THREE STRIKES AND YOUR OUT

THREE STRKES AND YOUR OUT

The business of the post office stopped in an instant when the words ‘Everyone to the floor this is a robbery’ rang into the air.  People turned to the sound of the voice.  A small weasel looking man stood in the centre of the shop a gun held high for all to see.  The man looked nervous.  He was sweating and in the space of everyone turning to see who spoke he ran his hand nervously across his mouth twice, licking his lips immediately after.

The people fell to the floor as the man took aim on those still standing.  They eyed the only exit and were dismayed to see that it was shut and apparently locked for the man waved the key for all to see.  The man who had spoken took a couple of uneasy strides towards the checkout shouting ‘Keep you hands where I can see them’.  The smell of alcohol was strong on him.  He tripped over a women’s foot and bashed into the display knocking tins to the floor.

 He turned and kicked the women in her side.  She screamed when he knelt down and pushed the gun to her head ‘You like that, you think you’re clever? Do you?’ He cork screwed the gun like he was trying to drill into her brain.  The women, eyes wide shook her head.  Her lips clamped so tight they seemed to disappear.  An immense silence filled with tension so strong one could chew on it descended on everyone in the shop like a blanket as the man’s finger seemed to twitch on the trigger.

 ‘Easy there now.  Why don’t you get the money and just run’.  The man with the gun twirled around with such speed on the owner of the voice people gasped in surprise.  An imprint of the barrel was left red and sore on the women’s forehead she seemed to flop with fatigue ‘Don’t you play the super hero with me old man?’ The hand holding the gun shook slightly as it took aim on the old man.  The old man looked into the gun bearer’s eyes and saw they were glassy, wide, and the pupils were dilated.  He thought to himself is this man scared or mad? Then he got his answer as the man twitched and shivered.  He was clearly high on drugs.  The old man’s hope were dashed as he knew desperate people would do anything in a situation like this but add drugs to the fray and you’re asking for trouble.

 ‘What are you a cop’ the man spat the words out as if it left a nasty taste in his mouth. ‘I use to be’ was the calm reply of the old man.  Those words seemed to put life into the man wielding the gun he sprang up a look of disgust on his face. ‘That’s one strike’ he shouted.  The woman who was closes to him put her hands over her ears and looked to the floor.  A moan was heard as she tried to make her self as small as possible.

The man shoved a bag over the counter ‘Fill this I want everything you got. Keep your hands where I can see them remember.’ The man turned to look at everyone to make sure no funny business was going on behind his back.  His eyes were drawn to two young boys crouched low to the floor both were weeping.  One had wet his pants.  He seemed to take note that the mad man with the gun was looking at him and he looked away in fear.  Some form of emotion must have played out on the mad man’s face for the old man’s voice piped up ‘Why don’t you let them go?’ As if snapping out of a trance the man who was meant to be running the show looked around stupefied taking in the situation he stared at the gun as if he didn’t know what it was.  The old man sensing a change in the man asked again the same question.  The man with quick reactions punched the old one and grabbed his collar he pressed the gun into the man’s soft fleshy neck and sneered ‘That’s two strikes’ He pushed the man away and turned his attention to the women behind the checkout.

‘Hurry up you dumb cow’ he snarled.  The women’s hands were shaking as she stuffed the money into the bag.  She was taking a handful of coins out of the till when some escaped her grasp and clattered to the floor. The man with the gun started picking up the coins.  The old man sprang up with an agility that betrayed his age and knocked the man to the floor.  There was a desperate struggle for control of the man’s gun arm.  The old man was on top of the younger one when all of a sudden the old man was screaming. The younger man’s other arm had worked itself in a position to grabbed the old man’s hair.  He pulled hard on it and tears welled in the old man’s eyes whether from the pain or the knowledge of his demise we will never know.

 The younger man pulled the old man’s head back exposing the neck ‘Strike… three’ he said through two huge grasps, and then there was a loud bang as the gun went off. Blood spattered those near by and decorated the walls. The old man was no more.  Getting to his feet and pushing the old man off him the man was clearly harassed now.  He was pacing and he kept on stealing glances at the corpse as if he believed the old man was faking death.  He turned and pointed the gun to the check out girl a look of hatred embedded deep in his features and said ‘That was your fault that’s one strike for you.’