The Teller
I've always been a modest man. Hardworking, enterprising I think would best be said. Not very bright, in the flashy sort of haberdashery brass button way, but I have as you might conclude, commonsense.
Not excelling in school beyond third-class honours (meaning 50% competency), I decided it a safe bet to become a clerk at the town bank. Yes, my uncle was himself a Financial Accountant, and his father (my grandfather) before him, Senior Analyst, and so practicality of nephewism would save family grace, if you will.
Now, as further precaution, I took the position very early, straightaway out of academia. Having no prospects of marriage or children, I was confident that my upkeep would be minimal. Greed is a great evil, and like I said, I do believe in temperance.
The plan hatched itself.
You see, we might blame my superstitious great gram. She held that if you pass up small change, then big luck will pass you by as well. Therefore, she would stoop down, despite arthritic knees and hips, and pinch lost coins from the street, no matter the denomination. She would huff on the front, and on the back, to ward off resident evil, and place whatnot shiny exorcised piece into her apron pocket.
Well, as it happened, I also had an apron as part of my clerical outfit. It had as a bonus attribute, a zippered pocket low in the front just below counter level, where I could easily slip a bloodless hand in to warm it, on those chill November days when the Chief Executive Officer was squeezing us for extra savings.
I soon put two and two together, and thought to me self, why not join the pecuniary trend? You've no doubt seen that little cast iron bin, where patrons toss in the ubiquitous penny. Or take one, if a difference need to be made up for inadvertent shortchange. Well, having earned legitimately my 50% competency, I knew that a penny is not a penny equivalent.
Some cents have greater copper content, and it's the copper that holds inherent value. To be precise 1.5 cents to the cent if traded in and smelt.
My keen myopic eye quickly learned to discern the purer variants from earlier mint. And these would go as savings, set aside, into my apron pocket. Nobody missed a penny here, a penny there, and most were in fact eager to drop in those worthless new mints into the little cast iron receptacle. For my part, I was diligent. I bided my years. Watched. Saved. Collected. Then traded in, at the point of my retirement.
I didn't make a killing. Nor wield a noisy gun. I didn't make a demand by letter, or crack the safe code, nor build an explosive tunnel, and loot a bundle. I'm a god-fearing mortal. I hid my talents, one by one, but only for a little while. My two cents:
"There are many ways to rob a bank."
11.03.2023
FFF#4 challenge: Bank Robbery @ChrisSadhill
“They Call Me Blast”
I had a name, they called me “Blast,” and just a few moments ago, I was an explosive expert. So here I lay, a severed head detached, my body a mangled mess of bone and flesh lying just a few feet from me. I watched as the blood pooled out onto the cold, white tile floor. The world before me twisted and swirled as an abstract painting of violence and despair. My comrades in crime continued with their desperate struggle against time and fate.
A grizzled Jack yelled across the room at Dom, “Open the damn vault door.” Dom was a gruff ex-soldier, he used all his strength, to pry the vault open. Sweat was streaming down his face and his muscles were betraying his mounting desperation. The hinges of the vault groaned, and the door creaked, revealing a paradise of untold riches.
My severed head rolled across the floor as Dom’s boot kicked me aside. My head has now become just another mere obstacle to their fortune. I watched as my fellow mates stepped over me without a second thought, my once former partners-in-crime blinded by greed. In their minds, I had already been forgotten, just a footnote in their criminal history.
My detached perspective allowed me to see the world in a different light, even in the flashes of my demise. It was as if the universe had granted me a final chance to witness the irony of my situation.
It was then, that the world outside the bank exploded into chaos as the law descended upon us. Blue and red lights danced across the walls, and the voices of determined officers grew louder. I watched on as my former allies, cornered and desperate, made their last stand. Guns blazed, and bullets whizzed through the air, as the harsh sirens competed with the deafening echo of gunfire.
The tide of fate had turned, my comrades had fallen, their lifeless bodies crumpling like discarded puppets. The dream of wealth and fortunes that had driven us to this point was extinguished by a blaze of justice.
As the smoke cleared and the echoes of violence subsided, Only the figures in blue were left standing, they had risen from the shadows of the street to protect the city's peace, and I had the front-row seat. I watched it all from my immobile vantage point, my head lying beside a pile of riches. Riches that could never be mine. I had once been an expert in explosives, and now I was a mere spectator of the end of a criminal folly.
In the end, the bank's fortune remained untouched, and my fate, sealed by my hand, was a grim reminder of the price one pays for dancing with the explosive forces of the world.
“Stick ’em Up!”
Nothing had gone right for her. Behind on her rent, she was unemployed and without the car that had been repossessed. She was in collections. But none of that mattered.
She wanted a child.
Yet, all of her relationships had devolved into screaming matches and slammed doors. She knew it was her fault, with her constant despair and Debbie Downer observations, her temper tantrums, and her micromanaging. How could she have a child without the involvement of some man?
In vitro fertilization!
Her sister had done it, but she had spent a fortune. Now the pressure was on, with her sister having a baby. Yet, she couldn't afford what it cost to fulfill her pregnancy plans since the conventional way was beyond her reach. That costs money. Lots of money. Over $10,000 per cycle.
Where would she get the money? What if it took more than one cycle? More than three? Or four? She would only cry herself to sleep as she schemed unsuccessfully for ideas to get her hands on some cash.
Then she had a dream. She dreamed her problems were over. But could she actually rob a bank and make her dreams come true?
How hard could it be? You go in, wave a gun — unloaded was OK — and hand over the note. No more worries over money. No more angst over how to pay for in vitro fertilization. And if the first cycle didn't take, no more worries about how to pay for the next one. Or the next one.
