of
everyone present.
Now now boys, lets not make this boring. Joshua was either talking to
everyone or Martin was missing some gesture that indicated his intended audience. A
swishing of displaced air that must have been the swinging of some weapon accompanied

his next words, It would be rude of me not to invite this girl to a dance before the
symphony plays a swan song. A madmans mirth in the challenge assured Martin that a
smile had to be plastered on the Butchers face.
I was hoping youd have the balls to go toe to toe with me. The sharp crack of
heels on tile announced her intent to meet her counterpart and was quickly joined by his
crunching march. Their footfalls came to either side of his refuge until he could see the
two looming over him. Noel had a slim face that was set with lines as sharp as the cleaver
Joshua was carrying. Joshuas visage was as square and solid as the fists Noel raised in
front of her. Both were locked in a stare down so intense that Martin wondered if he had
even been noticed yet. All at once, some unseen signal unleashed the building chaos. A
swiping cleaver passed inches from a delicate face and a lightning jab glanced harmlessly
off of a barrel chest.
In the next moments a flurry of strikes blew through the space just above Martin.
Countless slashes were evaded and numberless punches were avoided. The tearing of a
blade across a slender shoulder sent a fine stream of blood down onto his head. A roaring
hook staggered the Butcher for a moment. Without pause, the flat of the cleaver smashed
into the girls stomach. Without respite, a balled fist pounded upward into the mans chin.
Trading evenly or not at all, the two engaged in a minute long bout. Finally, they each
stepped back a pace.
Well, Ive not seen many that can punch like their fists really are made of metal.
Ha, our familys favorite butcher cant make a slice as carefully as that.
Ragged breathing punctuated the strange compliments from the now unseen
combatants. The tension that mounted in that lull was far more serious than had existed

before the fight had started. How either of them would be able to continue, Martin was
unsure of, but he seriously hoped they would continue until dropping dead. As if to
confirm his wish, the next round began as suddenly as the first. A blur of white shirt and
jeans hurtled over his cover and from the sound of the impact, crashed directly into the
black clad woman.
Tear her to bits!
Pound his face in!
Get him!
Kill er!
Whooping and hollering from the two sides signaled that this tussle was far more
serious in intent than the first. No longer able to see the fighting, Martin had only the
sounds of footsteps, grunting, and whooshing attacks by which to judge the progress of
the melee. Even the moans of the wounded civilians had subsided in awe of what must
have been an epic struggle, unless the moaners had simply died. Plates were shattered,
tables flung aside, at one point it sounded as though a dead body was used as a weapon or
perhaps a shield. The two struggled back and forth across the floor that was quickly being
cleared of debris by their frenzied combat. For what seemed like hours, Martins world
was nothing more than a narrow view of a ruined diner and the furious cacophony of
some mythical battle being waged a few feet away. What was actually only minutes later,
the brawl had apparently lessened in intensity. Daring to move for the first time since the
shooting had started, he raised himself off his back and peered through a hole in the table.
The scene before him was beyond his wildest hopes, the warriors had passed out the back
door and were continuing their match in the parking lot, Lantons groupies in tow. Martin

quickly turned to look through the other table and found that Carvolds lackeys had
already left the front to run around to the back lot. He rolled completely over in the
scattered mess of his forgotten lunch and pushed himself off the ground directly into a
sprint. Without pausing to even look at the destroyed restaurant, Martin dashed to the
missing front window, leapt out onto the sidewalk, and ran until he was out of breath.
Cheers and shouts from behind the place chased him until his own ragged panting was
the only sound he could hear.
Damn it, Words gasped during his escape or perhaps simply crossing Martins
mind as he ran, I was actually going to pay for that lunch too.