The Doe

It was 3:00 AM, and the Thief...opened the large, ornate door. That was it. He couldn't believe it. If his trusted Agent of so many years hadn't been the one to tell him, he wouldn't have. They had met earlier that day, in the busy food court of the local mall, the smell of bad Chinese food heavy in the air, stale, tinny pop music playing from some hidden speaker above their heads.

"Some old rich bitch with more money than sense," his Agent had told him, in his own customary, trademark way. "No security system, no dogs, no camera, no nothin'. And she's down in Costa Rica for her annual vacation, at some swanky all-inclusive spa with a bunch of other bougie cocksuckers."

"It sounds like a trap," he had replied, deciding not to take offense at the "bougie cocksucker" line. He had been around the bend one too many times to just waltz right into an obvious FBI or Interpol honeypot, especially when he knew both organizations were actively pursuing him. Plus, personally, He had known too many "colleagues" who had gotten careless and done just that very same thing, overlooking obvious, blaring signs that they were being set up, until it was far too late for them.

But his Agent swore, over and over again, and on everything he knew and loved that the Client (what they always called the one who had hired them for any given heist) was on the up and up.

"Then tell me who they are," he challenged, struggling to keep his voice loud enough to be heard by his Agent, and, at the same time, not overhead by the unwanted and uninvited.

But he knew he wouldn't, because, in order for the Client to trust the Agent, their anonymity had to be protected, always. And so, the Thief, as frustrating as it could sometimes be, just had to trust that his Agent wasn't sending him into the proverbial "Lion's Den." Ah, such a complicated web international, high stakes, crime could manage to weave!

But his Agent had never led him wrong before, had always stuck by his side through thick and thin and thicker and thinner. Through countless betrayals, double-crosses, triple-crosses, manhunts, and bounties alike, the Agent had never abandoned the Thief, even when it had been in his very best interest to do so. That counted for something, especially in this world, where, as the saying goes: if you want a friend, get a dog!"

So he agreed to take the job, prompting the Agent to give him all of the usual details: the who, the what, the where, and the when - all orally, of course, always wanting to avoid a paper trail. But the bottom line was this: this unguarded mansion and estate, all owned by the wealthy heiress of a shipping empire with no children of her own, housed close to 5 million dollars in jewelry, and all he had to do was walk in there and take it.

If the Thief had to guess, based on his experience, the Client was some jilted associate of the "Rich Bitch", an ex-husband or an old friend she had had a falling out with, probably over some kind of stupid social faux pas that would only make sense to others in their obscene wealth bracket. But he knew that, in the end, trying to figure out the true identity of the Client was just a big waste of precious time. At the end of the day, once the job was done and the loot was secured, they, regardless of whoever they were, would get their cut, the Agent would get his 20%, and the Thief would get the rest. Everybody happy, win-win-fucking-win.

But there was one other thing that had stood out to the Thief about his debrief, he remembered as he walked into the foyer of the manor. Even under the stench of sub-par Orange Chicken and Beef Chow Mein, he had smelled something else, something that was lingering on the Agent like a spider's web he had unintentionally walked through while out for a pleasant afternoon stroll.

Whatever it was - wherever he had picked it up - at first it had almost repulsed him, to the point where he wondered if the Agent hadn't actually showered for a few days. But as their conversation wore on, the scent began to grow on him, and by the time they were parting ways, the Thief hurrying off to start getting everything ready for tonight, he had almost asked his Agent where he had picked up his new cologne or deodorant. But that was sort of a personal question for two people who didn't even know each other's real names, and he had let it go.

Before him now, in front of a winding white staircase, lit from above by the moonlight coming in through the glass ceiling, was a large statue of the god Dionysus. A lesser educated person than the Thief might have mistaken him for Santa Claus, on account of his long beard, but the Thief, like all children of the gentry, had been well-versed by his expensive schooling in all things Greek myth.

