Ain' no way in Hell this shit's hap'nin', Wayne shook his head in utter disbelief.
He was only days released from prison and trying to fulfill the promise he had made to himself, not to return to the street life.
After being in prison for a little over eighteen months on a sentence for sales and delivery of cocaine, he was ready to start his life anew.
He had found religion, earned his GED, and had obtained a building maintenance trade. He was ready to prove to the world that he was capable of being a better man.
Released from prison early for good behavior, he was placed on a form of parole called conditional release for sixty days. He had promised himself that he would get his life together within those sixty days. One fuck-up, he was threatened by his parole officer, and he would be on the first bus heading back to finish the remainder of his sentence.
Wayne had learned early in his sentence that prison was not for him. Too much hollering and belittling from the officers, too much noise and not enough peace and quiet from the inmates, mix that with the constant back-stabbing between inmates, and Wayne had quickly realized that life in prison was definitely not the life he wanted to live.
Wayne could not compare the difference between doing good- or bad-time being that he did not really experience it. All his bad run-ins were at the reception center and the main prison where he had spent the first five months of his sentence. After that, he had been bounced from one low-custody institution to another until he had ended up at the work release center where he had spent the remainder of his sentence. So, the stories of brutal, prison riots, merciless stabbings, and every other form of wickedness "New Fishes" were told to look for and stay away from were bypassed. But even so, Wayne had instantly known that life in prison was definitely not for him: being locked down at eleven at nights, taking showers with seven other inmates at once, waking up at five in the morning to walk to the cafeteria for breakfast, and worst, having a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound white woman with a double chin, a massive gut that falls way below her crotch, and no ass at all, asking what you're looking at as if she was a dime-piece. All that was for the birds!
Everything had seemed simple and as planned at 8:00 a.m. when Wayne had awoken. Fresh-dressed with seventeen hundred dollars in his pocket: money made while in work release, he was ready to conquer the world. With his list of goals branded in his mind, and the will and drive to accomplish them, he had smiled proudly, walking confidently out of the house.
His first stop was at the local Sheriff's office to register as a convicted felon. From there he went to the probation office and reported to his parole officer. After leaving the probation office, he stopped at the Department of Motor Vehicle and renew his identification card.
All was going exactly as he had planned.
After he had renewed his identification card, he had one last stop to make: His final appointment for the day: Opening a bank account. Everything was going according to his plans, falling into play like the first level of Tetris. There was no way in Hell anything could go wrong, or so he thought.
He had refused to allow anything or anyone distract or cause him to divert from his plan; knowing that once strayed from, the original course would be next to impossible to get back to. He had vowed to stick to his plans.
"MOTHERFUCKER, GET THE FUCK ON THE GODDAMN GROUND!"
Wayne quickly complied, diving to the floor like an Olympic swimmer. Without being told to, he quickly placed his hands on top of his head and interlocked his fingers; not taking any risk.
As the masked-gunman secured the bank, making sure everyone was on the floor, two other robbers stormed into the bank. One covered everyone on the floor, while the other ran directly to the windows and began closing all the blinds. The one who had shouted at Wayne, as if he was a panther, sprung on top of the bank counter, pointed his weapon at the petrified clerks and tellers and threw one a knapsack. Without being told to she began loading the cash from the drawer into the sack.
"Yo, you fucking bitch!" the robber barked. The terrified clerk yelped like a wounded puppy. "Better put no dye-pack in that shit." He waving his gun at her. "Or we'll be back!"
The traumatized clerk quickly reached inside of the drawer, took up a suspiciously-neat stack of money and tossed it to the side: Dye-pack.
As one robber cleaned out the money in the drawers, and one, armed with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun stood watch, the third prowled the bank, stripping the hostages of all valuables: jewelry, wallets, purses, and most of all cellphones.
Wayne couldn't believe his luck when the collector walked over and nudged him with his boot. "Turn your bitch-ass over," the robber ordered, pointing his gun at him. Wayne hurriedly complied. The robber then reached inside Wayne's pockets and relieved him of the money he had remaining.
Wayne had no idea what to do. The only thing he could think of was to ask the robber for his money back. Nothing beats trying but failing, he thought. He had once walked the road the robbers walk, maybe they would respect the honor amongst thieves.
Fuc' it, it was worth a try. "Dawg," Wayne began, keeping his voice low. The robber glanced down at him and frowned maliciously. "I just got out of prison. That's all I got to get bac' on my feet, bro," Wayne pleaded.
The robber eyed Wayne as if a giant spider was crawling on his head and then roared into a fit of laughter. "You picked the wrong day to get out of prison, wrong time to walk with your money, the wrong time to come to this bank, and the wrong motherfucker to ask for your money back. Now turn your bitch-ass over and shut the fuck up!"
Wayne sighed and complied with the robber's order.
This has to be a nightmare, he thought. No fuc'in' way in Hell this shit is hap'nin'.
Within five minutes the robbers had taken what they wanted and were ready to get missing. As they reached the door, one turned around and walked back over to Wayne. "Here," he offered Wayne a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. "Start off like everyone else who gets out of prison." He laughed. "With a hundred dollars."
With that said, the three robbers took off through the front door.
About five minutes after the robbers had left and it was almost certain that they would not return, everyone slowly and cautiously began getting up off the floor: the race had begun to see who would be the first to contact the police.
Before Wayne could replay the scene and think about the ordeal, the bank was surrounded by over fifty members of the police department. Within two hours everyone was questioned by detectives, the bank's surveillance tapes were turned over to be analyzed and reviewed, and to make matters worse, the detectives had confiscated the one-hundred-dollar bill the robber had given Wayne: Evidence.

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Against the Odds by Mista Midas
Fiction généraleThe anticipated sophomore novel from Mista Midas. After releasing Legacy: The Bloodline of a Legend his followers craved his story-telling prowess so much that they demanded another book. With his motivations peaked, Mista Midas took to the laborato...