She bought her gun. She wrote her note. She rehearsed her getaway, unfortunately, on foot. Still, she would be in and out so fast, just turning down an alley would befuddle anyone trying to tail her. Most bank robberies have a car for getaway, right? She would use this to her advantage.
The day came.
She changed her blonde hair to brunette with a wig. Simple. She wore a COVID mask as she walked to the bank. No one would find that unusual, even now, right?
She entered the bank. She looked around cautiously. No Security Guard! How could that be? Nevertheless, she took it as a sign that God was on her side. After all, she was going to give Him a brand new soul to love.
She approached the counter. She brandished the gun. The person behind the counter went white.
"Just do what I say, and no one gets hurt," she instructed her. She handed her the note. Obediently, the bank personnel scrambled to retrieve her loot for her. As instructed, they placed all the frozen vials in the cooler she had brought with her. It had wheels, so she could just roll it out, even with all of its extra weight.
She knew she was ovulating. Hell, the excitement of the robbery probably had spiked her hormones. As she escaped with many hundreds of men from whom to choose, she would begin her pregnancy journey tonight!
Brown Eyes
BANG!
I watched the faintest trail of smoke roll out of the end of my gun. Or rather, Jake’s gun. I had never held a gun in my life. Until that moment. The first time I did and I fired it.
It was louder than I thought it would be. That along with the shock of pulling the trigger, was making my head spin.
Everything around me felt slow and far away. Screams as if they were being thrown into a pillow, the cut out holes in my mask were taking my peripheral visión out of commission and all I could see was the gun in my shaking hand, and the body on the other end of it.
She was barely an adult. Her dark hair displayed around her head like a halo. Her skin was pale and decorated with freckles and a few blemishes around her jaw line. Her big brown eyes wide open, staring absently across the room.
In that moment I was confused, I didn’t know why she was on the ground. I remember she was talking to me, her hands up and reaching towards me, telling me to lower my gun. Reminding me that there were children here.
When she mentioned kids, she had me. I thought of the two I had at home, sound asleep, not even big enough to wipe themselves and the echos of kids crying became more apparent.
But I lowered my gun, so why was she on the ground?
I looked around her body and saw two feet away, a small hole in the ground. There was no telling where the bullet landed, but I had shot the ground.
Why did I shoot the ground?
“Hey!”
A hand gripped the fabric of my shirt and jerked me closer, “Get it together man. Don’t let a chick make you forget why you’re here.”
I looked over and saw Jake, looking back at me, anger fuming behind his mask. He let go of my shirt and pointed the gun back at the girl, who at this point had a lot of blood decorating the marble floor of the bank. Her dark hair mixed with the crimson pool and I suddenly felt my breakfast at the base of my throat.
“Wait-”
BANG
BANG
I flinched both times and the screams felt louder this time.
I looked around me and everyone who was on the ground had made themselves even smaller, pushing their faces further into the ground. Kids cried harder and all I could hear were my little ones.
My eyes landed back on the girl, her brown eyes still wide open. Two more holes adorned the front of her shirt, right below her sternum.
“Why?”
Jake looked at me with squinted eyes, “She was in the way. And you obviously need to get your priorities straight.”
He walked away and before I knew it, my gun raised, aimed at the back of his hand, and without hesitation this time, I pulled the trigger.
So My Sister Is a Fugitive, Or Not Really
Okay. So let's review. I, twenty-two years old, cripplingly broke and bitter went to the bank. Okay, normal. And why? No, I was not going to rob a bank Mar!
I had gotten a job and, was going to deposit my first paycheck safe and secure in my back pocket of skinny jeans.
There's some stupid backlog on today of all days. A Thursday at two in the afternoon. Lucky for me my boss was easygoing. Way too nice to deal with my sharp, salty tongue brimming with lovely sarcasm and barely concealed envy of his sleek desk and gorgeous wife and adorable kids all loving and smiley on his framed pics.
But none of that would really help me. Humanizing? Sure, okay. Of any importance to keep me alive in a savage, greedy, and completely spazzing soon-to-be bride's arms? No.
I'd barely been close enough to see the asshat who'd cut the line. And too in my own world to care, staring down with the clients today being execs I'd have to assume from such polished, fine looking suits, shined shoes, and Blackberries.
And then the Phaser appeared, raining down smoke bombs with a noxious paralytic.
In pure instinct I dropped like a sack same as everyone else.
Waited for one pair of boots to pass me by before I raised my head, arm, outward shielding my face to keep that fact covert. Yeah, my world is a comic book. And I had a fairly mundane, unexceptional power of being immune to poison.
What I hadn't expected, was for their getaway to have a bird's eye view of the place, helped along by a Feather mutation and his dominant power being X-Ray.
I had gone to the bank on Thursday morning. And never had cashed in my check since a ringleader wearing the honey blond curls and jutting, angular features of my sister Marilyn had scooped me up in her arms.
"I do apologize doll," she simpered, though her smile was too slick and knife-like at the edges. "Business and all. Busy, busy, oh you won't be harmed."
I'd not stopped glaring at her.
"Yeah I'm sure I won't Mars Bar," I huffed, past the rushing air current.
"I could drop you," she warned.
"And have Mom on your butt for the rest of eternity. Please," I sneered, "she may be blind to how prissy and moody you often get, but she is still a psychic user."
My first sign that I may have made a dumber than usual mistake.
The flash of confusion to this deeply personal and pertinent lore drop.
"You and-- me, don't get on do we?"
"Oh no, I'd say we get on just fine," I hummed. "I simply love, love, love how you always have to have the upper hand or make all your snide jabs at me. Lovingly dismissing me as a failure when I had to drop out-- of-- ?"
"Stop talking," she said, holding me close against her chest. "Don't. Look."