All shovels must be destroyed

Two sets of clothes

So one can be burned after the action.

Knives will be broken off

Melted down and once again burned.

No trophies

Anything connecting us to the events

Will be placed in a locker at the city station

To which only I have the key.

I wear riding gloves

But surgical ones beneath.

We spin the sad story of a lost treasure

The simple tales are the most effective.

What child can resist your crocodile tears?

None do.

The wind screams across the moor

And the game begins.