The Robbery

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Ok, my idea here was a bank robbery. Not a huge one with swat vans and shootouts, just a few people inside trying to get out alive, and a few people outside trying to save hostages and apprehend bad guys without killing them, if possible. I don't really want it to escalate into gunfights and explosions, but I suppose what happens happens. And try to be serious, please.

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Chris stood in line at the bank, looking around himself, surveying exits, possible threats, possible easy hostages. He'd done this before and gotten away with it, so he was confident.

The plan was reasonably simple. His partner would come in with the attitude once he'd gotten up to the front counter. Then he'd surprise the hell out of the tellers with the Smith and Wesson he had hidden in his jacket, enough to convince them not to activate any alarms. They'd get a car through negotiations, the cops seemed to be too quick to arrive, so they couldn't just run for it. But they'd always been lucky in the past.

He moved forward a couple of feet. There was a decent crowd in the bank, not too many to crowd it, not too few to make hostage taking difficult.

Almost at the front of the line. Patience was the key. Act natural... At least until the time comes.

He thought back. How much money had they gotten in the past? A few hundred thousand? They were good, never got caught. They had done this in so many places, and it was the same every time. Almost no effort involved. This time wouldn't be any different.

Chris was next in line. He looked behind himself, and nodded to the person coming through the door.

Showtime.

[heh] Alright Chris, since you're the thread starter you can jump up and down if you don't like this, and I'll change it. Or get Gerald or someone to change it. Whatever. But it was about to go off the bottom of the board, so I figured maybe about now would be a good time to post.
Or, if you want to be really creative, you could post the same thing again, and I'll come in as a different guy, and we'll see how different they turn out.[/heh]

Frost flicked back his hair, and strode into the building. He jabbed his elbow into the back of someone in front of him, too slow to get out of the way. The man crumpled. Frost's elbow had contacted something sharp, but he thought nothing of it. The adrenalin was flowing nicely.

He whispered a prayer to his patron demons, and announced:
"All right everybody, hands on your heads!".
He reached into his trenchcoat, and drew out a pair of glock 18s, polished so highly he could see the reflection of his trademark hair.
The crowd went into uproar, and he looked around. One man wasn't panicking. Instead he was...

Frost's arm still hurt from where he had hit the other man, and he couldn't figure out why...until he saw him get back up, holding...

'Oh Shit.'

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ November 24, 2003 08:08 PM: Message edited by: Tiberius Frost. ]</font>

Gerald didn't get paid for how many customers he served. Gerald was paid for how long he worked at the counter of the bank, and was frowned upon if customers had more troubles with him than the other tellers. A smart enough guy, he knew that this meant he would be best off by simply being the slowest teller in the bank. Fewer customers meant fewer of those customers that invariably created hassles, and Gerald came out all the better for it.
However, it didn't help the customers get in and out of the bank very well, and they tended to accumulate a little. Not to overcrowd the place, but it did make Gerald, who had a mild phobia of these things, a bit jumpy and more than a little uncomfortable.

Standing right up against the counter opposite some imported worker from who-knows-where, Gerald relieved some of the pressure off of his feet by subtly shifting some of the weight from his protruding belly onto the bench. Well, he hoped it was subtle. He had been standing here for too long, and this man just didn't want to understand that he wasn't going to get a loan for whatever he wanted any time soon. Well, not from this counter.
Gerald supposed he could send the man over to the room where they did discuss that sort of thing, but that would constitute efficiency, and Gerald wasn't in the mood for that sort of thing. He shook his head once more, and his second and third chins wobbled a little as he said, "Look, I'm sorry mate. I just can't get you that sort of loan. You'll have to try something else."
The man looked a little crushed, and Gerald felt a little better on the inside. He had a decent job, a nice car and a house to live in that would be all paid off by the time he eventually retired and got his pension.

Suddenly all hell broke loose.

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ November 24, 2003 10:48 PM: Message edited by: Gerald Blake ]</font>

Chris pulled the pistol out of his jacket, and pointed it at the teller, an overweight man who looked thoroughly bored at the goings-on.

"Ok, now I don't want to use this but unless you do exactly what I say there's gonna be fucking murders. Hands on your head."

Chris looked around. The crowd wasn't co-operating as well as he'd hoped.

"Tiberius! Control the Fuckers! Shoot them if you have to!"

"...Tiberius?"

He was standing over some guy, holding his elbow. The man on the floor had a knife, the blade red. He forgot completely about the robbery.

"Shit dude, you gonna be ok?"

Things weren't going well.

Gerald had broken out in a cold sweat. Clumsily he brought his hand up to his head, to rub pudgy fingers through the combover of his that seemed to be thinning by the day now. Today certainly wouldn't help with his hairline at all.
He knew the first robber wasn't facing him now, but that didn't matter. The gun was still pointed in a direction that wasn't entirely safe for him, so he moved slowly to wipe away the sweat forming on his brow, careful not to alarm the men.
Alarm. That was it.
Gerald slowly moved his free arm below the counter and his pot belly, and fumbled for the button he knew had to be there, somehwhere.

[heh] You know Chris, Gerald was right when he said "you seem to be doing alot of that lately." Or was it Martin? You have once again twisted somebody elase's post to your own likings. But then, since it's your thread, I guess you can do that if you want. Whatever. Ok, fine. I'll be your partner.[/heh]


Tiberius Frost didn't have time for bullshit like this. He took a step back, pointed his right gun at the guy with the knife and put 3 rounds in his shoulder within a second. The man fell back to the floor, a crimson stain evolving on his clothing. Whoever the hell he'd was, he wouldn't be causing too much more trouble now.

The crowd was still screaming and making a mess of things. Frost heard Wesley yell at him from over by one of the counters, but he wasn't listening. Angered, he set his face and fired with both guns into the mob of people. Several collapsed. More screaming.

"Get the FUCK ON THE GROUND!! NOW!!!"

<font color="#f7f7f7" size="1">[ November 24, 2003 08:21 PM: Message edited by: Tiberius Frost. ]</font>