Post by Dane Bennett on Apr 14, 2015 16:21:29 GMT -5
“Bennett!”
Men that guard doors would shout my name, but this time, it was a different calling. I was fortunate enough to make parole in January of 2015. After all the time I spent as property of the federal government, I learned that the world correctional took many forms, but the most common was to adjust the path of the individual behind the bars; behind the cement walls that created a new world for those stuck for life. Even if you were temporary – in my case – you felt as if the main character in a thrilling tale. Shawshank Redemption. Something like that, but with a better ending, and better looking dudes. The only difference was that I definitely committed those crimes.
“Release day; pack your shit. You’ve got thirty minutes until we put your ass on the street,”
I didn’t have much of a plan after being paroled. When you’re sentenced for a good chunk of years, you’re afforded the luxury of time, though. It was enough for me to read a ton of books and stay in shape – what most people do in federal prison. Building my life back up never occurred until I felt the heat from the sun on my forehead, and of course we were in Virginia, so it’s humid as shit and I was sweating when we stepped outside. Fucking Commonwealth. But I’ve jumped the gun; you probably want to know how I ended up there in the first place, right? It was all bullshit.
So there we were.
“Alright gentlemen, it’s go time,” I said.
We did some final checks on our weapons and adjusted the masks on our face. I was George W., and you might be thinking, “Why not his daddy?” and I can tell you why: Fuck Desert Storm. Anyway, Pete was Raegan and Thomas was Obama. This was around the time Obama just took office, for your information. Many people thought he was Powell, which would’ve made some sense if you think about it. They were cheap masks. One cop was a real dick about it.
“Oh my god!”
Some bitch fainted when we strutted into the bank. Whatever. Casey had the music bumping in the utility van outside – he was Nixon. He probably shouldn’t have been blasting music. It was unprofessional and attracted attention, but then again, we were in Norfolk. Ghetto as hell and I doubt it mattered, but who knows. We approached the tellers and it was obvious what we wanted: some fuckin’ loot. Some dumbass hillbilly in overalls was probably checking up on his certified deposits, because he was taking all damn day, but then I forgot we didn’t need to stand in line. We were robbing this bitch. And who the hell has a CD anymore?
“Get the fuck outta the way, old man!” I said.
I shoved him aside and he looked surprised, because maybe he voted for Kerry. We started our procedure. Pete was in charge of helping me with the doe. Thomas was on crowd control, smoothing it over with all those stuck inside that damn bank with us, because let’s face it, Obama is one hell of a bullshit artist. Know what I mean?
“Gimme your phone, bitch!”
Pete was really into it. We rehearsed this for a few weeks before we actually did the robbing. Hard work pays off. He snatched purse and stomped a few cell phones before we made our way to the vault, which was actually closed, and to our knowledge, the branch manager for this bank was on lunch. That was when it all started to go south.
“Open the vault! Open it up!” I kept reiterating that this teller needed some sense of urgency. We didn’t have all damn day, “Put the code in, cunt!”
I was never a fan of the c-word, but I figured it evoked some fear in chicks, because it was so derogatory. It seemed to work because she almost broke down in tears. After explaining to us they couldn’t get the vault open without the opposite combination, I knew we were fucked. Therefore, we looted the tellers and we probably got around twenty or thirty thousand. A little shy of what we aimed for. Fuck.
Thomas was in the lobby making friends with a bad bitch in yoga pants. Typical Thomas shit. He might have even gave her his cell phone number. Ridiculous. I had to take control of the situation.
“Shut the fuck up and stay down!” I said, waving my Chinese Ak-47 about. We had the cheap shit. It’s all we could afford. We saw the police pull up outside the bank and form a barricade of cars. Someone had used a silent alarm. Perfect. Blue and red lights flashed across the blacks of my eyes, triggering the instinct for survival to kick in. We hesitated like amateurs for a while before we heard a megaphone blare from outside.
“Put your weapons down and come out with your hands up!”
I know what you’re thinking, “But George W. Bush doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” and you’re fuckin’ right. I stepped out from the front door and kept the assault rifle at my hip – Scarface style – with every intention to smoke these fools. Click. That was the sound of a jam in my weapon, and let’s just say this was the easiest arrest in bank robbery history, because the police swarmed me like locusts in the bible. I was down and kissing the pavement before I knew it, and of course, the idiots I was with went down the same. Chinese AK-47’s, man. Never again.
