LogFAQs > #934980335

You creep silently to the back door of 12 Hour Thrift. 12 Hour Thrift was the first target on your list of old employers to rob for obvious reasons. You already know the ins and outs of how they handle their money. The short answer is- uh, NOT GOOD. The owner, Jonathan, firmly believes that the store should remain cash-only. However, he also maintains that the bank is super far away and "doesn't have a great vibe", so he only deposits the store's money once a week - on Friday afternoon. So if someone were to rob the store on Thursday night, they would be getting six and a half days worth of cash.

As you did with all your other jobs, before you left 12 Hour Thrift you made a copy of the back door key. When you returned the original copy after you quit, Jonathan actually said, "Oh damn, do you think I should be asking for these back?" It's a wonder he hasn't been robbed before. Hell, he locks the cash in the register overnight, but he leaves the register key on the desk right next to it. It'll be the easiest robbery in history. You'll politely unlock the back door, stride to the register, gently scoop all of the cash into your bag, and lock up on your way out.

Although, just in case anything goes wrong, you decided to bring back up. Greg Vasesi is the embodiment of the word scrappy. He could be outmatched by 100 pounds in a wrestling match, and he'd keep fighting. He's six feet tall, but has the essence of a much shorter man. He radiates this aura that says, "I'm under five foot six and I'm gonna fight some tall people about it." You find yourself reassuring him he's tall, which makes him mildly uncomfortable when you do it privately and extremely uncomfortable when you whisper it to him while he's on his tiptoes reaching for a can of black beans on the top shelf of the grocery store. He's relentlessly grinded for everything in his life and it's made him fiercely loyal to those that have stuck with him through that grind.

Greg pulls his ski mask over his face. "You ready?"
"Yeah," you whisper as you move for the door.
Greg reaches out and grabs your arm. "Where's your mask?"
"I didn't bring one," you tell him. "It's just gonna be a quick in-and-out."
"Bullshit, why bring me then?"
"Y'know, just in case," you shrug.
"Just in case, huh?" Greg grumbles as he spins his backpack around and unzips it as quietly as he can. He reaches in and rips out another ski mask for you. As you hastily throw it on, Greg asks, "I assume you'll need a gun too?"
"A gun, what the fuck, man? We're just robbing a thrift store! No one's ever going to know we were here!"
Greg puts down his backpack and shows you his weapons. In his left hand he's holding a 9 millimeter handgun and wrapped around his right hand is a pair of brass knuckles. "It's the perfect tactical combination."
"Tactical? Greg - it's two locks that we have the keys for," you argue.
"If he's far away, I can shoot him... wit-with the gun. But if he's up close... you know then I'm gonna get him with the punch, you know?" he lectures you.
"I get how both those things work, Greg," you scold him. "You don't need to explain them."
"Punch, shoot. Punch, shoot," he mutters.
"Have you um... ever performed acts of violence before, Greg?" you ask nervously.
"No. Of course not. But if I'm gonna start, I should be prepared," he retorts.
"Prepared violence is just called premeditation, but you do make it look pretty tight though," you admit.
Within half a second, Greg has produced another gun and another pair of brass knuckles. "Punch! Punch bang shoot!"
"Hit, bang. Punch, bang. Shoot shoot, punch," you reply enthusiastically.
Greg nods before confirming, "Shoot hit bang."

You insert the key and gently turn the knob. The two of you crouch and stealthily enter the building before closing the door behind you. You can't hear any sounds from inside the store. You nod to Greg and stand up, moving quickly to the front of the store. As you leave the staff area and enter the showroom, you spot a man at the checkout counter. You stop abruptly in your tracks and reach out to halt Greg. It's Jonathan. He's picking up the money early. Luckily, his back is currently to you and he didn't seem to hear you enter.

You put a finger to your lips and crouch low again. You make your way through the circular racks of shirts and jackets that were restocked at the end of some college student's shift. You remember you bought a denim jacket from this place when you were in a vulnerable state after someone called you "hella lame" at your ten year high school reunion. The jacket was straight from the 1970s and was donated to Jonathan, but he still charged you $60 for it. You were hoping the jacket would make you feel cool and relaxed, but for some reason it just made you feel violent. Probably buyer's remorse or something. Is that what buyer's remorse is? A blind, violent rage? You killed a lot of ladybugs wearing that jacket.

You're as close as the clothing racks will get you, about twenty feet away from Jonathan. Nothing to hide behind between you and him anymore. You leave the shadows of some remarkably damp trenchcoats and tiptoe your way toward Jonathan.

When you're about five feet away, Jonathan turns around and yelps at the sight of you. You quickly put a finger to your lips. Jonathan looks inclined to ignore your request until he sees the gun in your left hand.
"Yeeeeep," Greg says confidently as he strolls out into the open. "I'm definitely in shooting range, but you could probably go shoot or punch, partner."
"Nobody's shooting anybody," you respond, catching Jonathan's eye. There's true confusion and terror in his eyes. How could this happen to such a poorly secured, cash-only business? "We just want the money."
"Are there any more of you?" Jonathan trembles as sweat beads on his forehead. He hands you a manila envelope full of the week's cash.
"Nope, it's just us."
"Who are you t-..." Jonathan trails off as his eyes grow wide with recognition. You try to avert his gaze beneath the mask but Jonathan seems to know who he's seen. "Are you-"
That's all Jonathan has time to blurt out before Greg catches him in the side of the head with a steel punch. Jonathan tumbles backwards and slams his head off the counter on the way down. He lies motionless on the floor, bleeding from a gnarly head gash.

"What the hell?!" you shout.
Greg peels off his ski mask and responds, "He made you! He knew who you were!"