How to Rob an Armored Car
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In a dying Pennsylvania coal town, three friends are looking for a way out. Mitch is a rebellious malcontent whose bad attitude gets him fired from a chain big box store. Doug can identify any pill by sight and any ‘80s rock song by the first three notes but doesn’t understand credit scores. Kevin got married and had a kid too soon and is now on parole after serving jail time for growing marijuana. The three of them dabble in petty crime and believe they have a talent for it. They start by stealing a high-definition TV, then set their sights on bigger scores. Soon things begin to get out of hand.
making you come back in here for your monthly visits. You’ve come up clean every time we’ve tested you and . . .” Poacher kept talking. The warmth had turned to heat, then burning. It felt like someone was holding a lit cigarette to his nut sack. Kevin tried to beam with glee at what Poacher was saying, but instead felt his face freeze in a death grimace as sweat broke out on his forehead. Then the powerful odor of bleach hit him. He and Poacher were only a few feet apart, and Kevin was sure
music and saw the kid bouncing around in the driver’s seat. “I hate this guy,” whispered Mitch. Doug said nothing. The kid continued bopping around in the seat. When the song finally ended, Mitch heaved a sigh of relief. Then another song began and the kid started bopping again, this time singing along, turning the radio up so loud that the Ferrari began to vibrate. Mitch’s cell phone rang. Hiding behind a bush in a commando crouch, he fumbled it out of his pocket, cursing. It was Kevin. “What
decided on the positive approach. “I’m looking forward to robbing this damned armored car,” he said. “I’m actually looking forward to it, like we’re going on vacation or something. You know why?” “Why?” “’Cause ever since I was in school, everyone has been trying to teach me a lesson, you know? Accu-mart, the army—always someone telling me to sit up straight, quit smoking pot, do this, do that. Stop getting in trouble for stupid shit.” Doug nodded. “Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not
masks and identifiable clothing would come off. And away they’d go. Speed was everything. It had to be fast. What were the variables, the factors that were out of their control? Maybe a cop would notice the old Nevada plate on the Impala. Couldn’t do anything about that. He’d take care to park with the rear of the car up against another car, so the plate wasn’t visible. What else? The time the armored car arrived. It was usually punctual, right at three, Mitch said, but it could be late. They’d
apparently forgetting that the night before they had spent an hour wiping down every part of the car that might contain a fingerprint— underneath the dash, the radio, the fuel filter, the wing nut that fastened the air filter to the engine, everything. All they needed now was to absentmindedly touch something and have to do it all over again. “Dude, this car drives like shit,” said Mitch, who was having trouble getting it up to fifteen miles an hour as Kevin sped off in front of them. “I thought