That had never been his thing, however. Education as a whole, really, had never excited or satisfied him remotely in any way. While his foreign professors had droned on and on about the Iliad or the Odyssey, he had instead planned out in his head how he was going to sneak into the girls' dorms and knick their Birkins, or how he was going to swipe the Principal's brand new Swiss watch.

But enough had still made it through to him that he could still recognize the God of Wine and Fertility when he saw him. He didn't like this particular depiction at all, though. As he walked by it to the rooms beyond, he couldn't help feeling like it was hungrily leering at him, his stone eyes following the Thief as he passed.

The Agent had told him that the loot he sought was just kind of "scattered around the place," as he put it. The Rich Bitch's carelessness regarding her valuables meant she didn't even bother putting them in a safe (not that that had ever managed to stop before). Not having to worry about running into staff or security, then, he took out his flashlight from his black backpack, turned it on, and entered the first room he saw, figuring it was just as good a place to start as anywhere.

A moment of panic. In the double-sized bed in the corner of the room, a woman was sleeping, possibly the Rich Bitch herself. Clearly, the intel was bad, and somebody had fucked up, royally, perhaps even the Agent himself. Every instinct was telling him to bail out immediately. Fuck it: he didn't need the money anyway. This was all just a bit of fun, at the end of the day, something to help pass the time. He didn't need the money, at all.

He turned off the flashlight, and prayed the woman wouldn't stir. But then, even through the darkness, he spotted it. On her bedside table was a small golden ring.

His body and his mind alike screamed at him to turn just around and leave, and tomorrow, seriously think about severing his ties with the Agent. But still, almost as if against his will, he began to walk toward the nightstand, gently so as to not wake the female form beside it. It was like he had teleported: never taking his eyes off the ring, he found himself suddenly right there in front of it. Transfixed, he picked it up and inspected it. It was beautiful, the most beautiful piece of jewelry he had ever seen in a life full of beautiful people and beautiful things.

Everything around him fell away - the woman who wasn't supposed to be there, the creepy mansion, the effigy of the God of Madness it housed, even his Agent and the mysterious Client that he was acting as a go-between for. It was just him and the bright, brilliant yellow band.

Put it on. The thought startled him, seemed to have come from somewhere outside the confines of his mind. But it made so much sense, didn't it? Sure, he could - would normally - place the item in his simple, nondescript backpack and move on. But what if he took it off for some reason and left it lying around somewhere on accident? Or, more plausibly, since he now realized that he was in more danger of being caught than he previously thought, what if he had to make a quick escape, and the backpack got caught on something in the attempt, and thereby was tragically left behind? That would make this whole thing pointless, wouldn't it?

No, no, best to put it on. And he did, slipping it onto the ring finger of his left hand. It fit perfectly. He held up his hand, admiring how the circlet looked on his long, slender fingers, noting also at the same time how it complimented the lush pink nail polish he had carefully applied to each of his lengthy fingernails just that morning...

Wait - "long, slender?" He had always had disproportionately large sausage-like fingers, remembered being teased for it by his cruel older sisters countless times as a child. And nail polish? That was the sort of thing he and the lads would have done a lot more than tease for if any of the boys back at school had been caught sporting it. This wasn't right, something was very, very wrong here...

But that's when he noticed the smell. No, smell wasn't the right word - it was a fucking musk. Breathing it in, his previous concerns were washed away, and in its place his mind, was flooded with images of pristine meadows, the ruins of an ancient temple on a hill in the distance.

He shook his head to banish the vision. This was no time to be mucking about - he still had a job to do. He slowly backed away from the table, through the door, and gently closed it. This was all much harder to do than something so simple should have been, because, the entire time, he was fighting the overwhelming urge to jump into bed with the slumbering woman, who, upon closer inspection, was in fact far too young to be the owner of the mansion.

Then it was on to the next room, the discovery of the ring having entirely erased the anxiety of continuing with the operation.

