American Beauty, American Psycho

American Psycho

It was set, and Matt was stunned. "For a guy with American education, you're pretty smart." Allen had planned out a whole break-in plan, and they were putting it into action.
"Nah, I'm not that smart. It was pretty easy, actually," Allen muttered from a bush outside the fence. "Just wait till the guards do their switch off, when we have 30 seconds of peace, then crawl in through the bars. For a White House, the fence is kinda shitty. I'll get us inside. Then, after the guards are patrolling the halls, slip down to the basement and enter the ceiling. After that, I'll go to the bedroom to loot the owner, and you sneak through the walls and listen for guards." Allen put a cheap, worn-down walkie talkie on his jacket collar. "Their boots make a distinct sound, even when they're tryna be quiet. Then, when you can't hear a thing, slide out quietly and survey the room. Be slow, we've got all night." Matt was still stunned.
"Uh....right....well, we'll be in then," Matt mumbled, slipping through the bars of the fence as the guards disappeared around the back of the house. Allen followed close behind him, readying his lockpick tools. They paused when they got to the door, though, as they weren't planning on it being an electronically locked door; the keypad sat on the wall, looming, almost mocking them. "What now, smart guy?"
"Shut up. Watch for guards," Allen hissed, then slid a small bag of white powder out of his pocket.
"Is that cocaine?!" Matt almost yelled, but Allen thumped him on the shoulder to keep him quiet.
"Yes," he replied, "I was gonna take it to the club tonight, but now it's got a more important use than getting me some extra cash." Allen poured some of it into his palm, held it up to the keypad, and blew softly. The powder coated the keypad, except for four keys, that sported faded out fingerprints. Matt stared in silence.
"Genius," he grumbled at Allen, and Allen smirked back at him.
"There's only a few different combinations to try, now that we know the four numbers. If we're lucky, it's something easy like...four, three, two, one," Allen whispered, and put that in just to try it. To the brothers' surprise, the doors swung open. "HOW CAN ANY HOUSE OWNER BE THAT STUPID?!" Allen whisper-yelled, but didn't want to complain. This was exactly what they needed. The boys cleaned their boots, and snuck inside. Allen knew the White House like the back of his hand; that's what happens when you're a country (or a 2p for one). "Basement's this way. Don't touch anything, or I'll kill you before the guards do. The looting comes after we know we're safe."
"How do you know this much about robbing someone?" Matt asked, but didn't even need to hear an answer. It was Allen, after all.
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Their plan worked. Matt was inside the walls, slowly making his way around the house. Allen, on the other hand, was quietly moving through the ceiling to Alfred's room. Every so often, he'd carefully, quietly, remove a ceiling tile and check where he was. He crept along the inside of the ceiling with extreme caution; although girls loved the bad boys, another warrant for his arrest wasn't what he needed at the moment.
He carefully removed a tile, and it happened to be the one right above a sleeping Alfred. "Matt, I found the bedroom. I'll loot around for a bit then tell you what I'm doing after." He shut the volume for his walkie-talkie off and made his way across the ceiling to the bookshelf. He watched his movements as he climbed down it, and set his feet on the floor toes-first. "Let's see what we got here." He mumbled to himself, and slunk across the room. His eyes were sparkling with eager, malicious intentions. "Rich asshole, needs to be taught a little lesson—"
He stopped, and his breath caught in his throat. "Jesus, he's good lookin'," Allen breathed through clenched teeth. But before he could do anything else, the blond boy in the bed began to stir.