We drove into town still quite fuzzy from the night before. The sun was too bright, the road more curved than it had been last time, the potholes much deeper than yesterday.
Charlie wanted to rob the bank but I finally talked him into hitting the Elks Club instead. We only had a little .22 revolver and I didn't want to risk going up against a guard who had a 9mm. We thought the old farts at the Elks would be an easy job. Yeah, look how well that worked out.
The only reason that I'm still alive is that Charlie always reverses into a parking spot at the places we're gonna hit and leaves the engine running. He'd read about planning ahead for a quick getaway like that in some comic book when he was a kid.
Charlie went in first, a few steps ahead of me, and pulled out the .22 to "take control of the room" as he always put it. My job was to veer off to the right and get the cash from the bartender. I only made it two or maybe three steps in before I saw two old geezers draw and fire at Charlie. I'd swear that he hit the floor within a second 'cause I'd turned and run for the door that hadn't even swung shut yet. The old farts kept firing, one bullet hitting the door frame as I went through and another, as I later found out, putting a hole in the brim of my baseball cap. God knows where the other rounds went, but there were a lot of them. In movies, I'd seen people take a running jump into a car but let me tell you that it's not as easy as they make it look. Put it into drive and hit the gas just as the windshield exploded from another round.
This can't go on. I'm getting too old for this crap.
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photo source = pixabay
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