The bank heist was not going as planned.
Rodrigo stepped over the body once more, trying to see it in a different light. There were very few lights to see by.
“I still don’t understand,” he said, his thick Spanish accent faltering in the moment. “How did he do this?”
“You said to put pantyhose over our heads, right?” said Biff, sitting in the corner, looking more than a little sheepish. “He didn’t wanna be seen buyin’ pantyhose. Girly stuff. He’s a butch guy, so…”
“He put a sock over his face.”
“A left one, yeah.”
Rodrigo checked his watch, squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the reality-bending stupidity of the world around him. Sadly, the world around him was filled with mouth-breathing asthmatic imbeciles.
“And so then—”
“So then he starts itchin’, right? And we look at the package, and sees it says they’re polyester, and he says all like ‘Oh no, I’m allergic to polyester!’”
“I see,” said Rodrigo.
“And so by the time we figures this all out, his face is so swollen, we can’t pull the sock off no more.”
“Naturally.”
“And so he gets his knife and he tries to cut the sock off. Which if you ask me was not a bad idea. I mean, all things considered. Not a bad idea, right?”
Rodrigo said nothing. Biff waited expectantly, blinking exactly five times every ten seconds. Coupled with the mouth-breathing, it was enough to make you want to stab your own jugular with a knife. Twice.
“We’re late,” said Rodrigo. “The guards will change shifts in ten minutes. Can you do this alone, or do we need to abort?”
Biff looked down at his friend, the pool of blood creeping ever outward.
“Who gets his cut?” he asked.
“I do.”
“But—”
“I will have to dispose of the body, cover up loose ends, and all the risks associated therewith. That is worth at least as much as his cut.”
“But his wife—”
“Should be glad he only killed himself. I can just imagine he was the kind of person to light a match in a gas leak.” Rodrigo pulled on his ski mask, checked his guns, and headed for the exit. “Now come on! We only have nine minutes before—”
There was a knock at the door.
Neither man spoke for a moment. Rodrigo turned slowly, motioned for Biff to stay quiet. He kept his gun ready, slithered to the side of the door, listening.
Another knock.
“Hello?” called a voice from the hall. “Did somebody call 911?”
Rodrigo glared at Biff, whose expression changed to relief as his brain churned a memory to the front. He motioned to himself, as if to say ‘I called 911. That was me!’
“Hello?” asked the voice outside. “Are you okay in there?”
Rodrigo inhaled slowly, then switched his Spanish for Bronx. “It’s okay!” he called. “Sorry for wastin’ yer time! False alarm!”
“Yeah, he’s dead already!” added Biff loudly. “Thanks for coming, though!”
This topic tag was bought by a.m. harte using her points (check the console! you can do it too!) The topic was, of course, “left socks.” I know, right?
