It was a dark and stormy night. Or would have been if the weatherman who'd ordered it had been half as smart as his own shiny shoes. In Weasel's experience, the more expensive the footwear, the less useful the advice. Weasel prided himself on this deduction.
It was dark at least. Dark enough to cloak the men in a garment of blackest night, safe from prying eyes that lurk in the gloom.
Or would have been if they hadn't been using a torch.
“Hey, hold it up. I don't need my feet lit.”
“Sorry, Weasel.”
Dog dutifully raised the white circle of light and Weasel set his lock picks back in motion.
Scrape…scrape…scrape…
The padlock was rust-coated, but had obviously been designed to withstand invading Vikings. The chain securing the gate could have held back a pair of woolly mammoths.
“I still don't understand why we don't just knock,” said Dog, the light drooping as he did so. Dog wasn't very good at multi-tasking.
One of Weasel's picks slipped, causing him to mutter a few favourite curses.
“Hold the light up,” he snapped. “And it's called subtlety, for your information.”
“But...” Dog scratched his neck with the remains of chewed-off nails. “My mum always says it's better to kiss.”
Weasel drew out his lock-picks and gave the stubborn lump of iron a twisted scowl.
“Well,” he said. “If you think your breath alone is gonna melt through the...” He paused. “Actually, that might be worth a shot!”
“No,” said Dog. “I mean K-I-S-S. Keep It... Stupidly... Simple...”
“We are,” said Weasel, reapplying the lock-picks. “What could be simpler than one van, two guys and an abandoned warehouse of prime salvage?”
“I brought my door-knocker,” commented Dog.
“You always do,” said Weasel. “Now hold the damn light up.”
“And my mum says you shouldn't steal,” said Dog reproachfully.
Weasel spat on the lock. “Your mum says a lot of things.” He worked one of the picks a little further before adding, under his breath, “Especially with the curtains drawn.”
“I like my mum,” said Dog, a dopey grin covering his face.
“Yeah,” said Weasel. “She's a popular lady.”
He gave on of the lock-picks a sharp twist. There was a hopeful creak, followed by a decisive snap. Weasel pulled out the broken end.
“Oh for the love of...” He gave the gate a kick. “Fine! We'll do it your way.”
The two men walked back up to the van, Weasel in stubborn silence, Dog whistling a nursery rhyme just out of tune.
“Do you have to do that?” asked Weasel as he opened up the van.
“Do what?” asked Dog.
“Forget it.”
He let Dog lift out the black case. Weasel had many talents, but muscle had never been one of them. As Dog opened up the case, Weasel took out an oil-streaked handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“Thought they said it was gonna storm tonight,” he said. “Bloody weathermen.”
Dog didn't reply for a moment, then a light seemed to come on.
“Weasel,” he said, his squashed face fighting a smile.“Knock knock.”
Weasel rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of... Who's there?”
“Big.”
“Big who?”
Dog straightened up, heaving the rocket-launcher onto his shoulder.
“Big-badda-BOOM!”