Date: January 26, 2012
Target: Casper Fry, a restaurant named after and operated by friendly ghosts.
Objective: a meatsterful heist of exquisite flat iron steak.
Dressed in black, cloaked by the darkness of Spokane alleyways, and aided by my inherent ninja prowess; I surveyed my prey. The night was freezing and while I patiently waited for the ideal moment I began to feel hypothermeata creeping into my extremities. The cold was biting, but my focus was unscathed. With the dinner rush intensifying I could sense the momeat for action approaching. At 7:47 a party of four gents was seated near the door, three of the men donned facial hair and all of them possessed portly figures; clear signs of potential steakholders. As they ordered, I read lips.
Bingo!
Two confirmed orders of steak, all my ducks (or should I say cows?) were in a row. As the waiter emerged from the kitchen transporting precious cargo, I crept across the street and up to the doorway. Delectable dinners were greeting the diners' table when the first smoke bomb went off. Pandemonium ensued. Amid disoriented shrieks I nabbed my prize and with a final smoke bomb I was off, leaving nothing but alarmed patrons and confused ghosts in my wake.
Ocean's Eleven are all chumps compared to me and below is the proof: One meatium rare flat iron steak complete with vegetable accompaniment.
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