Mask on, fuck it mask on

Raymond drummed his fingers along the steering wheel, belting “Take the Money and Run,” while the Krogers bag filled with loose twenties crinkled on the passenger’s seat.

 

Raymond looked at the radio in his beat up ‘96 LeSabre. 4:54. His jaw clenched. Only six minutes ‘till the bank closed. Snippets of his conversation with the landlord surfaced in his mind. He pushed the pedal further to the floor.

 

A right turn into TD’s parking lot. No spots. Fuck.

 

Raymond pulled through the parking lot and parked on the street. Just be a minute, Raymond thought, flicking his four-ways on. He waited for traffic, grabbed the bag, got out of the car and jogged to the heavy glass doors. He walked right through the second pair, believing that they had been held open for him.

 

“Hey pal! There’s a line here.”

 

Ray turned to a row of sneering faces and sheepishly checked his phone. 4:56. Fuck.

 

“Listen. Buddy,” Raymond began addressing man at the back of the line, waving his bag of cash around. “I’m in a real tight spot and need to make this deposit, please.

 

The man waved him off. “You and everyone else, pal.” The other man wasn’t lying. He too needed to make a deposit so he and the missus could take their vacation this weekend. Raymond, feeling desperate and on the verge of homelessness, decided to run outside to the drive up atm’s. Two full lines of cars: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

 

Raymond found himself humming the “Take the Money And Run” as he walked to his trunk and grabbed the ski mask and hoodie from his dusty winter bag. He turned to watch his reflection in the glass door as he pulled the mask down. It dawned on Raymond, in a remote corner of his mind that this was absurd. Raymond considered, and shut it out. Sleeping indoors was preferable to logic he decided.

 

Raymond snatched up his Krogers bag and marched off back through the glass doors. A few feet away from the doors, Raymond decided to scowl, deciding that he would look more menacing this way. He pushed past the man in line again, catching him mid vacation daydream.

 

“Hey pal.” The man snapped to.

 

Raymond wheeled around a finger outstretched in his hoodie pocket.

 

The man flinched. “Sorry. Hey sorry. Don’t shoot.” His hands went to cover his face.

 

Raymond turned and made his way to a teller. A bright young blonde sitting behind a “Melissa” nametag was the closest. She looked up distracted.

 

“Hello sir, how can I–” Her words caught in her throat. This was the first time Melissa found herself in a robbery.

 

Raymond shoved the Krogers bag in her face. Melissa took it and began to sob. She mouthed the word “Please.”

 

“I need to make a deposit.” said Raymond reaching in for his wallet.

 

Melissa hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was upset this fella. But if he was trying to deliver a cool stick ‘em up line, he’d failed miserably. “Do… do you mean withdrawal?” she asked, sniffling.

 

Raymond, suddenly aware of the aesthetic, felt a surge of paranoia. He turned to see other patrons on their stomach, hands folded over their head. Shit.

 

He turned back to Melissa. “No. I need that money in, er, placed in an account.” Melissa nodded slowly. “The account number is…” Raymond pulled at the eyes of his skimask to read the napkin he’d scribbled the account number on earlier. “0004305455…6” He looked back to the teller.

 

She typed the numbers into her terminal and shuddered. “Uh, you’re missing a number.” She said, looking back at Raymond with puffy eyes.

 

He reread the number and was still a digit off. He reached again for his wallet. “Alright.” He rifled through cards. “Will this work?” He grunted, absentmindedly handing over his debit card.

 

Melissa nodded. Raymond Filch. She noted of the name and found herself at ease– she was dealing with an idiot. Melissa now moved to the Krogers bag and started counting the twenties.

 

Raymond, growing ever more paranoid, watched the first hundred being counted. “It’s $1,700. Trust me. Counted it myself.”

 

Melissa shrugged apologetically. “Company policy. I need to count it.”

 

Raymond looked around again. One man with salt and pepper hair, faded black pants, full of hero fantasies, was inching his way towards Raymond. Raymond noticed and looked back at Melissa. “Hurry up.”  

 

“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen hundred. Okay Mr. Filch, you’re all set.” Melissa said, handing him a receipt.

 

Raymond’s face eased at the sound of his name, and then as gears slowly turned in his head, it twisted back into a menacing stare. “I’m, er, not Filch. My name isn’t Filch.”

 

Melissa nodded. Raymond turned, shoving his receipt and wallet back into his pocket. He tried to leave and was stopped. Two hand wrapped around his ankle. Raymond shrieked and looked down. Salt and pepper was on him. “Stop!”

 

Raymond reacted how one does to a bug, he swatted. Raymond’s left foot connected with the man’s jaw and swiftly knocked him unconscious. He and Melissa shrieked together now. Raymond hightailed it out of there, past salt and pepper, past daydreamer, through the double doors and into the traffic cop that was placing a ticket on the hood of his Buick.

 

Raymond, forgetting himself, started to argue the ticket through the mouth hole of the ski mask.  Melissa and everyone else in the bank watched, and cheered as Raymond was promptly slammed into the hood of his car and placed under arrest.

 

Prompt: You’re about to be late on rent for the third month in a row. You’ll be evicted if you don’t deposit that bag of cash into your account at the bank today, but it closes in five minutes. As you park at the bank, you learn the line is just too long.. But you remember the ski mask in your trunk.

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