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Welcome To The Revolution (standard:mystery, 1835 words)
Author: NightfyreAdded: Mar 05 2003Views/Reads: 2205/1369Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A bank robbing partnership goes south.


“Get down. Get down. Get the fuck down!” Fyodor ordered as he and his
partner charged the bank tellers, pistols waving. The two commanded 
control as if born into the art of bank robbery. The chaos that erupted 
from the bystanders was extremely routine. People frozen in fear, hands 
by their faces, knees turned in and elbows secured against the ribs. 
Vet and Fyodor had witnessed many people assume this classic position 
during their three years in this line of work. Fyodor actually got a 
kick out of it. He enjoyed coming up with unique ways to get these 
deer-in-the-middle-of-the-road type people on the floor. But he wasn't 
feeling particularly creative right then. Brutal was more his thing for 
the moment. 

“Hello, hello, hello,” Vet bellowed as he leaped onto the teller
counter. “As you can see, we are in fact robbing your bank. So please, 
somebody fuck with me. Someone give me a reason to pull this trigger.” 
Fyodor began stashing the petty cash from the drawers while Vet 
continued fine-tuning his superiority complex. “That's what I thought. 
A bunch of yellow suckers. What happened to the good old days? Back 
when there was always a cowboy around to stop people like us? The 
world's gone soft on me. Isn't that right?” 

“All right, Vet. Let's get the hell out of here,” Fyodor demanded as he
motioned to the exit. “Come on.” 

“I'm sorry, Fyodor. This is where our relationship ends.” With that, Vet
assumed a classic shooting position, weapon lined up right with his 
partner's head. 

Fyodor dropped to his knees and pulled the trigger as fast as his panic
would allow. Vet took one shot, giving his friend a third eye. Taking 
two rounds in the leg, however, was going to make escape difficult. The 
blood poured out steadily, a tell-tale sign that one of Fyodor's 
bullets caught the femoral artery on the inner thigh. 

Vet collapsed to the floor, trying to crawl toward his ex-partner. His
vision began to cloud before he reached the money, and he realized that 
escape was impossible. He would black out from the rapid blood loss and 
be captured. Not the way it was supposed to turn out, Vet thought. His 
head then hit the floor and he surrendered to unconsciousness. 

Svetlana heard a loud rap on her front door. “Coming,” she said in an
accent that never quite left her after thirty-five years in America. 
Not recognizing the person through the window, she cautiously opened 
the door. “Can I help you?” 

The man removed his opaque sunglasses and put them in the pocket of his
dark gray suit jacket. “Yes. I'm Jack Norwood. I had called you about 
purchasing your house.” 

“Ah yes, Mr. Norwood. Please, won't you come in.” This was the first
person in eight years to ask about a possible sale. Svetlana had spent 
over fifteen years trying to sell it, but nobody saw the sense in 
paying $650,000 for a seventy-year-old house in this condition. 

“Is your husband around? I'd like to discuss a few things with him
before proceeding with any deals,” Mr. Norwood asked. 

Svetlana met her guest's deep brown eyes with her own and responded.
“I'm a widow of thirty-four years, Mr. Norwood. I am the one you wish 
to talk to, yes?” 

A widow? “I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't know,” Mr. Norwood sympathized.
Eighteen years in the slammer and this is my freedom present. This is 
going to be easier than I thought. Quickly trying to change the mood of 
the discussion, Mr. Norwood continued. “I guess you are the one I want 
to speak with.” The two went into the living room and sat on the couch. 

The room was representative of the entire house. Extremely dark, despite
the large windows on the north side. Svetlana drew the curtains open to 
allow some of the July sun into the room, hiding her eyes as she did, 
explaining that she never went out much and wasn't accustomed to bright 

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