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I used to classify myself as something of a rational thinker, but your impulses change when a loaded 9mm pistol is held against the back of your neck by a masked gunman. I have worked at Tennets bank on 34th for 8 years and never once encountered anything like this. You hear about armed robberies on TV and plan out what you would do if you were in the shoes of the clerk, but panic has a way of overwriting any plans you have previously made.
It is Monday morning and the bank is fairly empty, just myself and a few other clerks as well as the managers upstairs who are probably oblivious to the event. The masked man has demanded $10,000 in unmarked notes to be put into his large sports bag. He refuses to accept that we don’t get our cash injection until mid afternoon. The weekend is when most people spend their money and nearly all of the cash has been withdrawn from the bank by Monday morning.
The masked assailant assumes that by pointing a gun at my head I will be able to snap my fingers and make his fee appear. He told myself and the other two clerks that if we so much as think about calling for help he will put a bullet in each of our heads. I tell him again that we do not have $10,000 until later in the day. The balaclava covers all but his eyes but I notice the uttermost confusion on his face. His brows furrow and he appears reluctant to accept the facts that have been carefully laid out in front of him.
My jaw begins to tremble as he slams his fist down on the durable wood-look plastic counter, sending an empty coffee mug tumbling to the linoleum-coated floor. I hear the soft screech of brakes outside the building and the bank’s security guard, an elderly gentleman named Frank, makes his way through the bank’s gold-rimmed doors. Despite the fact Frank was old, his reflexes were still as sharp as ever and as soon as he had set his eyes upon the masked man he reached for his pistol contained in his leather holster.
Frank grasped his chest and slid to his knees then the floor as two loud shots rang out from the gun that had previously held to the back of my neck. I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus and tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. Frank was a good-hearted man and only last week he was telling me about how his son had finished college and was coming home to stay with him for the summer. The second the scream left my lips the burning tip of the recently fired gun was pressed against my neck again.
One innocent man is dead and the robber still has nothing to show for it. No money and no further motive. He finally realises this and decides to escape whilst he still can. He runs towards to gold-rimmed front doors of the bank, the gun still held in his hand. Someone must have heard my scream of terror as the sounds of sirens are growing louder outside and suddenly a police car mounts to sidewalk and two rifle-wielding cops step out. The masked assailant has just made his way through the transparent doors when a bevy of ear-splitting shots echo throughout 34th street. A fresh crimson spray decorates the glass of the gold-rimmed doors and a patch of sidewalk.
The manager appears at the door and tells us all that the bank will be closed for the next week and we are all entitled to a fully paid weeks holiday because of the trauma we have suffered. After giving a statement to the police I make my way home where my husband is waiting. I don’t know where to begin where he asks, “How was your day, hunny?”
It is Monday morning and the bank is fairly empty, just myself and a few other clerks as well as the managers upstairs who are probably oblivious to the event. The masked man has demanded $10,000 in unmarked notes to be put into his large sports bag. He refuses to accept that we don’t get our cash injection until mid afternoon. The weekend is when most people spend their money and nearly all of the cash has been withdrawn from the bank by Monday morning.
The masked assailant assumes that by pointing a gun at my head I will be able to snap my fingers and make his fee appear. He told myself and the other two clerks that if we so much as think about calling for help he will put a bullet in each of our heads. I tell him again that we do not have $10,000 until later in the day. The balaclava covers all but his eyes but I notice the uttermost confusion on his face. His brows furrow and he appears reluctant to accept the facts that have been carefully laid out in front of him.
My jaw begins to tremble as he slams his fist down on the durable wood-look plastic counter, sending an empty coffee mug tumbling to the linoleum-coated floor. I hear the soft screech of brakes outside the building and the bank’s security guard, an elderly gentleman named Frank, makes his way through the bank’s gold-rimmed doors. Despite the fact Frank was old, his reflexes were still as sharp as ever and as soon as he had set his eyes upon the masked man he reached for his pistol contained in his leather holster.
Frank grasped his chest and slid to his knees then the floor as two loud shots rang out from the gun that had previously held to the back of my neck. I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus and tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. Frank was a good-hearted man and only last week he was telling me about how his son had finished college and was coming home to stay with him for the summer. The second the scream left my lips the burning tip of the recently fired gun was pressed against my neck again.
One innocent man is dead and the robber still has nothing to show for it. No money and no further motive. He finally realises this and decides to escape whilst he still can. He runs towards to gold-rimmed front doors of the bank, the gun still held in his hand. Someone must have heard my scream of terror as the sounds of sirens are growing louder outside and suddenly a police car mounts to sidewalk and two rifle-wielding cops step out. The masked assailant has just made his way through the transparent doors when a bevy of ear-splitting shots echo throughout 34th street. A fresh crimson spray decorates the glass of the gold-rimmed doors and a patch of sidewalk.
The manager appears at the door and tells us all that the bank will be closed for the next week and we are all entitled to a fully paid weeks holiday because of the trauma we have suffered. After giving a statement to the police I make my way home where my husband is waiting. I don’t know where to begin where he asks, “How was your day, hunny?”
Good story again mate, keep 'em comin'!
I added the last paragraph to sort of round up the story and bring it to a sort of humourous ending as opposed to, "oh thats so horrible" ending. I'd like my name to be associated with nice things too :-D
Very good as always.
Although I feel if you scrapped the last paragraph entirely the story would have had a bit more impact.
Although I feel if you scrapped the last paragraph entirely the story would have had a bit more impact.
