This is a story about...well, I'll see if you can figure it out. Besides, prefacing it would basically ruin this bit of the plot. But this is just the beginning. No, it's not long. It will get longer, though, I can tell you.
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The Banker and the Slaughter’s Boys
A tall, rail thin guy stood over the counter, his lackadaisical expression unmarred despite the clamoring crowd of customers. Drake Rellshig had an aura of peace about him. His family sometimes called him ‘The Cool One’ due to his apathetic gaze of steel blue eyes.
A woman stepped up to his station, and he asked her in the monotone of courtesy for the customers,
“Withdraw or save?”
“Withdraw,” she said, a set of purple-gloss covered lips said in a barely audible voice.
In the shadow of the counters, Drake’s feet and legs danced as his fingers drummed away on the computer, looking at the woman’s ID as he opened her account,
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand dollars, thankyou.” She said, this time sounding a bit strange as she smirked.
“I’m sorry, you can’t withdraw that much—you only have a hundred in your account,” Drake said slowly, sleepily.
“Say what? I say I want that money,” she spat at him as she said this, “And I got a way to get it too.”
“I’m sorry, you don’t have that much money in your—“
“Look here, smarty,” she hissed. What Drake saw caused him to catch his breath, trying very hard not to howl. A black steel muzzle to a revolver protruded from the woman’s skirt pocket.
“Now here's how it goes, sunny,” she whispered, her voice like poisoned honey. “I will shoot you if you don’t give me that money. So take out your own card and put ninety thousand dollars on it. Then once you’ve handed it to me, I expect you to turn your open sign around and come with me. Or else somebody’s gonna have a quarter ounce of searing hot lead in their brains.”
Drake truly wanted to screech, howl out for all his might, his feet dancing and stumbling beneath him as he typed, making the transaction of the ninety grand to his own bank card. His hands trembled as he looked deep into the woman’s grey green eyes, hoping to find a way out. But her hand remained trained on him, her finger over the already cocked trigger. It was apparent that she meant what she told him. Through pale strands of bleached hair, the woman gave him a warning glance, and a knot formed in his stomach as reluctant, slow, he flipped the open sign to closed.
He then scooted from behind the teller’s desk, stumbling on his hopping feet and ankles as he emerged from the aisle into the bank lobby. No one had been able to see the entire event, he realized, due to the small plastic partitions that surrounded each pay-hole in the counter!
His dark tennis shoes squeaked loudly on the cold tile floor. He tried not to look at the bulge in the woman’s skirt where the gun was. She could kill him…and he would never know what had even happened. Drake’s mind rushed with fleeting, adrenaline-filled thoughts.
He still could barely believe that anyone else hadn't noticed the gun. The security camera…that was it! The gun was at an angle to the desk so that it was draped in shadow, out of the monitor’s range. He was being kidnapped, and no one even knew it!
“You go out second. And don’t you think 0f running. I got this gun and I am not afraid to use it.” she said huskily.
Now the woman walked backwards through the bank’s automatic doors, the point of the gun’s muzzle still trained on Drake. A lump rose in his throat as he tried to find a way out. Run, she’s got you. BAM!
Try to fight her and the same thing happens. Try to talk her out of it, and she’ll probably be annoyed enough to fire at me. But where is she going to take me? How long will I be there, will I live? Drake’s stomach sank into his intestines as he walked over the foyer and out the last set of doors, hearing the metal sides smash together like the blade of a guillotine. The sound made him shudder as he stumbled along, his legs still dancing.
“Good, good little boy, you're defenseless, you know,” sneered the woman, now speaking in louder, a more hostile tone of voice.
“Uhm…?” Drake began, staring furiously at his captress, now whistling a jig at cut-time speed.
“You are going to open the door of that car and get in it. If you got anything in that head of yours, you should know to be careful. One wrong move and-“
“And an ounce of searing hot lead in my brain, yeah.” He spat back, fighting the growing urge to do a roundhouse kick at her head.
He went to the back door of a black car that was in the first parking space.
“Yes. Now get in the back seat. Hands on your head.”
Drake sat down slowly, reluctant to take a position in the hearse-like vehicle which smelled of smoke, alcohol, and the fetid stench of vomit. His head began to shake so hard he thought his neck would break. Now taking the gun out of her pocket, still aimed at Drake, she pulled a roll of duct tape out of her purse. Using her teeth and left hand, she began to tear strips from the roll, temporarily sticking them to the edge of the car door. Once she had her material laid out, she took a sizeable strip and ran it from the center of Drake’s forehead, going over his crown, tying his hands to his skull. Then she twined tape around his wrists, then despite his kicks, she managed to tape his ankles to each other. A final three strips secured his abdomen to the seat. The woman gave him a dark look as she closed the door, hopping into the front seat. She cranked it up, the key clicking in the ignition, and she rocketed out of the parking lot, the wheels spinning and slinging gravel.
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That's it so far. What do you think of the plot? Like it, hate it, love it? Feedback is quite welcome indeed. I hope you liked it. But I really appreciate criticism too.
Cheers!
--Voxina
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