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R The Heist

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First to arrive, just excellent. Patrick Bell lit a cigarette and pulled up an empty oil drum to sit on. He looked around the garage and sighed, still not believing he was actually going through with this. At least it was quiet, unlike his own garage - in past that is.

He recalled how his wife would nag at him for smoking even in the garage. HIS garage, in HIS house, that HE paid for, by slaving away at HIS shit job. He'd tell her to shut up and fuck off if she didn't like it. And then one day she did. And now he smoked in the garage all he wanted.

At least it's something familiar. he pondered. Everything else about today would be alien to him. Interacting with hardened criminals, planning a crime, acting.

Time passed. Patrick checked his phone. The others would be arriving any moment now. He lit another cigarette and steeled himself, or at least tried to. He knew how nervous he was, he just hoped he didn't show it.

Here he was, a 32 year old HR manager whose only past dealing with the law was speeding fines, about to join a crew of seasoned criminals to make plans to rob a bank. It seemed so impossible, but that was the exact allure of it. He would live a mediocre life devoid of luxury or joy if he stayed in his honest job, but here he had the chance to take one risk and become a millionaire overnight. Or end up in jail.

What the fuck am I doing?

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Naomi pulled up outside the garage riding a black and chrome 2009 CVO Softail Springer Harley Davidson motercycle. The engine growled as she parked the bike outside. She wore a full leather catsuit and a pitch black helmet. The only parts of her that gave away she was a female was her slender yet curvaceous figure. The 24 year old vixen sauntered inside and looked around, there was only one other soul sitting on a drum smoking a cigerette. Naomi took off her helmet and whipped her shoulder length, dark honey colored hair around. Her dark green eyes peered over at Patrick.


"Am I in the right place?" She asked as her red lips twisted into a coy smile that screamed trouble. 


Naomi set her helmet down on a rickety wooden table near by. She then grabbed the zipper up by her neck and pulled down unzipping the whole catsuit. As she stepped out she revealed herself to be wearing little jean shorts and a short tattered grey t-shirt underneath. Her tattoos were now visible, a praying dia de los muertos styled girl on her left collar bone and a Coral Snake that took up most of her right leg from the knee down with the head on her foot. She threw the leather catsuit on the table next to the helmet and stretched her arms up above her head with a big yawn to accompany it. Naomi then made her way over to Patrick. 


"Can I steal a cig?" She asked him sweet as pie.


Meanwhile as she waited her curious eyes looked him up and down. He didn't seem like the usual type to pull this kind of job. Naomi had lived this life for a while now, thrill seeking crime. She had grown to be able to spot her type of people, but Patrick didn't seem to fit the bill. 

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"Hey, Jack...another."


Shuffling footsteps of the hesitant bartender displaced swirling dust into the atmosphere of the equally dusty bar, a non-descript dive that was somehow hosting a decent crowd given the fact that it was in poor shape, the jukebox was broken and it was noon. Jack, the sweaty owner who eyed his troublesome patron with a wary gaze, reluctantly refilled the shot glass that was pushed towards him, the bite of the amber liquid no longer fazing his sensitive nostrils.


The man who sat across from him, the same man who made a daily appearance at Jack's, took a quick glance at his drink before once more fixing his gaze on the bartender.


"Top me off, Jack."


"I think you've had enough for today son."


The shot glass exploded into the wall, alcohol spraying everywhere as the bar stool was toppled and the grimy shirt of the bar's owner was hiked up into his throat, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief.


"I Me. Off."




The unruly patron peered over his shoulder, his hands still holding Jack suspended; his eyes were cold, devoid of emotion save for his anger. The man who had interrupted his quest for liquor approached slowly, his black biker vest flapping open to reveal the dirty handle of a magnum, while his gloved hands fiddled with a blade long enough to pierce the backside of a man's heart.


"Let em' go or there's hell to pay. You understand me son?"


Jack was hurtled into the shelf of bottles behind the bar, several of them crashing to the floor, busting open to usher forth a sea of liquor; by now, the rest of the bar's occupants had either quietly gotten up and left or anxiously sat still, waiting for something to give.


A cell phone rang.


The unruly patron turned now to face the biker, his hand slowly reaching into his brown leather jacket, seemingly going for some sort of weapon; at the sight, the biker rushed forward, steel glinting in the pale light of the dimly lit bar. The man feinted to his left and pirouetted around a wild stab at his midsection, confusing his foe long enough to catch him off guard with a well placed kick to the back of his knee, dropping him to the opposite one; from this position, he pulled out the ringing cell phone and flipped it open, his other hand snaking it's way down the man's front over his far shoulder, grabbing the man's wrist and yanking it upward, until the biker's blade was poised at his own throat, ready to slice.


"This is Withers."




He killed the engine and reclined into the driver's seat of the black BMW, too flashy a ride for a guy who routinely found himself waking up in the arms of some unknown woman every morning, or worse, in the arms of some unknown homeless guy in the alley next to a bar. He squinted his weak eyes and peered up the alley, rubbing his stubble as he assessed the situation; he was down by the docks, not a soul in sight, and yet he was cautious. The meeting was about to take place, but he wanted to remain poised, and at the ready--he was a criminal and so were they, and criminals were not to be trusted.


"Especially the women," he said to himself, his gravelly voice surprising even him.


He opened the door and slithered out, closing it behind him whilst donning a pair of black tinted shades, a hand roaming over his close-to-bald head. With his other hand, he raised a bottle to his lips and drained the remaining contents of the liquor, wincing after the long pull, instinctively tossing the now useless bottle into the trash that littered the small street. He took a few steps, retrieving a Glock 23 from his waistband from behind, which had been concealed underneath his jacket; his fingers moved about the weapon expertly, effortlessly confirming that it was loaded and as he cocked it, took comfort in the fact that there was now one in the chamber.


He replaced the gun to its rightful place and assumed a brisk pace, his footfalls echoing off the walls on either side of him; a quick glance at the new watch on his wrist, courtesy the good samaritan back at the bar, told him that it was now 12:47. He was running late.


He rounded the far corner to the right and passed through a courtyard, the docks to his left, a cool breeze carrying over the water to refresh his senses; a small headache was beginning to pick up momentum within his skull, but he would have to endure.


Eventually, he saw the open garage in the distance, and within it, two occupants. He slowed his gait but maintained his course, which brought him upon black and chrome Harley; as he passed it, he couldn't help but think about the biker he had met earlier--the thought caused him to chuckle.


But the laughter died away as soon as he crossed the threshold into the room, the hot, blinding sun left behind in exchange for a cooler environment amongst 'friends', 'co-workers', 'potential liars and backstabbers'.


He was back at home, and in his element.

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