Do you know what the definition of madness is? It’s doing the same thing over and over again, day after day, and expecting different results each time.
That’s also the definition of my job at the First Bank of Stalliongrad as a bank teller. 9-to-5, minimum wage, terrible conditions, exacerbated by the fact that I’m a griffin, which just makes racial insults that much easier.
But I endured it all. Ponies hurling insults at me like tomatoes at a bad magician, my boss droning on about mission statements and weekly quotas, my so called friends laughing at me behind my back. I was one of those pressure-cooker types, like the clerk in the grocery store who sits there taking flak from any customer who shops there, until one day they snap and shoot everypony in the store.
On this particular Tuesday, I was serving a rather irritable pegasus, a mare with a cyan coat and a rainbow-colored mane, who wished to get a new checkbook. This wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t been asking for the limited-edition Wonderbolt checkbook, and as it stood, I was about to smack a broodmare. Under the desk, my claws sheathed and unsheathed repeatedly, the quiet *snikt* a comfort in this hellhole, the rhythm of the claws sliding in and out keeping me somewhat sane amongst the roarings of the mare.
“I already told you, we don’t have any more. They were limited edition, only 500 of ‘em.” I restated, voice flecked with hints of annoyance. My claws continued to slide in and out of my fingertips.
“Fine. I’ll go try another.” The pegasus bucked open the doors and immediately took off, leaving a bright seven-colored trail behind her, which starkly contrasted with the dull brown of the buildings that were on the other side of the street. I didn’t like color. Not much of it anyway. The rich deep red of my feathers and the bright green of my eyes was enough color for me.
My thoughts about color were interrupted by my boss shouting in my ear about not doing my weekly count of all the money I’d brought in. I was sick of this. Sick of him yelling at me for the little things, the stuff that didn’t matter.
“That. Is. IT!” I roared, throwing my chair to the floor and grabbing my boss, a moderately-sized unicorn, from the ground by the throat. “You hold one single iota of power over everypony else in this bank, and you take that power and abuse it!” I leaned in close, speaking softly, my voice shaking with anger. “I understand that college must’ve been hard. I know about that stash of cheesy superhero comics in the middle left drawer of your desk. All the insults of four-eyes, nerd, teacher’s pet. I pity you. But guess what? That doesn’t mean you have an excuse to treat your employees like CRAP!” My voice returned to its booming volume as I finished off my rant. “I QUIT!”
I stormed out of the door, the plate glass shattering as the entrance swung wildly on its hinges. I ripped the necktie from my suit and threw it against the ground in a fit of rage, spreading my wings and taking to the skies in the search of the seediest, cheapest bar in Stalliongrad.
Rock Solid the earth pony was tired.
He plodded along, the only thing protecting him from the blustering winds a leather vest, and that was hardly sufficient. The cold gales slammed against his massive, muscled body, trying their best to tear the heat from his flesh. The gusts of outer Stalliongrad were chipping at what little body heat Rock had left, winter’s howl driving him backward.
But he didn’t want to turn back, no, he couldn’t. He had dreams. Dreams of money, fame, and mares, all of which were sure to be in the big city. As much as he wanted to, even as the wind whiled away at what little stamina he had left, he trudged onward, hooves making a steady clop-clop-clop-clop against the paved streets of Stalliongrad. His hoofsteps began to slow, and finally stopped as fatigue claimed the massive Appleoosian. He collapsed against the sidewalk, chest heaving to catch a breath as sleep claimed him.
“The Great and Powerful” Trixie was performing once more for a crowd of uninterested riffraff who preferred to sit around making jokes about the baby blue-coated “magician” mare who was constantly found in this district, as larger ones wouldn’t allow solicitors and the Red Light district was nowhere for a mare to be. A few coins from Slum Quarter fillies and colts who actually were enjoying her show, as well as just shy of ten bits in tips from especially generous ponies who pitied her, were being piled up in her spare hat. “Thank you all, fillies and gentlecolts, for The Great and Powerful Trixie is pleased!” she shouted into the small group, hamming it up as much as possible before heading into the alley she called home, dragging her wooden box behind her. Two bucks, fifteen bits. Just enough for a cheap cider at the Guzzling Gallop.
