Robbery

Mr. Lester Beal sat quietly at his desk. The six men began pulling shades down, spray-painting the security cameras, jumping on desks; the usual things bank robbers do.

They told Mr. Beal not to move, or utter a peep, or touch an alarm and Mr. Beal calmly assured them he would follow their directions.

The robbers all had pantyhose pulled over their faces. They looked quite scary, and they spoke with the rough, street-talk filled with f-words quite colorful and common to a certain class of people with which Mr. Beal rarely dealt.

The man who seemed to be in charge bent low and screamed into Mr. Beal's face. He gave rapid colorful commands that caused Mr. B. to scratch his head. It seemed the man wanted him to open up the mother-fucking safe or he would blow his mother-fucking balls up his, and this part he couldn't swear to, but Mr. B. believed he said “faggit-ass ass”.

Mr. B. pointed his pencil and said, “Perhaps you gentlemen didn't see it outside, but there's a sign that says 'Closed'”.

Another gentleman came forward with a rather large gun and stuck the barrel in Mr. Beal's nose and said something e x t r e m e l y colorful, certainly the most colorful yet

“I am so sorry, but I think you misunderstand,” Mr. Beal replied. “I don't mean we aren't open for mother-fucking business yet, I mean we are closed, as in gone out of mother-fucking business.”

After a good deal of general dissatisfaction with the American economy, the six men all departed rather rapidly.

Mr. Beal sat back in his desk chair confident that he could talk to anyone on God's earth-- which was exactly why he had no worries about securing another mother-fucking job.

300 Words