Love is the key to your heart.
This is the key to your front door.
It's lovely.
— Not Your Keychain
During COVID lockdowns, I had time to come up with the perfect plan. I'd rob men of their Bitcoin without hacking, because fuck if I knew anything about that. I'd do it old school, every step of the way.
Here's how:
I'd buy a house and a hot tub. Put the hot tub in the garage.
I'd find a partner.
She's the girl. I'm a ghost.
I'd find guys who own Bitcoin. Marks.
She'd talk the mark into a date in the hot tub.
They'd get undressed in the house, then go to the hot tub. That means the mark's pants would be in the house while they'd be in the garage.
I'd go through the mark's pants to get his keys and wallet. I'd take a picture of his driver's license and make a copy of his keys.
The mark wouldn't know it happened.
His driver's license would give me his address. His keys would get me into his home without breaking in.
I'd search for the paper copy of his Bitcoin seed words. Every Bitcoiner has one.
I'd snap a picture of it and go. I'd take nothing and leave no trace.
Here's why the plan was perfect:
I'd never meet the mark.
My partner would never go to the mark's home.
The mark's home would show no signs I'd been there.
I wouldn't use the mark's seed words to steal his Bitcoin until weeks or even months later, so the mark would never link the theft of his Bitcoin to the night he went on a date with some girl from a coffee shop or bar. He'd think he got hacked online.
The mark wouldn't even know I exist.
I'd be a ghost!
But I needed a partner.
More specifically, I needed a partner who was in such a bad situation they'd be willing to do this for a chance to escape the hell they were in. And I knew where to find somebody like that.
Broadway.
They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. I don't know who the fuck they are, but they've never been to Broadway Avenue in Gary, Indiana.
Broadway is a dark and depressing place, even during the daytime, but it's so much worse at night. Especially on a cold winter night.
I spent many nights wandering along Broadway, watching the ladies at work in the shadows. Just watching.
One girl kept approaching cars and turning away. I watched her lean in the window of an old, beat-up, gray Cadillac. I could tell she wasn't sure about what she was doing. Suddenly, her head got pulled in. She decked the guy and got shoved back out, sending her reeling across the sidewalk.
She hit the ground hard and tried to hide her tears as she picked herself up, to walk away in disgust.
I know that look.
I followed her into The Lakeside Saloon, a shitty bar, befitting a shitty situation in a shitty town on a shitty night.
She ordered a drink. Whiskey. Neat. The way she nursed it said it was a luxury she couldn't afford.
I waited for her to finish it before I made my move. As she stared at the empty glass, not wanting to put it down, I made eye contact with the bartender and waved him over.
"Tell my sister her next one's on me."
"Your sister?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, I didn't know."
Neither did she, but as she raised an eyebrow, I knew she took the bait.