Felony Folk Tales

• Spike Risley, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2017

Felony Folk Tales

By Spike Risley

BANG! BANG! “Get down!” The bank robbers charge into the lobby wielding sawed-off shotguns, forcing staff to their knees.
“Tie them up, quick, we don’t have all day!” the leader screams at his gang.
Here comes the drill, diamond-tipped, sharp as a razor. The drill is lifted, put into place and whirs to life. It takes the state-of-the-art drill three minutes to pervade the solid steel of the vault door.
“Good, now get the thermite!”
The drill is disabled and moved to the side to let the demolition expert past. He produces a small cylinder of paper and slips it into the hole.
“Stand clear!” he calls over the police sirens.
He punches the detonator and an explosion of molten red erupts as the thermite ignites, hissing and spiting like magma. The gang leaps backward to avoid the thousand-degree molten iron that floods from the hole out onto the floor.
“I think it worked!” screams a gang member, excitedly, over the police megaphones. All the while, the once solid vault door, bends and bows creating an ear-splitting sound that permeates the tense atmosphere.
“Deal with the fuzz!” the leader roars.
“You got it boss”, three gang members peel off, heading towards the lobby. Within seconds, gun-shots fills the air.
“The doors busted. Move, move!” The gang launch themselves at the door sending it careering backwards off of its hinges and fly through into the vault
The gang leap to their feet as the three members appear at the top of the stairs, one member less.
”There’s too many of them, we have to go.” BANG!
The gang member is cut short. There is an explosion of red as his brain flies out of his forehead and up onto the ceiling. His accomplice leaps to the side, his face a mask of horror.
“Let’s go!” the leader bellows, cutting through the fog that had surrounded his gangs’ minds.
“How!? The fuzz have blocked the exits!”
“Well we’ll make an exit!”
The gang leader strides to the wall, draws his gun and blows a hole in it. He then pulls a grenade from his belt, pulls the pin, jams it in the hole and releases the spoon.
“Get back!” he cries.
The gang fly out of the vault and wait for the boom … and there it is. A cacophonous explosion of noise as steel and concrete are shredded.
”Hustle, hustle!”
The gang charge through the hole, out onto the street and into the van. “Get going!” shouts the gang leader. The van screeches away from the curb, smoke reeling from the grating tyres, onto the road and into the history books … never to be seen or heard of again - mere legends, utter phantom imaginings.
“One more time, please!” pleads his son. Tom rolls his eyes. “No, buddy, three times is plenty.” His son groans softly then drifts off to sleep. Tom chuckles to himself … If only he knew who his father really was, if only.