Chapter Text
Wednesday, 09:32. The Dodge Hellcat purrs as they round the alleyway corner, rolling to a stop nestled between a bar and a florist in the blindspot picked out weeks ago. Broflovski sets the handbrake. A neighbourhood patrol car sails past, entirely oblivious. It won't be back this way for twenty minutes, give or take- the cops like to stop for coffee and a doughnut at the truck a click away on 8th Street.
Four pairs of eyes stare out through the rain-speckled windshield at the tan brick walls of First Mountain Bank sitting just fifty feet away, waiting for the security guard to take his first smoke break of the day. A suspenseful thrill collects in the air between them. The rain is a blessing. People tend to keep their heads down in this weather.
09:34. A dirt bike bearing a tall, black-clad figure crosses the intersection between the alley and the bank.
"Tolkien's in place," Marsh mutters unnecessarily. "Clyde should be there any moment."
09:35. The glass doors to the bank swing open. A guard stands framed for a moment, yawning and scratching his bulging backside.
"Right on schedule." Craig checks the clip of his Beretta M9, serial filed off. As the guard rounds the corner of the building to the parking lot, Clyde stumbles up to him wrapped in a stained blanket, no doubt slurring some drinking song. "Alright, it's time." Deep breath. Craig steps from the Hellcat's passenger seat into a fine slant of rain. "Let's do this."
Grabbing duffels from the trunk, three of the four head directly for the bank. They reach the range of the cameras. In one smooth motion, each covers their faces with the bandanas tied about their necks.
"The hell are you doing, buddy?" The guard asks as Clyde careers forward with arms outstretched as if to embrace him. Tolkien's strike comes seemingly from nowhere, with all the grace and speed of a jaguar. With a small, surprised gasp, the man crumples.
Craig, Stan and Kenny pass by as Clyde and Tolkien drag him to a nook behind the building, obscured by dense shrubbery.
09:36. So far, so good.
Marsh shoulders the glass doors, sending them crashing inwards. There's nothing remotely impressive about the interior. It looks much the same as any other small-town bank, with minimal fuss and an impersonal framed photograph of a beach scene on one wall.
"Down on the floor! This is a robbery, folks!" McCormick yells over the gasps and exclamations from the two tellers and four customers waiting in line. "Keep your finger off the alarm, asshole!" A woman screams. People start hitting the deck with their hands over their heads. They always do that, as if the protection of an arm will be enough against a bullet going over 800 miles an hour.
"Do as we say, and everyone goes home safe." Craig aims his gun at the man cowering behind the counter. "Put the money in the bag. Any of that blue man shit and I'll blow your fucking head off."
"You too-" Stan sends a shot into the ceiling above the second teller's head. Grey-white dust trickles from the puncture. "Hurry the hell up!"
"Please don't shoot," she sobs. "I don't wanna die!" Trembling hands pass the bag back stuffed with green. Small bills, from what Craig can see. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, he shoulders the haul and, still aiming at the teller, the trio make for the brightness beyond the glass windows.
Tolkien draws up beside the doors, with Clyde riding pillion on the back of the dirt bike. Kenny throws his duffel to the latter's waiting arms as he pelts past with Stan and Craig.
Behind them, the bank's siren song stutters to life. Sixty seconds before the first cop crashes the party.
Kyle's ready for them, has the Charger's engine growling at biting point. At the instant of all three passenger doors slamming, he steps off and the car shoots backwards down the alleyway. He corners the Hellcat with a sharp turn of squealing rubber on asphalt, spins the tyres, dodges an SUV within an inch. Seconds later and they're shooting for the highway, speedometer creeping steadily over sixty.
Craig checks his watch. 09:41. Not bad. Now they just need to get out of here before the pigs show up.
The first pitching wail behind them comes as they pass Floyd's Fine Dispensary in a turquoise blur. Kenny throws a wistful glance over his shoulder.
"We got company."
"Always with the fucking obvious, Marsh." Craig checks his wingmirror. No flashing lights yet. "Second patrol should be just up here past the gas station." Broflovski nods, ducks the car between a stream of oncoming traffic, back to their lane again.
Squad car two screeches out past a Shell tanker. The timing was perfect; they haven't had the chance to set up any kind of road block.
Hitting Highway 24 upwards of eighty miles an hour, Craig gets his first glance at the patrols failing to edge up on them. More will be right on their tail. Luckily, this town is small-fry enough to outrun when you've got a good driver. The Hellcat's supercharged V-8 doesn't hurt either.
Low in his seat, McCormick squints with the thin barrel of his rifle poking between the headrest.
"Looks like the gang's all here, boys."
"Corner." Kyle announces a split-second before making the spin to turn them west. An angry blare rises from the surrounding motorists as they cut a furious path through the intersection. The wheels judder as they pelt through a slip and leave the road entirely.
