Bleeding burglars are far less messy than incompetent builders

MY bleeding burglar came. He bled. He scarpered. He began by pulling a sliding glass door off its runners, breaking the pane, although, to an untutored amateur, tossing a brick through the glass might have been simpler.

At that point, either a guillotine-sized shard came down on his arm and sliced it open, or he tried to step over a sharp edge and cut his nethers.

Either way, the window struck back. But the burglar continued to progress: blood-spatters like cowpats led from that first room, down the hall, around the corner and into the bathroom.