It was noon.

We pulled up.

We pulled ugly beautiful shiny black guns out.

We pulled on masks.

Except driver boy Tommy who could use one full time with his ugly Irish freckles.

We scanned Sheriff Street. No sheriffs. No Gardai. No nosey parkers.

Tommy Freckles watched me in the rear view mirror.

Have fun Victor he said.

We got out.

The Kray twins and Johnny Rotten. That was me mask wise.

We ran into the Allied Irish Bank.

Armalite, Lugers and endorphins full bright.

Ronnie and Reggie ran towards the counter screaming and vaulted it in synchrony.

They were fine tuned to the art of aerial dynamics.

They knocked a few money serfs unconscious.

Men only – on first principles.

Three minutes I called out.

I fired into the ceiling.

Armalite work out.

It worked.

The money customers went supine.

Quaked. One did urine.

I was going to shoot him.

Restraint is my middle name.

I shot the monitors instead.

They sputtered out.

They cascaded glass and electronic tendrils.

The Twins were having some bother. Some woman was fighting back.

Knock her block off – I shouted. Second Principles

A sick thud followed.  Followed by whimpering.

Two minutes left!

I sprayed the ceiling.

Not urine wise.

Heavy caliber wise.

Dust and plaster plumed down.

I walked up and down and around House of Pain wise. I danced to the pogo. It made me feel mighty real.

I know that’s disco shit!

Don’t look up at me.

Don’t talk.

Don’t cry.

Don’t piss.

One fucker is enough.

I have OCD.

I have ADD.

They don’t mix easy.

Reggie was shouting at Ronnie -they were like the real twins that way.

One minute left dummies I called.

Then Reggie stumbled over the counter and landed at my feet. The customers screamed. I screamed. But only inside. Restraint is etc.

There was a stiletto stuck in his temple.

Then Ronnie was firing.

I ran over – jumping prone customers as I went – Steeple Chase wise.  It was race week in Galway.

I leaned over the counter.

Ronnie – what the fuck.

He was executing everyone.

What happened?

This fucker stabbed Reggie. He pointed at one of the women’s bodies.

She is one of the Laffey sisters.

The biggest gangsters in Galway.

We are dead fucken meat now in perpetuity.

What?

Forever.

Whatever.

I looked around. Reggie was bleeding out. He was lying face down on the ornate marble floor. Thick black blood flowed away from him. Customers tried to inch away from the blood as it got near them. It would ruin any well tailored material for ever and ever amen.

Ronnie – they are dead 10 times over – throw the bags over here.

Fuck the bags and fuck you.

He was reloading.

Thirty seconds left I said into the void that was Ronnie’s medulla.

That is where I put him then. Shot him in the temple.  It was simple. He and Reggie were on the same ship out now.

I jumped the counter. Not easy with an Armalite. I left it sitting on the counter once I got over. No more heroes left hopefully.

I grabbed the two bags and threw them back onto the counter. They landed in Reggie’s blood flow. I could hear the splash.

I vaulted back. I grabbed the Armalite. I put it under my arm and hauled the two bags as best I could towards the door across the shiny floor. They were heavy.

I got to the front door. Right in time.

Zero seconds left I called out.

I had to OCD wise.   Perfection wise. Professional pride wise.

I opened the bank door.

Tommy was sitting in the car with the window down. He waved over. He jumped out. Not in the rule book. He pulled the bags off me. He flung them into the back seat. I climbed in after them.

Tommy got in and sped away. I could hear a siren singing in the soft clear air.

He didn’t even ask about the Krays.

100% non curious.

100% professional.

He looked in the rear view mirror.

You have fun? Yes.

How did it go Victor?

Some guy pissed his pants.

Gross.

I know.