The Collector

Simple.

I was expecting simple. The old man alone in his country home filled with a stunning art collection.

One old man, one job.

Sure, he had security but it was easy, cameras, dogs, window sensors. It was our fourth job together but we worked so smoothly, nothing could go wrong.

The Rottweilers were sedated, drooling all over a rug that cost several thousand dollars. The old man was at dinner, as he was every Friday night.

“What did you say this guy collects?” Ravi asked as we stared at the massive safe door.

“Just art. There’s a million articles about him, that’s how I heard about him.”

“There’s gotta be a big room back there,” Monica added. “Ravi can you handle the door?”

Ravi shot her an unimpressed look and got to work. Eventually the latch clicked and gave way.

“Guys,” Ravi’s voice trembled. “He’s not an art collector.”

We cautiously stepped into the gigantic room to behold a wall of skulls, perfectly in tact and grinning at us.

“Ew,” Monica gasped.

We heard a slight chuckle as we turned just in time to see the Old Man closing the door to the safe, adding us to his collection.