It’s a poor choice for a getaway car. I try to tell Snowball it’s a bad idea, but Snowball listens to no one.
Where do I start? The engine is shot—needs a valve job, probably more. Door sticks on the right rear, muffler drags, transmission shudders. Better for hauling groceries on senior day.
Snowball listens to no one. Who in hell robs banks, anyway? It’s all online transactions these days.
I think he’s in love with the spectacle. Putting on the mask, barging in through the doors, shouting and cussing. And the guns. God he loves the guns. He’d buy an Uzi if he could afford it. Wave it around like God’s own avenger.
Room, he says. Plenty of room in the back for the take. Quick in and quick out. Not in that thing. I can hear the tappets clattering now, loud enough to wake the dead, engine wheezing into third gear. Can’t tell him nothing.
This used to be a professional’s game. Timing. Planning. A little hustle, a little pride. No more.
Enough to make you get a job.