Vanish

The true success of a heist, robbery, or burglary is not the mere acquisition of coveted items, but in the grandeur and cunning of the escape. On too many occasions aspiring thieves have attained unparalleled heights of brilliance in the arts of criminality only to be dashed to petty insignificance by the inelegance and ineptitude of their efforts at elusion. Dear friends, the glory of an accomplished thief lies in an intrinsic and superlative eschewal of all entities and instruments associated with the law, but also an inherent aptitude at making oneself invisible to their efforts to mark you for the gallows.

After leaving the Church of Notre Dame (a necropolis of commedia strewn behind our vanishing corps) our escape was performed with the ease of a warm knife through the body of a Mothais sur Feuille fromage, creamy and delicious.

How one wishes to be an insect aviate in the confines of that canvas tent when this cortege of clowns chronicle their decimation at the hands of the Infantry. What adjectives and adverbs will they service to profit the precise elucidation of their dire circumstances? One shall never know. Alas, the bittersweet pangs of artistry: that the reception of your work must be quite profoundly inconsequential to your continuation.

Our escape required little more than venturing back into the throng of the multitudes. The manic crowd salivating their titillated expectorations of exuberance for the puerile array of Le Cirque de L'Athee paid little heed to a filthy collection of legionnaires. The music from the big top still echoing its repugnant melodies through all quarters of Rocamadour, and yet, while the music remains loathsome in composition and structure, I must imagine that it served as a deafening distraction from the sounds of our sacriligious altercation, and thus, blessed be thy name.

I had placed the Black Madonna in the confines of my Legionnaire's anorak, sheltered from the squalid paws of the masses. We sauntered with contumelious bravado through the Plateau de St. Michel, past the adoring wide-eyed gallery, past the ensemble of acrobats and contortionists, past the zoological cornucopia of exotic beasts, and past the Mother Superior who, being fanned profusely by her tumbling entourage, had apparently succumbed to enervation by the sight of the circus strong man's generous protuberance emanating from the shallows of his loin cloth. As we passed by Monsieur Rameau allowed himself a risky but shrewd quip in her direction.

He stated with matter of fact innocence referencing the Strong Man (who was now approaching the Mother Superior with an apologetic demeanor): "Why don't you allow him to be a member in your congregation? Or are you not in the habit of permitting such girth in your nave and quire?"

Brilliant, Etienne, quite simply.

The heavy breathing that had been emerging from the frail body of this abbess suddenly halted with unequivocal recognition, and she turned to face Etienne who bore the smile of a beatific seraph blessed with bearing the burden of the Virgin Mary to the Gates of heaven. I approached Monsieur Rameau's shoulder, echoing the sentiments of his euphoric blitheness, and held up the sculpture of the Black Madonna.

If looks could annihilate families, we'd all be orphans this evening, for the Mother Superior blanched with all the ferocity of that jealous God so indelibly etched in that consecrated opuscule of her hallowed home.

"Only fair Madame, you stole his toes, we steal your feet" I said with expectant anticipation of uncontrollable guffawing from the ranks of the Infantry.

As I turned and glanced at our band of thieves, I was greeted with blank stares and perplexed contemplations. "She blew his foot off you ignorant dullards, and we stole the very ground she stands on, without this [raising the Black Madonna] she has no support for her sanctimonious babble, her foundations shall crumble" I screamed with impetuous wrath.

The previously mentioned ease with which we escaped Rocamadour was in fact, quite unabashedly, once again, a lie. Raising the Black Madonna for all to see and screaming with unbridled passion, would grant one a degree of attention in most circles; in Rocamadour, where said artifact is the most beloved prize of the entire region, I was a veritable matinee idol, although in this case designated for death, rather than adoration.

Not only did we attract the attention of the townspeople, the rest of the nuns, and the authorities, but the entire troupe of Le Cirque de L'Athee. After all their whole purpose for being in this godforsaken region of the world was to acquire the riches accompanied with ownership of the Black Madonna, so they set their sights upon us and charged at our humble few, encouraging the rest of the town to display no semblance of mercy to the frailty of human bone.

So we ran, and kept running. Thibault was burdened with the onus of carrying Etienne after the first few hundred metres, as Monsieur Rameau's maimed foot barely allowed him ordinary walking abilities, let alone fleetness of gait. Monsieur Riesling, being the faster runner, is probably in Paris by now; we'll attempt to find him tomorrow. Monsieur D'Alsace, once we were clear of the immediate threats of the scourge of Rocamadour fell asleep in mid stride into utter comatose unconsciousness, and deemed in slumbering insubordination that we would rest fairly close to our initial woodland asylum tonight. All of this in spite of my screaming in his ear that I'd have him shot for mutiny.

So we rest, for mere moments. For the tears of Rocamadour are swathed in fury and we must vanish far from the hatred and loathing of Rocamadour. To the Pyrenees, my friends, the mountain hideout of all brigands and cutthroats.

Now children, our infamy begins.