Rapscallion

Apparently You're Not Supposed to Rob Banks in T-shirts

*7 MONTHS LATER*

Despicable. Heinous. Thief. Murderer. Traitor. Monster.

Villain.

Yup, that's me.

I'm the bad guy, the one that parents look at and tell their children, "now that's someone you don't want to be, kids. You see, he probably didn't eat his vegetables growing up, and I'll bet you a whole dollar that he kicked and screamed when it was bedtime." And the kids look at me, wide-eyed, and hide behind their parent's legs because God forbid they might turn out like that if they don't eat their broccoli tonight.

I swear to you, I always ate my broccoli. Every last bit. That's not what happened to me.

But regardless of how many leafy greens I've eaten, here I am. A villain in the flesh. Boo.

I stand in line at Midwest Bank, tapping my fingers against my leg and surveying the place quietly. It's set up pretty much like any bank: brass nameplates, desks and spinny chairs, bored employees and customers. I'm one of eight people in line, and there are several others behind me being served at other desks. There are twelve people on staff. But there is one little detail that's vital to our plan--no windows. Not a single one.

A pretty brunette steps into line behind me and I move to the side and usher her in front of me. "Oh, please no," I tell her with a smile when she protests, "it's my pleasure."

She shrugs and grins. "If you're sure," she says.

And yes, I do indeed have ulterior motives for being polite to the pretty lady. Of course I do. I'm a villain, remember? I flirt with purpose (my devilish good looks make it easy) and my purpose this time is to avoid detection, which will be much easier without her watching my back.

I make eye contact with myself in the mirror down at the end of the room and can't help but grin when I begin to count down the seconds. Twenty. I'm dressed simply—jeans and a t-shirt with a pair of boots. Fifteen. My black hair is pushed back from my forehead. Ten. The only "bank robber" part of me is the black bandana tucked into my back pocket. Five. My eyes slide over to the guard standing just inside the door. Four. He winks at me but remains stone-faced. Three. I crack my neck. Two. Take a step forward when the line moves. One.

For Genie.

The lights flicker and go out. Tellers with acrylic nails tap on their keyboards, confused as to why their computers all suddenly dead. Murmurs rise up and nervous expressions cross faces, customers and employees alike. Someone says, "Power outage?"

The guard leaves his post and strides over to speak to the manager, who has conveniently stepped out of his office. As he passes me, he slips something familiar and heavy into my palm. I slide the handgun into the waistband of my jeans and pull my shirt over it without a hitch. In the dim light and confusion, I probably could've taken off my pants and swung them around my head without being noticed.

As tempting as that sounds, I opt for ducking out of line and pulling my bandana over the lower half of my face. My skin tingles from the adrenaline beginning to pump, blood pounding through my veins like fire. Nothing like the fear and adrenaline of a heist to get you going.

I watch as my accomplice pulls out his gun. He presses it against the managers head, forcing him to his knees. Not everyone's noticed what's happening yet, but they will soon. Crack. He fires straight into the ceiling—classic robbery style. You gotta stick to the old fashioned ways, folks.