A Bank Robber

Patrick Davison

I am a bank robber, I take money from banks. I punch guards and make demands at the top of my lungs. I brandish a shotgun. I wear a mask. I carry duffel bags, and the duffel bags I carry are full of money. When the police show up I am calm, though outwardly I display an aggressive manner. I am not afraid of taking hostages. I have no qualms about forcing entry, resisting arrest, or battering bystanders. I can crack codes. I can break safes. I can dismantle a lock and disable motion sensors. My reflexes are honed and my dexterity is such that I can somersault and contort past laser-activated security systems. I work with a team of other individuals. My teammates have a lot to lose and little concern about losing it―they are women and men who look forward to taking what they can from others and making the best of bad situations. I respond with remarkable ferocity when one of them betrays me. I get upset, and shoot them in the face in front of a group of school children, sitting huddled in the lobby because they picked the wrong day for a field trip to the bank. I don't teach the kids anything about investment or the economy, but I do teach them about shooting someone in the face. I understand that lessons can often times be hard. I know average police response times. I can identify over fifty varieties of handgun. I have studied the relative effectiveness of the five leading brands of Kevlar vests. I make an excellent green pepper omelet. I care about second hand smoke. I never finish a glass of milk. I drive unmarked cars at high speeds through alleys and pray for unmarked bills. I believe in a higher power. I have trouble socializing at parties. I am made nervous by women with strong opinions and soft voices. I never wear cologne. I discuss honor among thieves over six-packs of beer on abandoned piers, and I cheat at cards. I purchase firearms with their serial numbers filed off. I know how to identify plain-clothes cops. I have been shot twice. I change my facial hair to avoid identification. I have a hard time relating to small business owners. I have never owned a small business. I have never been to a church pot-luck to raise money for the local homeless shelter or soup kitchen. I wear black leather gloves. I think about fingerprints more than the average guy. The location of my hideout is a secret. My underworld contacts contact me by phone. My stockbroker does not rock the boat by asking any unnecessary questions. I sleep like a baby, every night. Children admire me and the women of the town look up to me, because I am a bank robber.