Craig checks his mirror, knuckles drained white clutching the handgrip above him. It would seem they've lost their company. Real shame, that.
"See ya, assholes!" Stan whoops.
"For now." Static-filled messages are surely pulling cars from Avon P.D. as they speak. It's imperative they reach the tow truck before the force catches up.
"Where we meeting the guys again?" Pulling his bandana loose, Kenny cracks his window and sticks a roll-up between his teeth.
"Up by some place called Beaver Creek. Jimmy paid off a tow guy on the route to take the whip. If we get out without shit going down, we'll be clear in an hour.” Craig hits the button on his two-way radio. "You there dude?" There's a moment of crackling before Clyde returns the call.
"Yeah, we're golden. You?"
"So far."
"Have you guys checked the take yet?" Donovan has to shout over the dirt bike's mosquito buzzing and the wind whistling by. Leaning forward, Craig unzips the bag at his feet. "This is barely gonna cover the vig we owe Jimbo for the hardware." He rifles through the wads of bills, making a quick calculation in his head.
"There's maybe 5k here. Marsh?"
"I've got another few stacks. Not much." Hardly worth all the effort, in fact. No need to wonder why the job went down so smoothly.
"Fuck. Alright, can't do shit about it now. We'll meet you at the spot."
“Ah, home sweet home.” Ducking an arm over Craig's shoulder, Kenny aims a kick at a rusting can of Milwaukee's Best, sending it on a spinning trajectory into Marsh's shins. "Oops. My bad, dude." Craig snorts in response. Skeeter’s is hardly something to shout about, but at least it sets a roof over their heads. Out in the sticks and owned by Cartman through some offshore shell corp, it’s just about the only place the FBI didn’t sweep up during their purge the previous year.
Mugshots line the wall behind the bar like family pictures over a mantle. His own grey eyes glower out from his space between Kyle and Bebe, bruised and banged up from a night of fighting. An old TV nestled between liquor bottles on a shelf shows grainy CCTV footage of the bar's chainlink fence- just in case anyone should come calling. There's a pool table in one corner, several battered and discordant couches and armchairs scattered across the room and beneath two large windows, crossed with decrepit blinds. A door tucked behind the bar leads to the kitchenette and bathrooms, the boxes they cram themselves in to sleep, fuck or get away from the chaos for a while, in addition to the space they use to talk business.
"Hey, Craig."
"You good, Jimmy?" Taking a stool, Craig leans heavily on the counter.
"I'm f-f-f-fantastic. How was the j-j-"
"Went fine," he shrugs. "But the haul was shitty." Jimmy grimaces.
They haven't had a solid take in months. A year ago they were at the top of their game and close to retiring. One score gone wrong, a few errors of judgement with the 6th Street dickholes, and this is where they end up- putting their lives and liberty on the line for the sake of a few grand.
“Hey, Jim.” Stan leans on the bar beside Craig. “Where’s Wendy?”
“All the girls headed out to go sh-sh-shopping.”
“All of them?” There’s a crappy joke in there somewhere.
“Let me guess,” Clyde ambles up with a spliff dangling between his lips. “They got fed up of hanging around fatass all day?”
“Something like that. He wants to see you f-fellas, now you’re back.”
“Awesome.” Just what every guy wants to hear after a long day of robbery and car chases. “Alright, let’s go get it over with.”
“Damn, finally. I thought the cops busted you retards or something.” Relaxed in the chair at the head of the room, Cartman brushes a fine layer of crumbs from his shirt. “Did you at least make some real money?”
“Fuck all. We can't keep hitting these small-fry banks, man." Clyde complains, dropping in his own seat and setting boot-clad feet on the mahogany table scarred with knife wounds and burn marks. "We need a real job." There's murmur of agreement.
"What about those cars Kenny and I boosted from the impound in Colorado Springs?" Asks Kyle. "That Audi has to be worth something." Everyone looks to Jimmy.
"T-t-too hot right now," he leans back in his chair, resting his crutches against the table. "They're at the lot until we can get matching V-V-VIN numbers."
"Goddamn it, can't you assholes even steal right?" With one hand buried in a bag of chips, Cartman glares round at them all. "I bring you nothing but golden opportunities, and you retards-"
"Shut up, fatass." Stan interjects, gulping back a swig of beer. "When's the last time you actually helped with a score?"
"Ay! Which one of you saved all our asses when the Feds came knocking, huh? Oh that's right, it was me!"
"I'm just saying, maybe if you helped out for once instead of-"
"Who else is gonna find work for us? You ballbags wouldn't know your heads from your buttholes if-"
"Stop," Craig cuts across them firmly. "This isn't helping." He shifts to look at Broflovski. "Any word on the crypto shit?"
"You can barely send an email on that piece of shit computer, dude. Wendy's thinks she can make some money from rerouting electricity, but she needs the proper tech."
