Snakes.

Peter the Great’s purple footstool awakens and shakes. The Ermitage Palace wonders what is happening.

Recently waxed corridors, only lit by dim unactinic lights. Maintenance and emptiness. Still canvases that watch over the unwatchable. Guards that look through late newspapers unworriedly. The silence of sleeping portraits, and the perfume of oil harden a hundred years back.

Immaculate gloves and impossible precise movements. The covered faces float in the once empty corridors, and accurate footsteps lead their owners next to the objectives. Rolled up canvases. Neat job. Escape.

Inhibition of systems.

The Prado, Tate Gallery, Museum of Modern Art...The list is concise, and doesn’t admit alternatives. Fifteen portraits. No more. For the moment.

Several merchants, moved by strings which origin is unknown, they complete the operation, and they gather convases on a special transportation to an uncertain destination.

Smiles and congratulations. Bulky envelopes and banker’s orders to centraleuropean banks.

Hours later the absence is discovered. Authorities that talk and decide. The empty frames are replenished with loyal reproductions that were prepared beforehand.

Nothing come out to the world, which continues to visit museums, letting out exclamations of amazement while contemplating the works of art. They ignore that the majority of them have already been taken away, without being able to avoid it.

Champagne.

In a mansion of unheard of dimensions a sensitive and dark willpower takes a walk with his guests, sharing his extraordinary collection with them, that presently has fifteen new acquisitions.

Soon from all museums walls , there will only hang copies.