The Heist Connoisseur

I exited the World of Coca-Cola at 2:19 p.m. No sweat, no fear. After all, I've stolen from the greatest museums in the world.

That said, my pocket did feel heavier—the one with my phone, which contained a picture of the original Coca-Cola secret formula. Only two senior executives know the formula entirely at any given time. It's that secret. Well, now there are three.

I crossed Baker Street onto Centennial Olympic Park. I scanned without appearing to scan and noticed two men in black suits. I increased my pace without drawing attention to myself. Could they be from the museum? Surely not. I would have noticed.

Over the last six weeks, I've patiently cased the famous tourist trap, working as an electrician, my original calling, before becoming the world's most notorious burglar. I prefer Heist Connoisseur, but the FBI won't use it. To them, I'm just an ordinary thief. It's so hard to build one's brand.

I stopped and sat on a park bench. The suits looked uncomfortable with my sudden inaction. They slowed but maintained their direction. They were following me. My photographic memory flipped through the museum's security personnel, and those two were not there.

I got up and walked to them. We were surrounded by kids playing, lovers holding hands, and walkers listening to mumbled headphones. These two won't make a scene. I, on the other hand, will. It was easier to disappear in chaos.

"I love pizza on mountain roads if it's December," I said, looking in the opposite direction of the startled pair.

"What?" One of the suits said.

"Come on. You must give the counter-response, or I'm out of here."

They both squirmed. I couldn't have shocked them more had I stripped down to my tighty-whities and danced.

"We don't know what you're talking about." They attempted to move past me, but I intercepted them.

"Alright, enough games. Why are you following me?"

They looked around as if trying to find the hidden Candid Camera. "Face recognition. We've been sent to verify."

"Me? Which notorious criminal do I look like?"

"Don Bard."

"The Heist Connoisseur?"

They tensed up. I tipped my hand. Only the FBI and I know that moniker, even if they pretend they don't.

The suits drew their guns. I had already seen two police officers standing near a hot dog cart only a stone's throw from us. I shouted "gun" and pointed at the two suits. The police officers reacted quickly.

"Put the weapons down!" They shouted with their guns aimed at the men in black.

The neckties dropped their guns and raised their hands. In the confusion, I disappeared among several walkers running from the chaos. I never looked back, but I overheard the two suits yelling, "We're FBI!"

I must be slipping. I know better than to allow a big-brother camera to get a full view of my face. Perhaps I'm getting too old for this. It may be time to retire. They say you should retire at the pinnacle of your career. Is there any higher pinnacle than the Coke formula?

The suits and cops should have made peace by now. I doubled back and sat on a bench, never leaving the park. The best place to hide is where you begin - no one ever thinks to look where they lost you.

Now that I could sit peacefully, it was time to get the Nerd working to sell this picture.

"I've got the pic."

The Nerd texted back, "On it."

How much is this adventure worth? Coke's retained earnings are a little shy of seventy-five billion. Imagine seventy-five billion. Now imagine one hundred million. Both are impossible for the average Joe to wrap his brain around. But I've done the math: One hundred million is only 0.133 percent of Coke's available cash—not even one percent. 

My phone vibrated, "Coke says they won't pay."

"Not surprised. Move on to other buyers."

It's a dangerous game Coke is playing. Someone might buy it. If no one does, I'll fling the formula over the web. Nomads in the Arabian Peninsula will make Coke in their tents.

Ten minutes later, "Musk backed out. Pepsi still on the fence."

I once considered stealing the Mona Lisa. Its estimated value is one billion dollars. Coke could buy seventy-five Mona Lisas! But it won't toss me a measly one hundred million.

"Pepsi got cold feet. Afraid of repercussions. Plan C?"

"Yes."

That took me aback. I have enough plans to go through the alphabet twice, but I believed Pepsi would buy it, if for no other reason than to gift it back to Coke as a goodwill gesture. Imagine the free advertising? And on top of that, Pepsi would be seen as the biggest-hearted corporation of all time.

"Apple wants it. Says they're going to make it better," the Nerd texted.

I have my standards—no changing what has worked.

"No. Go to plan D."

What's wrong with that fruity company? And what's up with the bite out of the apple? Is it Eve's apple - the one that caused the fall of man? Now that I think about it, that is a good logo for them.

I put down the phone and took in the beauty: trees rustling, squirrels nibbling, birds singing. Of course, cars honking, people shouting, runners thudding, and sirens blaring accompanied the otherwise tranquil symphony.

Buzz, "TikTok made an offer."

"I may be a thief, but I'm a patriotic thief. No!"

I was beginning to believe I'd have to follow through on my threat to release the formula on the web. Then my eyes read the text I was hoping to see.

"Coke called back. Says they will pay."

I remained unaffected on the outside, but fireworks went off inside. I was about to score my largest heist. Who knew a soft drink formula would bring in more than crown jewels, famous diamonds, and priceless works of art combined? Well, me, but I hate to toot my own horn.

"Send the pic. No copy. They will know," the Nerd texted.

My hand was shaking a bit. I pushed send.

"Oops!"

It's been over six months since my "Oops." Since then, the three who knew the formula have grown to over eight billion. Coke attempted a campaign to impugn the release as a hoax. However, it failed after people started to taste the formula's results.

I left Atlanta for a mountainous area where there are no big-brother cameras. My piddly few million will have to suffice for my retired years. How could I continue heisting after such a bumbling mistake? I have to face it. I'm no longer fit to be the Heist Connoisseur.