Again, a girl, likely in her 20s, slept soundly in her spacious bed, while, on the table next to her, lay another piece of regalia. This time, it was a silver bracelet, no less breathtaking than the ring before it. Once again, upon picking it up, he had the strong, strange notion that he should wear it, just for safekeeping. So he did.

He had no trouble at all getting his hand through it and leaving it to rest upon his dainty wrist (Dainty? He had spent countless hours in his private gym ensuring they were anything but dainty). But, as soon as he had, he couldn't take his eyes off of it. It reminded him of a similar bracelet he had seen one of his aunts wearing when he was little, and he still remembered how much he had desperately wanted it. At the time, he would have traded anything for it, all of his pretty pink dresses and pretty pink dolls. He probably still would, he had to admit, though now his barter would be sports cars and expensive pieces of art by famous painters instead.

Like the first chamber, the wearing of the jewelry triggered his abrupt noticing of the musk that filled it. But this one was different. When he breathed it in, he saw vineyards and olive trees in his mind's eye. Together with the first vision, it was obvious what he was imagining was Greece, but why? He had only gone a handful of times, mostly for work, and it had really left no impression on him at all. No, scratch that, he held a decidedly negative impression of the country. He had found only dirty people in dirty cities, a nation that was nothing but a fading shadow of its former self, the vaunted progenitor of all of Western civilization. Was it just because of the statue that had greeted him in the foyer? Was it acting as some sort of mental priming mechanism, acting on a level below the conscious?

But this time, he could pinpoint the source of the scent, and it was undoubtedly emanating from the girl in the bed, who was currently lying on her back, snoring softly. He examined her features: with her dark curly hair, sharp nose, and olive skin, it was easy to assume she was Mediterranean, probably, and not coincidentally, Greek. But who was she, and why couldn't he stop staring at her plump lips, imagining himself bending over and placing a soft kiss upon them, just like in the old fairytale that had so enchanted him when he was little?

No, no, no. This wasn't him. This wasn't professional, and he was a consummate professional - the consummate professional. He had never slept with anyone before while on a job, and he wasn't going to bloody well start now, when things were as strange as they were. Again forced to fight the powerful urge to join the woman between her sheets, he used every ounce of willpower he had to tear himself from her bedside, and stole into the tiled hallway.

Slumping against the wall and onto the floor, he decided to take a second and try to think through what was going on here. Who were these women? The granddaughters and grandnieces of the Rich Bitch, who was supposed to be down in Mexico, and, oh yes, supposedly didn't have any heirs?

And what was that smell? Some kind of perfume? Or maybe it was natural, and this whole family suffered from some bizarre condition that caused them to exude an unusually pungent body odor?

With each question, doubt began to creep in again more and more. None of this added up, none of this made sense. At some point something had gone wrong, a mistake or miscommunication, and he had walked into something he was absolutely not prepared for. And being well-prepared was something he took pride in, even if the habit had been literally beaten into him back in grade school.

What it came down to was this: how many jobs had he taken that, like this one, had turned out to be founded on faulty intel? And had he not aborted every single one, very early on? Was he not still free, still living and breathing? Were these facts not inextricably linked?

But his gaze had already drifted to the door across from where he was currently sitting. This one was covered in intricate details: nymphs and naiads playing amongst a complicated latticework of raised vines. In fact, now that he looked, even the doors to the rooms he had already explored had similarly elaborate designs etched upon them.

The entry to the room he had just ventured into featured male centaurs with raging equine erections chasing naked, voluptuous mortal women through a meadow, while the one to the first chamber he had checked out displayed male and female minotaurs copulating in a variety of decidedly unchristian sexual positions.

How had he not noticed all of this before, especially with his trained eye? Was he just too focused on the task at hand? At least it partially explained why he kept thinking about Ancient Greece, even if he hadn't registered it at the surface level of his senses.

But even this new revelation was quickly swept away by a much greater fixation: what new piece of treasure would he find hidden behind the door sporting the visage of the frolicking female spirits? A sparkling necklace or glittering set of earrings? He had to know. He had to have it. He discarded the backpack onto the polished floor. Why bother pretending anymore? Whatever it was, he had to wear it.

