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View Diary: Write On! The roads to plot. (69 comments)

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  •  After failed bank heist, outa work writer... (8+ / 0-)
    At the end of the teller-window line, Meredith stared moodily at the toes of his sneakers, even though, realistically, the check from his bankrupt publisher was either going to clear or it wasn't, and a few minutes wait couldn't make any difference. Not only that, but he wasn't going to be handed any cash anyway, because his account was so overdrawn. Well, maybe enough cash to cover one drink at the bar at the end of his street, or one fast-food meal at the greasy-spooner next door to it.

    Thuds, clunks, and a miscellany of other minor noises heralded the closing of all but one of the teller windows. No surprise, it was a quarter to five, the same time of day Meredith usually just barely managed to get to the bank, when there was any reason to.

    "Hand it over, sweetheart," a commanding voice growled in an obviously fake baritone. Meredith looked up and couldn't believe it  — some jerk in a clown costume, complete with face-distorting grease-paint smile and star-blocked eyes, was holding a gun on one of the tellers, the guy Meredith usually nodded hello to without remembering anymore where he originally knew the guy's name from. Brent. Highschool maybe?

    The hold-up artist — woman, man, Meredith couldn't tell — had a sort of amateur head-lock on Brent,muzzle of the gun at the back of his ear.

    "All of you, bring the cash over here and put it in the bag," the fake baritone declaimed. There was actually a gunny sack lying on the floor just beyond the tips of Brent's gleamingly-polished shoes.

    "We're coming, we're coming!" the busty redheaded teller squealed, teetering on her high heels. She always exuded such an aura of incompetence together with extremely expensive perfume that Meredith was pretty sure he knew how she kept her job; the bank manager was a man after all, a pretty comfortably-circumstanced one, if the star-sapphire links in his french cuffs and the perfect cut of his suit were any evidence.

    "Get a move on," the baritone clown grated, obviously developing a pretty sore throat. The grotesquely painted face swiveled above its white pleated clown-suit collar, as the robber tried to eye-ball everyone in the place. The bank manager looked as if his suit suddenly didn't fit well at all. The few customers looked as if they'd be relieved if the clown ordered them flat on the ground, but they were too nervous to make a move or suggest it.

    The redhead swung her cashdrawer like Shoeless Joe's bat, and the clown went down in a welter of bills and coins, the gun flying harmlessly into the potted palm, and Brent staggering for balance as the clown's grip on his throat disappeared.

    "Darling!" the bank manage exclaimed, holding out his arms to the redhead.

    "Darling," the redhead breathed, sliding her arms around Brent's waist as his knees buckled.

    "Next!" the one remaining teller at the window called out to Meredith. "Next!!!!!"

    Meredith shook his head and stepped up to the counter. What a dumb story idea that was. His bankrupt publisher might have bought it, but no one else would.

    "I'm sorry, sir," the teller said, bringing Meredith fully out of his creative haze. "This check's no good."

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