The “Ambrose Burnside”
I’m standing at the teller when I hear the first shots. Four men in black facemasks enter through the revolving door and pepper the roof with buckshot. They scream, “Get on the ground!” and “Move or you get a bullet in your fucking head!” I drop my briefcase and lay face down on the cold granite floor, mumbling incoherent prayers that I may see my family once more. As the robbers fan out, a bead of sweat skates down my forebrow and collects in my thick, wooly cheek hair. One thought runs through my troubled mind over and over: Let them kill the women and the children, but God save me!
The “Chester A. Arthur”
I’m standing at the teller when I hear the first shots. Four men in black facemasks enter through the revolving door and pepper the roof with buckshot. They scream, “Get on the ground!” and “Move or you get a bullet in your fucking head!” I scan the faces of the terrified innocents, and move quick to help a very pregnant woman to her knees. “Gentlemen, there must be some other way!” I declare. One of the robbers, a great hulk of a man with seething white eyes, trudges towards me and strikes with the butt of his rifle right where sideburn and beard meet. A soothing warmth envelops me as I lose consciousness. I think: If I die today, at least I die a man!
The “Edgar Allen Poe”
I’m standing at the teller when I hear the first shots. Four men in black facemasks enter through the revolving door and pepper the roof with buckshot. They scream, “Get on the ground!” and “Move or you get a bullet in your fucking head!” I don’t hear them, tragically lost again in my own head. As the robbers assault a portly clerk, I continue to rub my moustache in meditation, confident that I’ll overcome this troublesome stanza and complete my sonnet before the daylight expires. The man on the ground next to me tugs at my trousers and exclaims, “Do you want to get shot, you fool!?” I stare vacantly at him. He could never understand my struggle; he could never know my pain.
The “Friedrich Nietzsche”
I’m standing at the teller when I hear the first shots. Four men in black facemasks enter through the revolving door and pepper the roof with buckshot. They scream, “Get on the ground!” and “Move or you get a bullet in your fucking head!” There is no time to think. I look down at my hand, surprised to see that I’ve already fashioned a crude glaive out of a Bic pen and straight razor. Instinct kicks in. A few seconds later, I’m standing over the bloody remains of the four would-be robbers. My soiled moustache gives me a crimson grin. I howl in triumph. Before anyone can show me their gratitude, I bound out the revolving door and tear off all of my clothes. I manage to consume three full automobiles before the police put me down.
The “Samuel Clemens”
I’m standing at the teller when I hear the first shots. Four men in black facemasks enter through the revolving door and pepper the roof with buckshot. They scream, “Get on the ground!” and “Move or you get a bullet in your fucking head!” I set my briefcase on the floor and nod appreciatively. The robbers take turns suckerpunching a poor old black woman and I can’t help but laugh aloud. The terrified young woman slouched against a potted plant next to me whispers, “Why are you laughing? We have to stop them!” I gather myself, running my fingers over my bushy upper lip, but find that I’m unable to put my thoughts into words. How could she ever understand that these men are not men but boys with guns, and that this is just another game for them to play?
