Bob wasn't your typical hardened criminal. He wasn't cunning, he wasn't stealthy, and he wasn't particularly good at… well, anything criminal. He mostly spent his time circling the drain of the justice system, constantly in and out of jails and prisons. But Bob had a heart, a soft one at that. He wouldn't hurt a fly… except maybe when it was buzzing around his head.
One day, a tantalizing rumor reached Bob's ears. A tale of a peculiar homeowner, a recluse who hoarded cash instead of trusting banks. This, of course, sent a wave of excitement (and a little greed) through Bob. It was his chance to finally score big, to escape the cycle of petty crimes and finally live a life of luxury. The only problem? This homeowner was apparently "crazy."
Bob, ever the cautious (albeit terrible) burglar, had one rule he never broke: no weapons. It wasn't that he was a pacifist, it was more that he was terrified of hurting someone or, God forbid, getting caught red-handed.
So, armed with his trusty screwdriver and a knapsack he’d used for a previous, less-than-successful grocery store heist, Bob set off for the infamous home.
The drive was unnerving. The house, a skeletal structure shrouded in a dilapidated chain link fence, was straight out of a horror movie.
"This can't be real," Bob muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
He parked right in front of the crumbling porch, his heart pounding like a drum solo. The sight of the overgrown weeds and the broken gate made him shiver. A dog, a monstrous, rabid canine, was surely lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
Bob swallowed, ignoring the knot of dread in his stomach. He had to do this.
As he hesitantly approached the fence, a groan of rusty metal followed the gate as it collapsed with a dramatic crash.
"You alright, buddy?"
Two giggling boys, perched on bikes across the street, were watching him with amusement. Bob, flustered, tried to look menacing, but his efforts were met with more laughter.
"Go away," he growled, his voice cracking.
The boys, instead of dispersing, moved closer. "This is going to be good," one of them chirped, his eyes glued to Bob.
The laughter echoed in the eerie silence, adding to Bob's growing paranoia. He felt his legs turn to jelly, but he had come too far to turn back.
Ignoring the taunts, Bob found himself staring at the front door, the only access point to this house of horrors. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, the stench of decay and something... feline… filling his nostrils.
The house was a bizarre cat-lover's paradise, with portraits of felines adorning every wall
and cat statues perched on every surface. The sheer number of them made Bob’s skin crawl.
A thump from upstairs broke the silence. Bob, ignoring the unsettling sound, pressed on, his mind replaying the story of the "crazy" homeowner. He imagined a crazed, knife-wielding cat lady, her eyes gleaming with madness.
He started cautiously towards the stairs, the thump echoing again, closer this time. Suddenly, a loud click, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked, froze him in his tracks.
Outside, the two boys, still giggling, were watching the house. A couple of police cars arrived, officers slowly stepping out and settling onto the hoods, sipping coffee and munching donuts.
“Are they gonna go in?” one of the boys asked, pointing towards the house.
The officers burst into laughter. “Nah, he’ll be comin’ out any minute,” one of them said, his voice thick with amusement.
Bob, paralyzed by fear, stood frozen on the stairs, his eyes widening as a frail, ninety year old woman, clutching a shotgun, emerged from the shadows.
She looked at him, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Then, she smiled, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Oh dear, I am so sorry deary. I forgot to load it... But no worries, I have some friends who really want to meet you."
With that, she simply said, "Get him!"
And then it happened. Hundreds of cats, of all shapes and sizes, came running from every corner of the house, an army of furry fiends converging on a terrified Bob.
He let out a scream that echoed through the house, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror.
The police heard it, and their laughter died down. "Well, time to go to work, I guess," one officer said, opening the backseat door of his patrol car.
The boys, their laughter turning to delighted screams, pointed at Bob who was now crashing through the front door, scrambling desperately towards the car. It was a scene straight out of a slapstick comedy.
Bob, a human projectile, landed smack-dab in the backseat, just as the officer slammed the door shut.
He caught a glimpse of the old lady, her shotgun pointed at the sky, flanked by a sea of cats.
As they drove away, he heard the officer say, “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“You boys be careful out there,” the old lady replied with a wink, her voice a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
Bob, curled up in the backseat, was sobbing uncontrollably, his babbling incoherent.
The story of Bob "The Burglar" was far from over. He had stumbled into a world of eccentric characters and unexpected perils, a world where a "crazy" old lady and her army of cats were not to be trifled with.
And the adventure had just begun.
(To be continued...)
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