“It reads like a manifesto. No damn money in a mission statement. Principals don’t pay the rent. We rob the banks Viva la Revolución!” And then she lit a cigarette from the orange flame of her dwindling one.
“While you’re practicing your tobacco pilates, I’ll try to better channel Ronald Reagan to your liking,” I said. And one of the thugs snickered, just before his forehead exploded. And that bully to his right went down like a rag doll.
She ran, until three rounds rained down a few feet in front of her path.
“Stop In The Name Of The Law,” I yelled. And laughter mixed with the smell of cordite, as I cuffed the chain smoker in plastic ties.
And the rookie was quick to cough up a hundred bucks to satisfy the wager that I would indeed; stoop to crime fighting cliché.