Men that guard doors would shout my name, but this time, it was a different calling. I was fortunate enough to make parole in January of 2015. After all the time I spent as property of the federal government, I learned that the world correctional took many forms, but the most common was to adjust the path of the individual behind the bars; behind the cement walls that created a new world for those stuck for life. Even if you were temporary – in my case – you felt as if the main character in a thrilling tale. Shawshank Redemption. Something like that, but with a better ending, and better looking dudes. The only difference was that I definitely committed those crimes.
“Release day; pack your shit. You’ve got thirty minutes until we put your ass on the street,”
I didn’t have much of a plan after being paroled. When you’re sentenced for a good chunk of years, you’re afforded the luxury of time, though. It was enough for me to read a ton of books and stay in shape – what most people do in federal prison. Building my life back up never occurred until I felt the heat from the sun on my forehead, and of course we were in Virginia, so it’s humid as shit and I was sweating when we stepped outside. Fucking Commonwealth. But I’ve jumped the gun; you probably want to know how I ended up there in the first place, right? It was all bullshit.
So there we were.
“Alright gentlemen, it’s go time,” I said.
We did some final checks on our weapons and adjusted the masks on our face. I was George W., and you might be thinking, “Why not his daddy?” and I can tell you why: Fuck Desert Storm. Anyway, Pete was Raegan and Thomas was Obama. This was around the time Obama just took office, for your information. Many people thought he was Powell, which would’ve made some sense if you think about it. They were cheap masks. One cop was a real dick about it.
“Oh my god!”
Some bitch fainted when we strutted into the bank. Whatever. Casey had the music bumping in the utility van outside – he was Nixon. He probably shouldn’t have been blasting music. It was unprofessional and attracted attention, but then again, we were in Norfolk. Ghetto as hell and I doubt it mattered, but who knows. We approached the tellers and it was obvious what we wanted: some fuckin’ loot. Some dumbass hillbilly in overalls was probably checking up on his certified deposits, because he was taking all damn day, but then I forgot we didn’t need to stand in line. We were robbing this bitch. And who the hell has a CD anymore?
“Get the fuck outta the way, old man!” I said.
I shoved him aside and he looked surprised, because maybe he voted for Kerry. We started our procedure. Pete was in charge of helping me with the doe. Thomas was on crowd control, smoothing it over with all those stuck inside that damn bank with us, because let’s face it, Obama is one hell of a bullshit artist. Know what I mean?
“Gimme your phone, bitch!”
Pete was really into it. We rehearsed this for a few weeks before we actually did the robbing. Hard work pays off. He snatched purse and stomped a few cell phones before we made our way to the vault, which was actually closed, and to our knowledge, the branch manager for this bank was on lunch. That was when it all started to go south.
“Open the vault! Open it up!” I kept reiterating that this teller needed some sense of urgency. We didn’t have all damn day, “Put the code in, cunt!”
I was never a fan of the c-word, but I figured it evoked some fear in chicks, because it was so derogatory. It seemed to work because she almost broke down in tears. After explaining to us they couldn’t get the vault open without the opposite combination, I knew we were fucked. Therefore, we looted the tellers and we probably got around twenty or thirty thousand. A little shy of what we aimed for. Fuck.
Thomas was in the lobby making friends with a bad bitch in yoga pants. Typical Thomas shit. He might have even gave her his cell phone number. Ridiculous. I had to take control of the situation.
“Shut the fuck up and stay down!” I said, waving my Chinese Ak-47 about. We had the cheap shit. It’s all we could afford. We saw the police pull up outside the bank and form a barricade of cars. Someone had used a silent alarm. Perfect. Blue and red lights flashed across the blacks of my eyes, triggering the instinct for survival to kick in. We hesitated like amateurs for a while before we heard a megaphone blare from outside.
“Put your weapons down and come out with your hands up!”
I know what you’re thinking, “But George W. Bush doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” and you’re fuckin’ right. I stepped out from the front door and kept the assault rifle at my hip – Scarface style – with every intention to smoke these fools. Click. That was the sound of a jam in my weapon, and let’s just say this was the easiest arrest in bank robbery history, because the police swarmed me like locusts in the bible. I was down and kissing the pavement before I knew it, and of course, the idiots I was with went down the same. Chinese AK-47’s, man. Never again.
