Bank Robbers

Oak’s brain was preoccupied. What exactly was he to say once he ripped a twenty-two millimeter from his light beige khaki shorts? Should he wave it around like a drunken cowboy? Maybe just start with, “Get on the floor” and follow the command with, “cell phones, pagers, any points of contact smash them to pieces!” No, he reconsidered the previous command. He should say, instead, “Throw them in the bag.” Yeah. He has some 56-gallon black trash bags in the trunk. If everything went like in Doing The Crime ¾ a non-fiction memoir filled with 346 pages of criminal education ¾ they’d be richer than Danny Ocean in less than thirty-five minutes. No fatalities!

“After we get this money,” Oak said. “It’s gonna be just the two of us, babe. Like that Will Smith song.”

“You listen to Will Smith?”

“Hey. Don’t hate! In the years of old school hip-hop, pretty much every rapper sounded like a cornball. That’s what made dem joints tight, aight?”

“Aight. Aight foo.” She sounded like Paris Hilton. “Don’t get all ghetto on me.”

“You’re hilarious.”

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