8:34 am. The purr of the engine, his palms sweaty as they squeaked against the smooth leather of the steering wheel. The sharp creak of the seat under him as he gripped tighter and tighter in the hot car.
Jim Feeney dimly recalled the words in that hazy back room.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” Tommy had said. “It’s all taken care of. We’ll be in and out in under five minutes. The cops won’t be anywhere nearby. We’ll be a figment of their imagination by the time they show up.”
They entered the bank at 8:30 am. The security guard was old and stupid—Marco had him out before he even knew what hit him. They shot guns at the ceiling—he could still see the white dust of plaster falling on them like indoor snow, turning their hair dusty and gray.
They wore cheap Halloween masks, and their clothes were so baggy their gender was anyone’s guess.
They made a big show of getting everyone down on the floor, and Jim stayed in the front while the other guys forced the bank manager to give them the vault keys.
It was all taken care of.
He sat behind the wheel of the getaway car, chest heaving. His eyes travelled down to his middle. He watched blood weep onto his lap and the floor like red tears.
Back in middle school, he and his friends snuck fresh fruit in and plugged up every toilet, thinking how hilarious it would be when someone entered a stall and found bananas or apples there. Thrillseekers Anonymous. They hadn’t expected someone to try flushing some and flood the first floor.
Like the guys today.
They hadn’t thought about the possibility a customer might have a gun.
Might try and play the hero.
They hadn’t even stolen anything. It was a game.
They just wanted to see what it was like to taste criminal adrenaline at 8:30 in the morning.
At 8:42, Jim Feeney was dead.
This entry meets the requirements for TWO challenges this week.
Trifecta, Week Nine, for the third definition of the word:
weep transitive verb
1: to express deep sorrow for usually by shedding tears
2: to pour forth (tears) from the eyes
AND Indie Ink:
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Sunshine challenged me with “You have just robbed a bank and are in the getaway car. What happens next?” and I challenged Kurt with “’You’re made of my rib, oh baby, you’re made of my sin…’ ~Jon Crosby of VAST”.
I greatly enjoyed getting away from the world of Ebony for a bit, and proving to myself that yes, I can write other things that are not fantasy.