He walks into the bank, right up to the teller, a Big Mac in one hand and a straight razor in the other.
"Where's my money?"
The teller had made a mistake that would end her career.
Twenty minutes before, he had walked up to her window.
He had handed her an empty pillowcase. He had told her to fill it up.
Then he had turned and walked out the door, walked across the parking lot and walked into the neighboring McDonald’s.
She had thought it was a joke.
She had thought it was in poor taste, but she had thought it was a joke. So she hadn't called the police.
Now it was too late. Now he was back.
"Bitch! Where's my money!"
He vaults the counter and begins to fill the bag himself.
The teller, the other tellers, their customers flee.
The robber sits down at one of the desks, puts down the razor and counts the money he'd just stolen.
He takes a bite out of the Big Mac. Counts some money. Another bite.
He stacks the money in nice neat piles on the desk. He finishes the hamburger.
It had been a long time since he’d had a Big Mac. They don’t serve Mickey D’s in the joint.
The SWAT team arrives, a perimeter forms, snipers in position, traffic officers close the street, nearby businesses evacuate. The McDonald’s across the parking lot evacuates. Crowds form beyond the police line.
It’s a holiday. Not quite a snow day, just a bank robbery afternoon.
The lead negotiator dials the bank’s phone number. It rings, it rings, it rings.
The man inside finally picks it up.
No, he’s not giving up he says. He has a machine gun he says. The voices, the voices coming from the wooden baseboard tell him not to talk to the police he says.
He puts the telephone handset down next to the baseboard so the negotiator and the voices can talk it out.
He picks up the straight razor and paces back and forth, back and forth inside the bank.
When he gets near the door, the assault team rushes in and wrestles him to the ground. They disarm him of the straight razor.
There is no machine gun.
It’s back to prison for him. It’s going to be a long time before his next Big Mac.
"Where's my money?"
The teller had made a mistake that would end her career.
Twenty minutes before, he had walked up to her window.
He had handed her an empty pillowcase. He had told her to fill it up.
Then he had turned and walked out the door, walked across the parking lot and walked into the neighboring McDonald’s.
She had thought it was a joke.
She had thought it was in poor taste, but she had thought it was a joke. So she hadn't called the police.
Now it was too late. Now he was back.
"Bitch! Where's my money!"
He vaults the counter and begins to fill the bag himself.
The teller, the other tellers, their customers flee.
The robber sits down at one of the desks, puts down the razor and counts the money he'd just stolen.
He takes a bite out of the Big Mac. Counts some money. Another bite.
He stacks the money in nice neat piles on the desk. He finishes the hamburger.
It had been a long time since he’d had a Big Mac. They don’t serve Mickey D’s in the joint.
The SWAT team arrives, a perimeter forms, snipers in position, traffic officers close the street, nearby businesses evacuate. The McDonald’s across the parking lot evacuates. Crowds form beyond the police line.
It’s a holiday. Not quite a snow day, just a bank robbery afternoon.
The lead negotiator dials the bank’s phone number. It rings, it rings, it rings.
The man inside finally picks it up.
No, he’s not giving up he says. He has a machine gun he says. The voices, the voices coming from the wooden baseboard tell him not to talk to the police he says.
He puts the telephone handset down next to the baseboard so the negotiator and the voices can talk it out.
He picks up the straight razor and paces back and forth, back and forth inside the bank.
When he gets near the door, the assault team rushes in and wrestles him to the ground. They disarm him of the straight razor.
There is no machine gun.
It’s back to prison for him. It’s going to be a long time before his next Big Mac.
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