Pennywise the con mare was running again, this time from the High Quarter’s neighborhood watch, all seventeen of them. She’d made the mistake of attempting to scam a pawn shop owner into buying a rock in a phone box that had been shrink-wrapped with a mane dryer (obviously it didn’t work), not knowing that he was the head of the High Quarter’s miniature militia. She galloped away from the armed citizens, necktie flapping in the wind and a bag of money ensnared in her telekinetic grasp, an expression of panic plastered across her face. She clambered over the fence between the High and Slum quarters, taunting them as she ran away. “Sorry, suckers, but you’re out of your jurisdiction!”
Now safe, Pennywise checked the bag. Most of the paper money had flown out during the chase, but all the coins remained. The cream-coated unicorn mare counted them up, sitting on the sidewalk and dumping all of the money into her hooves, counting them up to total to just enough for a drink. She gathered her meager funds into the bag and got to her hooves, beginning to trot to a place she’d heard of, the Guzzling Gallop.
The stallion named Pixel Byte sat alone at a table, wings slightly stiffening as the pegasus’ eyes set upon the bartender once more. His gaze darted away yet again, down to his drink, a rocks glass of straight gin. The slight tinge of pink on his cheeks indicated he was somewhere between tipsy and full-blown drunk. The former programmer’s software company, StallionSoft, had gone bankrupt six months ago, and there was no way what little money was left would sustain him for much longer.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sequence of three patrons, a staggering variety of obviously downtrodden citizens. A red-feathered griffin, wearing a collared shirt and a pair of reading glasses, a blue-coated unicorn mare in a ratty purple cape, and a cream-coated, black-maned mare with a collar and necktie. The mares sat at separate tables, while the griffin sat right in front of Pixel Byte, slamming his head against the table.
“Why are you here?” the stallion I sat next to asked, slightly slurring his words, patting me on the shoulder with a hoof.
“I quit my job. Blew up.”
“At who?”
“My boss. Grabbed him by the throat and just... quit. I hated everypony at that bank.”
“You blew up at your boss? Good for you, man, good for you. Good for you.” he continued, a smile playing its way across his muzzle as I raised my head. “Sometimes you need to just... let go, pal.”
“Agreed.” I said, nodding my head in assent as I pored over the drink list.
“Name’s Pixel Byte.” the somewhat drunk pegasus stallion said, offering a hoof. I took it in my claw and gave it a firm shake before returning to the list.
“Charmed. Name’s Gaspard.” The waitress trotted up, a fake smile across her face, but despair in her eyes. Small scars pockmarked her forelegs, and the mare didn’t look much older than nineteen.
“Would you like anything, sir?” she inquired, holding a tray of what looked to be racks of test tubes. “Today’s special is quite a hit.”
“Just a cider, thanks.” I answered blithely, passing the menu back to the mare and waiting, taking in the smells of the bar. I nearly gagged.
The air was thick with greasy smoke from cheap cigars, the smells of beer, gin and assorted other voluntary poisons, and the undeniable stink of... Well, I don’t want to say what it stank of, let’s leave it at that. This was the place, all right. The seediest bar in Stalliongrad.
The place where something could happen. Something illegal. A master plan, an assassination...
A little light bulb flickered on in my mind.’ A heist. Could be awesome. Could suck. Could get killed. But on the other hoof, could get rich.
Yeah. A heist. That’ll work, just like in the movies...’
1 - For He's A Jolly Good Felon
A few minutes later, I’d cooked up my master plan (to a limited degree) and gathered the two mares, whose names I learned were Trixie and Pennywise. Both had looked down on their cash, so I had decided to intervene. The four of us were sitting around a much larger table, discussing the prospects in hushed tones over a couple more mugs of cider (which had been given free of charge by the waitress).
Each of us only brought one or two skills to the table. I had my natural weapons and a knowledge of most bank security systems, Pennywise was good with cons (not to mention packing a .44), and Pixel Byte had an extensive knowledge of computer code including security software loopholes. Trixie was flashy and loudmouthed, leading to an excellent decoy, but she really would be useless in combat.
“Okay, I don’t exactly know how we’re going to rob the Royal Canterlot Mint yet, but I know we’re going to. For now, how about this very bar?” I noted.
