Gloves.
Ski masks. A silvery
Magnum for me, a jet-black
pump action shotgun for
Lazarus (Yes,
Lazarus. His parents hated him).
Check.
Check.
Check.
Dimitri gets us a shot of
vodka each, and none for himself, he's driving today. "
Luck", he says, managing to
mangle a one-syllable word with a
pronounced Slavic accent. We
solemnly shake each other's
hand.
It is time. We approach the car. Lazarus brandishes the gun and says "I'm calling
shotgun". A laugh relaxes the tense
atmosphere, and we hop in and drive off.
We're in. Dimitri waits outside in the
getaway, while we two find a place away from
cameras to pull on the masks and pull out the
guns.
Time. I walk forward, catching glances of
amusement, rapidly changing to
expressions of
fear.
"FREEZE, EVERY-
FUCKING-BODY!" I yell out.
"FREEZE, MOTHERSTICKERS," shouts Lazarus. "This is a..."
Something's gone wrong. "
Fuck-up," he finishes lamely.
Everyone's frozen alright. A second, two seconds pass in complete silence, and I hear a muffled snort behind my back.
A
giggle here, another one, it gets louder and louder, the
nervous laughter of suddenly relieved
tension, and
laughter breaks out all aroud us. The fat
teller is
laughing out loud, his enormous body shaking. A pimple-faced teenager is trying to hold in the laughter, but a loud snort betrays his intentions.
We start backing away, toward the door. I have a gun, a
loaded gun, but I have never felt so helpless in my entire
life. I back away, then turn and break into a
run, Lazarus following me closely. We practically fall over int our seats in the car and gesture Dimitry to drive like hell.
Well,
shit.