Snoutstealer

TV light bathed him and his sofa in flickery blue; he hadn't moved for hours and was starting to dribble.
Then came The Idea. It cut through drink and downer oblivion and burned its way into his consciousness; "Rob the shop.
He was up.
He got these thoughts in the early hours, and after the right mixture of cheap booze and chemicals. Later, he'd look back and wonder: had the mixture of no sleep and chemicals altered his brain chemistry in such a way that he briefly entered the mental state of the common-or-garden, bog standard inept petty criminal? A place where the stupid seemed cool and the wise was ignored? Where excitement ruled and fuck the consequences? Where you wanted to steal for the sake of it?
But right then it was rob the shop, rob the shop.
The target nestled in a row of such shops, all joined together in a flat roofed one story oblong stretched out next to his own upright oblong tower block. A short trip, then, and an integral part of the plan: walking too far would have worn out the buzz and could possibly, god forbid, have given common sense the time and space to come knocking.
But it was on with the show and he was now on automatic: pockets stuffed with binliners, he grabbed the toolbag and shot out the door, down in the lift, out of the block, straight to the corner wall and up the drainpipe. The plan was working; he was on the roof before he'd had time to think about it.
Over to the skylight.
It was a two foot square of scuffed orange plastic, held down with big fat screws. No match for crowbars, hammers and screwdrivers in the hands of the born-again criminal. Between frenzied attack and determination the skylight peeled back and ripped. The sound of tearing plastic echoed over the estate to join the ignored barks and howls and music that went on all night and every night; he'd not considered the noise he'd make and assumed that his newly attuned mind intuitively knew it would be alright.
Or he was stupid.
Now the plan went like this: get in.
He peered though the skylight into the shop below. He leaned in further, holding tight. The floor seemed near, an easy drop? Surely, it was all so simple. Seconds later he had no choice; he'd leaned in too far and down he went.
It was lucky he was so out of it; he was relaxed to the core, and just bounced a bit on the threadbare fag-burned shopfloor carpet. He lay there for a minute just to make sure; he knew he'd survived it, he always did when he was in this state; it might hurt tomorrow, but that was another life.
He got to his feet, pulled out a binliner, and headed for the cigarettes. You can always sell cigarettes.
It was another automatic moment; he nipped behind the counter and began scooping the fag packets into the binliner. True enough, he wobbled a bit, but pushed on by his criminal chemicals he entered the moment: he was the snoutstealer and this was what he did.
And so loaded up like a cigarette Santa he skipped back round the counter to get out and get home. Being a criminal, he thought, was simply a case of relaxing into the moment, not panicking, and just acting on impulse. Easy.
There was a flaw in his plan.
He stood in the middle of the shop floor.
The skylight was twelve feet above his head.
There was no other way out.
A curse upon those drink and downers.
But wishing himself back up on the roof was no use. What would a real-life criminal do?
Take action, fast. Adapt and survive. Build a great tower, raised to the stars (or at least to the ceiling).
And so he did. First he pulled down the shelves holding cards and books, and piled them up on the floor beneath the skylight. Then on went the chairs from behind the counter, followed by all the goods and crap in the shop - the kids' stuff, the sweets, the tins of food, all used to support and shore up the growing pyramid. Backwards and forwards he went, pushing and testing, removing and replacing, he worked until it stood taller than himself.
The ascent was harder than it looked. He knew where he wanted to go, spotted his footholds before he moved just like a professional climber, but his feet and hands wouldn't go where they should.
Curse those drink and downers.
But bruised, scraped and swearing he reached the top, and made that last chemical-fuelled desperado leap of faith to the lip of the skylight, and pulled himself through into the cold pre-dawn half light. The birds were singing; how long had he been there?
A creak and a resounding crash heralded the demise of the ramshackle pyramid.
He peered back down at the wreckage. It looked like some natural disaster. Nothing was in its original place, no piece of wood was unbroken, no length of plastic unbent. Books had been torn, food packets opened and half eaten and sweets strewn to the four corners.
And underneath one of the collapsed shelves was the binliner filled with cigarettes, spilling its guts out into the debris.
Bollocks, he thought. He'd forgotten the booty.
A big fuck-off curse on those drink and downers.
The morning was here.
It had all worn off.
Home to bed and never again.
Until the next time.