Cheers guys :-D
Black Glove - it is an expression I heard somewhere - I am not sure if it is the right context here! Hmm!
Black Glove - it is an expression I heard somewhere - I am not sure if it is the right context here! Hmm!
Leprechaun wrote:
> "I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus" - This is a strange line???
Another good story :)
> "I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus" - This is a strange line???
Another good story :)
Great story mate :-)
Liked the end very much.
Liked the end very much.
Another great story.
Well done.
Well done.
I used to classify myself as something of a rational thinker, but your impulses change when a loaded 9mm pistol is held against the back of your neck by a masked gunman. I have worked at Tennets bank on 34th for 8 years and never once encountered anything like this. You hear about armed robberies on TV and plan out what you would do if you were in the shoes of the clerk, but panic has a way of overwriting any plans you have previously made.
It is Monday morning and the bank is fairly empty, just myself and a few other clerks as well as the managers upstairs who are probably oblivious to the event. The masked man has demanded $10,000 in unmarked notes to be put into his large sports bag. He refuses to accept that we don’t get our cash injection until mid afternoon. The weekend is when most people spend their money and nearly all of the cash has been withdrawn from the bank by Monday morning.
The masked assailant assumes that by pointing a gun at my head I will be able to snap my fingers and make his fee appear. He told myself and the other two clerks that if we so much as think about calling for help he will put a bullet in each of our heads. I tell him again that we do not have $10,000 until later in the day. The balaclava covers all but his eyes but I notice the uttermost confusion on his face. His brows furrow and he appears reluctant to accept the facts that have been carefully laid out in front of him.
My jaw begins to tremble as he slams his fist down on the durable wood-look plastic counter, sending an empty coffee mug tumbling to the linoleum-coated floor. I hear the soft screech of brakes outside the building and the bank’s security guard, an elderly gentleman named Frank, makes his way through the bank’s gold-rimmed doors. Despite the fact Frank was old, his reflexes were still as sharp as ever and as soon as he had set his eyes upon the masked man he reached for his pistol contained in his leather holster.
Frank grasped his chest and slid to his knees then the floor as two loud shots rang out from the gun that had previously held to the back of my neck. I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus and tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. Frank was a good-hearted man and only last week he was telling me about how his son had finished college and was coming home to stay with him for the summer. The second the scream left my lips the burning tip of the recently fired gun was pressed against my neck again.
One innocent man is dead and the robber still has nothing to show for it. No money and no further motive. He finally realises this and decides to escape whilst he still can. He runs towards to gold-rimmed front doors of the bank, the gun still held in his hand. Someone must have heard my scream of terror as the sounds of sirens are growing louder outside and suddenly a police car mounts to sidewalk and two rifle-wielding cops step out. The masked assailant has just made his way through the transparent doors when a bevy of ear-splitting shots echo throughout 34th street. A fresh crimson spray decorates the glass of the gold-rimmed doors and a patch of sidewalk.
The manager appears at the door and tells us all that the bank will be closed for the next week and we are all entitled to a fully paid weeks holiday because of the trauma we have suffered. After giving a statement to the police I make my way home where my husband is waiting. I don’t know where to begin where he asks, “How was your day, hunny?”
It is Monday morning and the bank is fairly empty, just myself and a few other clerks as well as the managers upstairs who are probably oblivious to the event. The masked man has demanded $10,000 in unmarked notes to be put into his large sports bag. He refuses to accept that we don’t get our cash injection until mid afternoon. The weekend is when most people spend their money and nearly all of the cash has been withdrawn from the bank by Monday morning.
The masked assailant assumes that by pointing a gun at my head I will be able to snap my fingers and make his fee appear. He told myself and the other two clerks that if we so much as think about calling for help he will put a bullet in each of our heads. I tell him again that we do not have $10,000 until later in the day. The balaclava covers all but his eyes but I notice the uttermost confusion on his face. His brows furrow and he appears reluctant to accept the facts that have been carefully laid out in front of him.
My jaw begins to tremble as he slams his fist down on the durable wood-look plastic counter, sending an empty coffee mug tumbling to the linoleum-coated floor. I hear the soft screech of brakes outside the building and the bank’s security guard, an elderly gentleman named Frank, makes his way through the bank’s gold-rimmed doors. Despite the fact Frank was old, his reflexes were still as sharp as ever and as soon as he had set his eyes upon the masked man he reached for his pistol contained in his leather holster.
Frank grasped his chest and slid to his knees then the floor as two loud shots rang out from the gun that had previously held to the back of my neck. I let out a scream fit to beat Jesus and tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. Frank was a good-hearted man and only last week he was telling me about how his son had finished college and was coming home to stay with him for the summer. The second the scream left my lips the burning tip of the recently fired gun was pressed against my neck again.
One innocent man is dead and the robber still has nothing to show for it. No money and no further motive. He finally realises this and decides to escape whilst he still can. He runs towards to gold-rimmed front doors of the bank, the gun still held in his hand. Someone must have heard my scream of terror as the sounds of sirens are growing louder outside and suddenly a police car mounts to sidewalk and two rifle-wielding cops step out. The masked assailant has just made his way through the transparent doors when a bevy of ear-splitting shots echo throughout 34th street. A fresh crimson spray decorates the glass of the gold-rimmed doors and a patch of sidewalk.
The manager appears at the door and tells us all that the bank will be closed for the next week and we are all entitled to a fully paid weeks holiday because of the trauma we have suffered. After giving a statement to the police I make my way home where my husband is waiting. I don’t know where to begin where he asks, “How was your day, hunny?”