Ever since opening my first bank account with Bank of America I’ve fantasized about bursting through the lobby doors with an assault rifle, using the butt to break the security guard’s nose and screaming at the top of my lungs, “EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING GROUND!!”
Then of course I catch eyes with the beautiful twenty-three year old cashier with tan skin and green eyes. I don’t know it at the time, but I’m fulfilling one of her sexual fantasies. Her name is Bridget and from the first day she started working here the idea of being held up at gun point makes her panties gooey.
I’m talking about panty pudding.
The coochie cream that dries up crunchy in the crotch of women’s underwear and why dogs love chewing on them so much. It’s that pussy cream. You will never catch a dog chewing on a pair of men’s dirty ball buttered whitey tighties, are you joking? They want that fresh baked panty pudding. They want what we want.
Men are dogs.
We want to fuck everything that moves. Dried or not, we’ll use a dirty pair of panties to filter our coffee through. Bridget will write her phone number on a hundred dollar bill with a big fat red marker so I can’t miss it. Two weeks later we’re in the Bahamas drinking strawberry daiquiris. It’s been four hours since I hit that last and she’s still incapable of walking. She can only lay there in her beach chair repeating words like “wow” and wondering how the hell she ever made it this far in her life without me. Her crotch is numb, her mindset free. I feel good, but something is missing.
This is my daydream and in it I still got it (that and ten inch cock.)
As it turns out Airborne was with my idea. After six beers it was set: Airborne and I were going to father & son tag team a bank robbery. Oh, did I mention this fruitcake drinks gin and tonics? Good God. This kid desperately needed a make over before we did anything together. I took him to The Salvation Army to pick out a new look. We needed a pair of black combat boots, camouflage cargo pants, a matching G.I. war jacket circa 1968 and possibly a black Special Ops helmet complete with wrapped M-16 ammo. It would take an outfit this extreme to wash out the douche this kid is drenched in. I imagined myself wearing something similar to Harvey Keitel in the movie Reservoir Dogs - a black suit with a white undershirt, thin matching black tie and black sunglasses. I’d make Airborne shine my black shoes. Not out of arrogance, but because I think most males would enjoy shining their father’s shoes in preparation to commit a federal crime.
Next we needed guns, preferably high powered rifles. I wasn’t planning on killing anyone, but if Bridget hit the alarm button I was going to shoot that bitch in the tit. Living in Venice Beach it wasn’t very hard to get our hands on some guns. I knew a crack head who knew some people that knew some people. Seeing how I didn’t have any money I had to talk Airborne into trading the wheels on the BMW he was leasing for 2 semi-automatic rifles. The guns would have to be returned after we robbed the bank, but the dealers got to keep Airborne’s fancy rims and tires. For now his BMW was sitting on 4 of those tiny spare tire donuts. His car looked like it was on training wheels.
The bank we planned to rob was a Wells Fargo by the beach. Airborne wanted to stick up a Bank of America in the more ghetto area of Venice Beach, but I felt a robbery would be more expected in the hood. Nobody ever robs a bank by the beach - there are too many witnesses, a.k.a., white people. Banks in the ghetto are expecting to be fucked with sooner or later and everyone in the place is wearing a gun. Plus you know damn well there isn’t going to be any fine ass pussy working at a bank in the cut. Everyone employed at these kinds of locations are over 300 pounds and capable of surviving 5 or 6 gun shots. You’re better off robbing the place with a meatball sandwich,
“EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING GROUND OR THE MEATBALL GETS IT!”
Threaten to eat the sandwich right in front of them and they’ll gladly hand over whatever you want. That or scream a Twinkie truck just crashed into a gas liner carrying chocolate milk and the streets are flooded in chocolate milk soaked Twinkies. Tell them they look like footballs. That bank will be a ghost town in seconds. The bank Airborne and I planned to rob would take a little more finesse than that.
Whoever invented overdraft fees should be murdered or punished in a serious way. I’m serious; they should have their fuckin’ dicks or clits chopped off. Thirty dollar overdraft fees are bullshit. Nobody’s perfect. Do we really need to be financially flogged when we’ve already fucked up in the first place? I’m obviously broke, how is pushing me that much further in debt a solution? When a customer goes into the red on their bank account instead of a penalty fee someone from the bank should call you and read a beautiful poem or compliment the size of your penis. Anything but add to the problem. We’re hurting man; we need to forget about our financial woes - not dwell on the shit. Granted I haven’t had a bank account in over twenty years, but remember the overdraft fees. People who work in banks are horrible shitty human beings and today they would finally get what was coming.
A drunken angry old man and his faggy son - with guns!
Unfortunately the dealers who were supposed to give us the guns instead took the rims and never gave us shit in return. It’s not like we could go to the cops and complain so we were pretty much fucked. Airborne cried on my couch for what seemed like 3 hours. Our next plan was to hand over a note. I’ve read about people who have robbed banks with nothing more than a short memo instructing the teller to hand over the cash or suffer the consequences. The best parts being these consequences were usually bullshit. There’s never another guy in the bank with a bomb or a team of shooters outside waiting for the man with the note to return. It’s always an empty threat and this led me to a new idea. What if I walked up to the teller with the butt of a hammer sticking out of my jacked and handed over a note reading, “FILL THIS BAG WITH CASH OR I’M GOING TO CHOP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!”
For all she knows the wooden butt of the hammer is the butt of a massive battle axe. The kind of shit you see in the movie Gladiator. It’s not like she’s going to ask to see it. Hand over a memo like that and the bitch is going to be so terrified she’ll do anything you want. Plus I’ll dress the part. I’ll put on one of those Roman man dresses. If anyone asks I’ll explain how I’m in character for a play or a festival. I’ll even put on a little eyeliner to stamp the point home that I’m clearly out of my mind. I needed to get my hands on some kind of chest armor.
I’ll look like a straight killer.
No one in their right mind would risk the chance of having their head decapitated over some bullshit job at a teller window. It was perfect. If Bridget gives me any static, I’ll just pull the hammer out and be like, “Look bitch, gimmie the cash or I’m going to hammer your forehead in!!”
What woman is going to stand up to that? Please, she’s probably going to piss in her panties. As far as Airborne goes he can stand off in the distance and make sure the security guard doesn’t get cute. He can still wear his little army outfit, I don’t care. This plan was foolproof and even a tool bag such as Airborne couldn’t fuck it up. I relayed the course of action to my son and he of course thought it was brilliant. I am brilliant. In times like these I think I’m the smartest person in the world. The key to this plan is the right style of handwriting and rugged paper. A man who chops off people’s heads obviously didn’t pay attention in school, probably dropped out by the 5th grade and wouldn’t know how to print clearly. He sure as shit wouldn’t write in cursive. He doesn’t even know what the fuck cursive handwriting is.
Now for the paper.
It couldn’t be some pretty bleached white notebook paper with blue lines and red trim. This dude would write the note on the back of a beer label he ripped off the bottle before committing the crime. I needed to write my threatening message on the back of a used Olde English 40 ounce malt liquor label. That olde 8-ball! God damn! It was so perfect. I really am the smartest man in the world. The only question being: where the hell do you buy a white Roman man dress? I don’t have time to order one off the Internet, let alone a credit card to pay for it. Knowing the kind of douche bag my son is he might actually have one in his closet. He probably wears it to collage toga parties and claims to be related to John Belushi. What girl would ever believe that? I suppose the same kind of woman who would hook up with a knitting needle such as my son.
Nonetheless, the bank would never know what hit it…