“You crazy?” Pennywise whispered harshly.
“Yes.”
“The owner’s most likely packing, and the bouncer on the right has a pistol. You’re crazy.”
“And?”
“She has a point, Gas.” Pixel slurred. “They’re armed.”
“So are we. I have my claws, and Penny has her gun. You and Trixie can serve as a diversion.” I retorted, unsheathing my claws to punctuate my sentence. “We can do this.”
“We just need to form a plan.” Penny added. “Gaspard and I are the only sober ones here, so we’ll handle the robbery itself. Pixel, you and Trixie pretend to start a fight. That’ll get the bouncers’ attention long enough for us to pull it off.” A fake fight followed by a stick-up. Plain but effective.
“All opposed?” I asked. No hooves were raised. “All right then. Let’s do this.”
As if on cue, Trixie and Pixel began to get into a drunken argument, which slowly escalated into a scuffle, then a struggle, then a full-blown fight. Penny and I backed away from the table and sat at the bar as the minotaur bouncers attempted to restrain our fight-feigning friends and drag them from the bar. They were met with heavy resistance to say the least, with Trixie putting up a hell of a fight and Pixel managing to get a few good shots in even though he was sloshed. Once the bouncers were occupied, part two of the plan was initiated.
Penny gradually reached into her coat and yanked out her revolver and levelled its barrel to the bartender’s face, demanding all her cash. The bartender responded in kind by pulling her shotgun from under the bar, a move both of us had expected. It was a tense standoff, with the bartender’s feather slowly clenching around the trigger, before I snatched the shotgun’s barrel and lifted the muzzle to the ceiling just before she fired, which hit a hanging lamp and dropped it onto the more heavily armed bouncer. The further diversion caused by the crashing lamp allowed me to snatch the gun from the bartender and chamber another round before taking her hostage, attempting my best to hold the shotgun one-clawed (not an easy task, the thing weighed close to eight pounds.). The other bouncer came in through the side door, a police-issue nightstick in his ham-sized fist, but froze at the sight of the holdup.
“Don’t make a move and nopony gets hurt. Drop the baton and back away.” The visibly scared minotaur did as I commanded, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly in power. “Where are the keys to the register?”
“They’re behind the shotglasses in the back of the cabinet behind you.” I could plainly hear the jingling of the keys in the bartender’s pocket, and the bouncer’s eyes were laid upon his fallen friend. He was bluffing.
“You’re not going to fool me. I can tell you’re trying to fake it so you can grab his gun.” An expression that was a combination of anger and fear crossed his face once he realized I caught onto his ploy. “Penny. Go over there, get the pistol, and slide it over here. And make sure that minotaur doesn’t try anything stupid.” She trotted over, keeping her pistol trained upon the bouncer’s head in case he attempted to make a break for the gun. Pennywise used her magic to float the gun onto the counter, and after dragging the bartender over to where it was, I set the shotgun up against the bar before taking the handgun. “Okay, keys to the register. Hand them over.” I let one of her hooves go, pistol against her temple in case she had a sudden compulsion to punch me.
She fished the register keys from her pocket and put them in my claw. “Penny. Hold the bartender for me, I need to unlock the register so we can take the money and get out of here.” The steady thrum of telekinesis magic intensified as Pennywise took hold of the bartender’s wings and pinned her to the rack behind the bar where the kegs were stored. I kept my gun trained on the bouncer as my other claw worked to stick the key in the lock and get the register open. I wanted to get out of this mess as soon as I could, and having to aim with one claw while undoing a lock with the other was NOT an easy task.
The tumblers slid into place with an audible click, a tangible sign of success. The drawer slid open, revealing stacks of ones, fives, tens, and more, along with entire rolls of bits. “Uh, Penny. Have we got any sort of bag?”
“There’s one behind you, Gaspard.” I turned to where she had gestured with a foreleg and spotted a burlap sack lying on the floor, where it had presumably been used to store cleaning supplies or something of the sort. I snatched it and crammed as much cash as I could into it (which was all of the money in the register, the sack was quite large), and was prepared to leave when I heard sirens in the distance. “We have to go. NOW.” she stated sternly as I grabbed the shotgun from its position at the bar.
“No shit, Fetlock.”
