“Empty the till motherfucker! This is a robbery.”
Garrett was proud of his loud, aggressive entrance into the liquor store as he shouted his opening line at the top of his lungs and slammed the glass door shut. The bottles in the windows vibrated, and a poster declaring the latest offers fell to the floor.
He sounded badass and menacing. A real hard-case, not to be messed with. The crack was doing its job and had already made him forget all about leaving his mask at home. Damn, this new strain was as potent as they claimed. Worth the extra cash. He felt great. Hyped. Confident. Ready for anything as he marched towards the counter.
The frail old man behind the register was probably shitting bricks, Garrett thought as he drew his gun and aimed at him like it was an extension of the big swinging dick he could only dream of having. The pensioner was probably going to have a heart attack. Oh well, as long as the miserable old fart emptied his till first.
“What the hell are you doing back here?” Abe, the liquor store owner, vehemently asked. He was showing none of the cowardliness or pant-pissing Garrett had hoped to see. In fact, the irate old war horse seemed more annoyed than scared. Like Garrett had wronged him in some way, before he even had the chance to wrong him in some way.
“This is a robbery,” Garrett bellowed, still in the zone as he kicked over a stack of six-packs. That will teach him. He pointed the gun harder at the mean old bastard like that would reestablish the fucked and fucker dynamics. He was in control. He was pumped. This was his moment. The old geezer needed to show him some damn respect and hand over the cash; otherwise he’d put the ignorant bastard six feet under. Garrett wanted to cheer himself on after every word. God, I’m off my tits, he excitedly thought.
“There’s no money in the till you idiot… You took it all yesterday.” The enraged owner pointed to a handwritten sign propped up next to the till. It read: ‘Card only, because some smackhead robbed me yesterday.’ He smashed his bony finger against the sign several times to emphasise his point before throwing his arms up, flummoxed by the robber’s stupidity.
“What you talking about?” Garrett questioned, feeling his buzz slightly diminishing. This wasn’t going as expected. Why was this old-timer intent on ruining his day? All he had to do was hand over the money so Garrett could go and get fucked up again. How hard was that? What was all this nonsense about having no money? It was a liquor store; they always had money. He should know; he’d robbed enough of them.
“Empty the till motherfucker!” he screamed, forgetting he’d already said that. He hadn’t planned on repeating any lines, as it seemed a little lame and he always thought of himself as a cool armed robber, but the old man had thrown him off his groove. Rattled him. Garret was seriously considering shooting him for his disobedience.
“It’s already empty you jackass.” Abe wasn’t in the least bit amused by the situation, or worried about the tweaker’s gun. He’d had enough pointed at his face since taking over the Spirit Bomb for the action to have lost its power over him.
He yanked the drawer from the register and recklessly tossed it across the countertop, sending several small sample-sized vodka bottles smashing to the floor. If he’d stopped to think about it for a second, he could probably have beamed the till at Garrett’s head. The idiot seemed too fucked up to dodge it. But Abe was too disgusted by the nerve of the asshole to return to his shop a day after robbing it to think anything through.
Garrett looked at the empty till, still not understanding what was happening. All he knew was the owner was seriously annoying him. “Where’s the money old man?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” the shopkeeper quickly retorted.
“Where’s. My. Fucking. Money!” Garrett asked, in his most intimidating voice as he raised the gun level with the shopkeeper’s face. Abe didn’t budge. If he was intimidated, he wasn’t going to show it.
“I’m guessing up your nose.”
“I ain’t playing.”
“Neither am I”
“I’m not falling for your mind tricks,” Garrett frustratedly screamed. He wanted to rip his hair out. Or cry. What the hell was happening? What was this guy’s problem? He wanted to pistol-whip the ancient son-of-a-bitch, but the owner was out of reach.
Garrett paced back and forth while the baffled shopkeeper watched in utter astonishment. He’d been robbed plenty of times before. Being a liquor store owner in Feral City was akin to being on the front line, but he couldn’t recall ever being robbed by the same degenerate twice, much less on consecutive days.
The pacing stopped as the crackhead formed an idea. He tried to keep his voice calm and steady. No more bizarre misunderstandings. He just wanted some money. Needed that next fix. This nonsense had gone on long enough. “Alright, give me the card machine.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a robbery?” Garrett replied sharply. The little calm he had gained was already gone. Fuckers testing me.