But there was one last piece of his outfit to shed before he found out. He took off his black balaclavas, revealing the sweaty, handsome face and messy hair underneath. It was far too humid in the mansion to keep it on for even a second longer, and he no longer feared being caught. To some degree, for a reason he couldn't explain, he now craved it.

Good girl...beautiful young satyrs don't cover their faces....

Another thought that didn't feel like a thought. It felt like a message, a mantra. And like it was coming from his right hand and right wrist, where the ring and bracelet, respectively, now lay. But all he did in response to this discovery was to shrug his shoulder as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

In the bedroom, he was a little disappointed to not find another exotic sleeping beauty. Instead, in the unmade bed that looked like someone had just gotten out of it, there rested an ankle bracelet, a counterpart to the one that had already found a welcoming home on his wrist.

Well, it was obvious what he had to do. Sitting on the still-warm bed, he untied the ugly, utilitarian boots he had on - both of them actually, for balancing purposes - and tossed them dismissively aside. Hideous things. Removing his black socks, he was surprised, for a brief moment, to see how small his feet were. But why should he be? He had always had small feet. His mother had even joked that he'd still be wearing children's shoes at his Quinceanera!

A sense of relief washed over him: the pink nail polish he had applied to his toenails, the same color as on his fingernails, hadn't chipped at all. Thank God - he had been worried about that for a while, since before he had first entered this bewitching palace. That now sorted out, he placed his left foot through the hoop of the piece of jewelry and moved it up so it would rest on his ankle.

Then he got to work. Leaning down, he stuffed his face in amongst the used sheets, comforter, and pillows, and took a deep, greedy breath in. This third musk was as distinct as the first two had been to each other: he smelled anemone and pomegranate and narcissus this time. But it wasn't enough for him - not nearly enough. He got into the bed, and covered himself in all the pieces that made up its whole. He wanted to live in the fragrance, to let it fill him up and replace all of the profane, ordinary gasses that currently resided within him.

He felt himself get hard...then soft again. The moment of ecstasy had passed just as quickly as it had arrived. Taking this as some sort of signal, he got out of the bed and left the room, not even bothering to retrieve his discarded boots. But it was funny - the aroma lingered in the hall. He lifted his armpit up and took a whiff. It was coming from him, he was happy to find.

Good satyrs always smell good....

He couldn't have agreed more with his new anklet!

He didn't even remember walking up to the final door in the hallway, he realized as he stared at the dueling griffin and hydra that adorned it. The two beasts were locked in a vicious battle, both having inflicted serious, maybe even mortal wounds upon the other in their fateful struggle.

It disgusted him. Violence always had. How much better, he thought, would it be if the two creatures had decided to make love instead? Blood still might be spilled, but it would be in the service of something much more beautiful! He sighed. He had often felt that many of the wars that man had waged could have been avoided with a simple release of sexual energy. Take for example that...mustache fellow...what was his name again? Oh, it didn't matter. The point was: if he had some nice big blonde German woman with pigtails riding him, draining his balls each and every night, he very much doubted he would have gotten up to all that trouble!

He realized he was letting his mind wander again. His maestra had always said that his head was in the clouds too often, that he needed to focus on his studies if he wanted to ever make something of himself. Jealous old puta. She was just mad that she was shaped like El Spongebob!

He opened the door, and once again found a room lacking a physical female presence. Nor did he detect a new musk - he didn't doubt that it was there, but the one he was producing himself overpowered it completely. But there was something on the unkempt bed again - earrings. He walked over, the cool carpet pleasing to his bare feet. He picked up the platinum trinkets, eager to add them to his new collection, but then remembered - his ears were not pierced.

He gazed at the earrings while he considered his next move, paying special attention to the sharp posts. It would hurt. But the design of them...the face of the benevolent madre Aphrodite... he had to have them, had to have them on him, a part of him, all pain be damned.