Mick thought the pantyhose would disguise him; instead, they just blinded him right as he stared down the barrel of a 12-gauge.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign above “Lou’s Liquid Courage” flickered with the rhythmic buzz of a dying insect. Inside, Mick adjusted his mask—a pair of pantyhose that made him look less like a mastermind and more like a squashed pug.
“I can’t breathe, Tony. My eyelashes are inverted,” Mick wheezed, fumbling with a chrome-plated revolver that was mostly rust and prayer.
Tony, sporting a neon-pink ski mask because it was “on clearance,” checked his watch. “Relax. We’re in, we’re out, we’re retired. By midnight, we’re eating lobster. Or at least the fancy crackers with the seeds.”
They kicked the door open. The bell jingled with a cheery irony that stung.
“Nobody move!” Tony barked, tripping over a display of discounted peppermint schnapps. He went down hard, a cascade of glass shards and minty syrup pooling around his knees.
Old Man Lou didn’t even look up from his crossword. “Twelve across. A six-letter word for ‘clumsy idiot.'”
“Is it ‘Tony’?” Mick asked, momentarily forgetting the heist.
“Focus!” Tony hissed, scrambling up, smelling like a candy cane factory explosion. He pointed a finger—just a finger, because he’d forgotten his prop gun in the car—at Lou. “The register. Empty it. Now.”
Lou sighed, reached under the counter, and pulled out a heavy sawed-off shotgun. The barrel looked like a dark tunnel leading straight to a very short afterlife.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Lou rasped. “I’ve been looking for two fall guys for an insurance job. You boys want the fifty bucks in the till, or do you want to hear about the ‘accidental’ fire starting in five minutes?”
Mick looked at the shotgun. Tony looked at his sticky pants. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting louder.
The Ending is in Your Hands…
Do Mick and Tony take the fall for a seasoned pro, or do they try to outrun the law with fifty bucks and the scent of peppermint? How does this disaster end?