Abe stared at him in complete bewilderment. He tried to gauge just how messed up the kid was, but it was probably off the scale. Anything potent enough to make you forget you robbed a liquor store the previous day was too much to have any kind of real conversation with. “Just how many times did your deadbeat parents drop you on your head as a kid?”
“Fuck you, old man.”
Abe laughed.
“Give me the God damn card machine.”
“That’s not how money works…”
Garrett was about to retort but stopped. Something in the back of his drug-addled mind told him the old man was right about the card machine. He probably couldn’t even sell it, much less get any money out of it. Fuck.
“What about the safe?”
“You took that too?”
“The safe?” he questioned. Now Garrett was certain he would have remembered taking something as cumbersome as a safe back to the den. The old man was definitely having him on.
“No. The money inside it you dipshit. Jesus. Just how messed up are you?”
Garrett couldn’t help but laugh at the question. It was a good question, and not one he had an answer to. He’d somehow come across a good amount of money yesterday and had invested it in the best crack Feral City had to offer. Shit was expensive, but wow. He then remembered throwing a party and waking up with barely any left. He needed more.
“I need money,” he told the owner in an almost polite manner, at least for someone holding up a liquor store. He hoped the grumpy old bastard would understand.
“Well, you already took all of mine.”
Not helpful. Garrett didn’t know what to do. The stubborn old man was beginning to really get him down, and he’d been feeling so good before he entered the store. He needed cash, but the old timer had insisted there wasn’t any. The card machine was useless. The safe empty. He looked around, wondering what other options there were before it struck him that he was surrounded by alcohol. If he couldn’t buy his next fix, maybe he could trade for it.
“Alright, fill up a couple of bags with your most expensive booze,” he told the shopkeeper like he’d just got him in checkmate, not that he had a clue how to play chess.
“Are you serious?”
“Damn right I am.” He pointed the gun back at his face just to emphasise how serious he was. That happy buzz was starting to come back. Things hadn’t gone to plan, but they were going to work out in the end.
“This is ridiculous,” the keeper proclaimed, but started filling up a bag anyway.
“None of the cheap stuff. I want the good bottles.”
“Of course you do.” Abe grabbed a handful of the half-decent bottles behind the counter and mixed them with the generic stuff. No way was the crackhead going to be able to tell the difference, and he’d already given him enough. He was still furious that he was robbing him two days in a row, but now Abe just wanted the nutcase out of his shop.
He piled three bags full of booze onto the countertop, heavy enough so the lunatic would have to pocket his gun and hopefully not shoot him on the way out. Abe then thought how later tonight he’d take up one of his paying customers’ offers and buy a shotgun from him to replace the one stolen from the Spirit Bomb last month. He’d been stupid to think he could get by without one. Enough was enough. If the loser came back a third time, it would be his last.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Garrett smugly told the shopkeeper as he gathered the bags around his wrists, keeping a hold of the gun, much to Abe’s dismay. He waved the pistol in the old man’s direction as he stumbled towards the door but didn’t fire.
Garrett was a scumbag and a druggie, but he wasn’t a murderer. He didn’t mind cracking the odd skull, but he preferred to just get messed up. Plus, he sort of got what he wanted in the end, even if the ignorant old man had kept him waiting.
As Garrett reached the Spirit Bombs door, two cops entered, both spotting his gun before he had a chance to hide it. Neither officer gave him an opportunity to plead his case as both drew their weapons and shot. One bullet in his kneecap, the other in Garrett’s shoulder.
The robber crumbled to the ground, squealing in agony as his leg buckled beneath him. His gun slid across the tiles and out of reach while the bottles exploded in the bag as they dropped to the floor. Garrett’s high was long gone. A permanent low was just beginning.
“Weren’t you robbed yesterday?” the officers asked Abe, amused by their timing and the junkie crying at their feet.
“Yep,” the shopkeeper declared, “by him.” Abe came around the counter to greet them.
“He come to return the money?” they inquired suspiciously, knowing damn well that wasn’t how things worked in Feral City… or any other city for that matter.
“No, the clown tried to rob me again,” Abe revealed, looking at the mess of blood and booze on his shop floor.
“What an idiot,” both officers laughed. “Want to tase him?” They added, already handing Abe a taser before he had a chance to answer.
The shopkeeper’s face lit up. “I don’t see why not…”
