Screenwriter/author Felicia F. Clark delivers a short story that asks a simple question: how can a planned bank robbery go wrong? The answer, of course, is in every imaginable way.
“Put your muthfucking hands in the air neowww!!!!” The gunman’s voice cracked through the stale, air-conditioned air of the State of Wisconsin Credit Union. He jerked the pistol skyward and let off a single shot. The report was deafening, a sharp crack that echoed off the marble floors and fluorescent lights.
The gunshot triggered a wave of motion. Bank customers flinched as one, a synchronized collapse of bodies hitting the cool, polished tile. Plaster dust and a single, heavy piece of the ceiling’s ornate architecture rained down. The chunk of plaster and wood connected with the gunman’s skull with a sickening, wet thump, sending him crumpling to the floor.
“Oh shit! Brandon’s down!” Mike yelled, his eyes wide with panic.
“Aye, why the fuck did you say his name?!” Dewayne replied, his head snapping toward Mike, nostrils flared.
“Man, Dee, it ain’t like anybody knows him!”
“We got 60 seconds! Let’s gooooo!” Marcus barked, already moving.
They became a blur of motion, a storm of desperation. Their heavy boots pounded across the floor as they lunged from teller to teller, jabbing gloved fingers toward registers. The terrified tellers, wide-eyed and trembling, fumbled with keys, their movements jerky and slow.
“And ya better not turn on that damn alarm! I know all about it!” Dewayne’s threat was a low growl, spit flying from his lips as the three remaining robbers spun on their heels and burst out of the bank’s glass doors, leaving the stunned silence behind.
They burst onto the sidewalk, their breath puffing in sharp, white clouds in the chilly air. Adrenaline fueled their sprint to the corner and into the parking lot of an adjacent apartment building. Their eyes, wild and scanning, locked onto their getaway car: an old-school, boxy Chevy. They yanked the doors open with the car sagging under their weight. Mike fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking, and jammed them into the ignition. He was about to throw the car into reverse when his eyes caught a glimpse of white and orange paper. A parking ticket had been tucked neatly under the driver’s windshield wiper.
“Oh, fuck no! I can’t afford a damn ticket!” He stared at it with a look of absurd outrage on his face.
“Man, would you pull the fuck off?! We gotta get out of here!” Marcus screamed from the back, pounding his fist against the worn fabric of the headrest.
The car lurched into reverse, tires squealing against the curb before Mike slammed it into drive. They peeled out of the parking lot, the engine roaring like a bat out of hell. Almost instantly, the piercing wail of a siren cut through the air. In the rearview mirror, the flashing red and blue lights of a squad car bloomed, quickly closing the distance.
“GOOOO!!!!” The guys chorused, their bodies straining forward. They pushed against the cracked dashboard and the stained cloth seats of the old Chevy as if they could increase its speed. The car ate up the road for a short few minutes before the engine’s roar began to falter, dropping to a labored, sputtering groan. It suddenly started to slow down, losing power.
“What the fuck are you doing?! Nigga, go!” Dewayne’s voice was tight with fear.
Mike’s foot was jammed to the floor, pumping the gas pedal frantically, but the car only decelerated further. A deep, heavy shudder ran through the steering column, and the wheel became stiff, fighting his every turn. Then, with a final, resigned sigh from the engine, the car coasted to a complete stop in the middle of a quiet residential street. Its silence was deafening.
“What the fuck is going on?” Marcus’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Yeah, why are we stopping? We can’t stop now!” Dewayne’s head swiveled, looking at the peaceful, curtained windows of the houses around them.
“I’m not trying to stop. Something’s wrong with the car!” Mike’s knuckles were white where he gripped the wheel.
Dewayne’s eyes darted over to the dashboard. His face, already slick with sweat, went slack with disbelief. “Nigga! We outta gas?!!!!!!” He stabbed a finger at the fuel gauge, its needle buried deep below the red ‘E’. The dusty glass of the gauge reflected his horrified expression.
“Why didn’t you gas up?!” Marcus’s question was a high-pitched shriek of panic.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Mike’s defense was a weak, defeated mutter. “I didn’t know I needed gas. The gas hand broke.”
Dewayne’s eyes met theirs in the rearview mirror, a silent, grim understanding passing between them. “Man, we have to split up. That’s the only way.”
Several cop cars swooped in like birds of prey, angling to surround the lifeless vehicle. Dewayne barely dodged a fender as the three doors flew open and they burst out, scattering like cockroaches under a sudden light.
Mike sprinted straight down the center of the empty street. Three police cars paced him slowly, predators herding their prey until he finally stumbled to his knees. The police swarmed Dewayne on a nearby high school football field, his dark figure large against the neat green stripes of the turf. He was run down easily, tackled into the cold, damp grass.
Marcus, his heart hammering against his ribs, made for a nearby ranch-style house. He dropped to his belly and tried to squeeze under the tight wooden lip of the crawlspace. He was a bit stocky, and his progress was a desperate, writhing struggle. He managed to wedge his torso into the dank space, but his hips and his entire rear end remained exposed to the world, a blatant and ridiculous monument to their failed plan.
A couple of officers approached cautiously, their boots crunching on the gravel foundation. One officer, a hint of amusement in his eyes, nudged the sole of Marcus’s sneaker with the toe of his boot.
“Okay, son, it’s over. You need to come on out. Stay down on your belly and then place your hands behind your head.”
A muffled, strained voice came from the darkness. “I can’t.”
“Whaddya mean you can’t?” The officer crouched down, peering into the narrow space.
“I can’t, man. I’m stuck.” The voice was thick with shame and desperation.
“You don’t have a gun on you? Don’t lie to us.”
“No, man. Please. I’m stuck. I can’t breathe. And I have to pee so bad, man.”
“Hold on.”
The officers straightened up, exchanging a look. Their shoulders shook with silent laughter before they holstered their weapons. They each grabbed a leg, bracing their feet against the foundation, and pulled. Marcus’s body shifted slightly but didn’t budge.
“Yeah… you are stuck.” The officer stated the fact plain and undeniable.
“Oh my God. Please!” Marcus’s voice was tight with panic.
“Don’t start panicking. We’ll get you out,” the officer said, his tone full of grim humor. “Because best believe, your big fat ass is going to jail.”
