SCOOBY SNACKS

Running Around Robbing Banks (All Whacked Up)

"Ain't you gettin' out?"

Sid and Goddard - passenger seat and other back seat respectively - have already pissed off up the stairs into the shitty hotel room, dragging their heavy briefcases along with them. Smith remains in the back seat of the getaway car, an old model that's all sharp edges and harsh corners with leather bench interiors, hand on the door handle and staring up after his colleagues. He hugs his briefcase closer to his chest.

"Mind taking me to the train station?" he asks the driver, settling back into the seat and pushing his wireframe glasses back up his nose. He shoves his shaggy mop of hair out of his face.

"Sure, mate," the driver replies, grinning at him in the rear-view mirror - from which two large, fuzzy, pink dice hang - with an all too trusting glint in his eye. Kid was honestly beyond moronic. "But why? You got your very own chaffinch right here."

"Chaff-? You mean chauffeur?" Smith asks, and the kid nods, his fashionably fluffy hair bouncing underneath his driver's hat. "You're not my chauffeur, kid. You're a one-time driver we got in at the last minute because Shelby got put in the big house. Take me to the station."

He puts the car in gear and pulls out of the car park in front of the dime hotel. There's a cardboard sign reading "MR JOHNSON" on the bench seat beside him, as well as his own briefcase. 

"Name's Dollie," he says conversationally.

"Fuck off," Smith replies.

"Hand to God," he says. "You can check me licence if you want." He leans to grab his wallet from his back pocket, throws it over his shoulder into Smith's lap like he doesn't give a shit if it comes back with all the cash and cards gone. Smith does check, but only when he's sure the guy isn't looking - he wasn't lying, though. His driver's licence proudly proclaims his name to be 'Dollie Matthews'.

"Weird," Smith says.

"Where you goin' anyway?" Dollie asks, as if he doesn't give a shit, but having spent the last few days in close quarters with him, Smith can tell he's weirdly invested in the answer. It's only because of that tiny waver in his voice that Smith even considers responding truthfully.

"The seaside. Little town called Salcombe. I hate the city - just been waiting on a job big enough that I can get outta here."

Dollie nods as if he agrees, but he's a city boy through and through and anyone looking at him can tell. "You got someone waitin' for ya out there?" he asks. He refuses to meet Smith's eyes in the rear vision mirror, the expression in his own hidden by the dark sunglasses.

"No," Smith answers truthfully, and turns to gaze out the window. "I'm not the sort of man people wait for."

————

It's dark when Smith wakes up with a start, his face stuck to the car window with his drool, feeling like he's been smashed in the face with a pillow about a hundred times. His mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton balls.

There are no streetlights whizzing by the window, and all he can really see is a small patch of asphalt lit by the car's weak headlights. All he knows is, it was late afternoon when he asked Dollie to drive him to the station, and it definitely doesn't take this long to get to King's Cross.

"Where are we?" he asks, the cotton in his mouth making it difficult to speak properly.

"I ain't exactly sure," Dollie replies, as if there's nothing out of the ordinary. "You fell asleep and I figured I'd just drive you right up to that Salcombe place you was talkin' about. 'S only about four hours."