"We need to figure out where our priorities are. We can't keep splitting our focus like this, not when there's so few of us left now." A moment of silence follows as the echo of their lost ones shifts between them. "Are we doing that internet shit or robbing banks? Are we car jacking or hounding rich folk for private equity scams?"
"Tolkien's right." Marsh stands to refill their glasses. "We don't have the cash to get the proper equipment, so we're having to half-ass everything. At the moment we're barely making enough to pay for the glocks and the AKs- it's like starting all over again."
"Well we k-kinda did." Jimmy points out.
"I miss when we used to run hardware and fleece the rich assholes." Clyde says lamentably. “Way more fun,”
"Point is,” Tolkien rolls his eyes. They’re never getting anywhere if they can’t stay focused. “We need a proper take."
"We're gonna need a better computer no matter what we do," Craig rubs his chin thoughtfully. "If we're thinking city bank or whatever. Maybe Wendy can talk to some of her connections, see if we can get a deal." He turns to Kenny and Kyle. "We'll need new rides."
"We'll get on it." McCormick pecks a kiss on Broflovski's cheek.
"Fucking disgusting, you guys." Cartman mutters. Kyle flicks him off.
"Any word on 6th Street?" Craig asks before another argument can break out. Picking at a splinter on the armrest of his chair, Clyde shakes his head.
"Nah. Think it’s about time we pay another visit to Sargeant Yates.” He gestures to Tolkien at his side. “Maybe we can take some of the cut from today, see if there’s anything he can tell us. Last thing we need is to be blindsided by those assholes again.”
The 6th Street gang have been a thorn in their collective asses for as long as anyone can remember, and no one’s really sure on what ignited the touchpaper to start with. What began as low-level beef and pinched business deals ultimately culminated in outright war, with members of both sides dropping like flies.
Craig’s blood still seethes when he remembers the day everything came to a head, that worst day. The ambush that wiped out half their crew.
Just weeks later, the Feds had raided their operation, and they’d barely escaped in time. Half their assets were seized, the rest remains tied up in property they no longer have access to. They’ve been on the run and laying low ever since.
“Alright. It’s been a long day. Any other business?” The guys shake their heads. “Cool. Jimmy- got any of that single malt left?”
"Kick his ass Stan!"
"Fuck him up, Tolkien!"
Craig sits with his back to the bar, swigging from the glass Jimmy pressed in his hand and watching the fight grow steadily more violent. Out of the whole group, Marsh and Black are the best at hand-to-hand combat. Stan's raw strength and stamina and his ability to take a dozen knocks while holding his ground, versus Tolkien's surprising speed and agility.
Wendy stands waiting with Bebe to one side of the makeshift ring, holding an ice pack and a slightly exasperated expression. Her lips form the word 'boys'. Judging from her smile, it seems Bebe is enjoying the fight well enough.
"Marsh, keep your hands up! You ain't doin' the dance of the goddamn sugarplum fairy!" McCormick hollers, cupping his hands over his mouth. "There ya go!" Chuckling to himself, he settles in the stool beside Craig. "Jackson on Stan to win?" Near enough every week, Tolkien and Marsh beat the shit out of each other in the ring, and Kenny bets Craig $20 that the latter will win. They've been swapping the same bill back and forth all year.
"Yeah, alright." Tolkien sidesteps a punch, twists in a circle and kicks out at Stan. Marsh retaliates by seizing hold of his competitor's calf and using the momentum to hurl him to the floor.
"So," McCormick twinkles at him. "Bebe keeps making eyes at you."
"Please," Craig snorts. "Bebe looks at everyone like that." And Clyde's always looking at Bebe like that. “Doesn’t mean shit.” The jukebox in the corner stutters mid track change. Annie thumps it with her fist until it shakes an old CCR song loose.
Tolkien makes a misstep, staggering backwards until he hits the net. With one final throw, Stan’s right-hook sends him down and out. Groaning, Craig slaps the crumpled bet into Kenny’s outstretched hand. Kyle moves to yank Marsh back while Clyde drags a dazed Tolkien from the ring, aiming him in Nichole's general direction.
“Walk it off, dude. You're good.”
High on testosterone and victory, Stan pushes Wendy’s icepack aside in favour of sticking his tongue down her throat. Moments later, the two stumble from the bar locked together.
“It’s like living with a Silverback.” Kenny pulls a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and takes a hearty swig.
"Please, like you can talk. Kyle's practically bow-legged."
“Careful, Craig.” Broflovski’s voice at his shoulder has Craig snorting a noseful of burning liquor, Kenny cackling somewhere in the background. Extending a hand, he pulls Kyle to his side.
"Ah, Tucker's just jealous," Clyde slaps him on the shoulder. "Because he hasn't gotten any in so long."
Fuck that.
Tipping the guys his middle finger, Craig slopes off towards Bebe, curling locks of golden hair around her fingers.
"You enjoy that?" He nods to the ring.
"What can I say?" Her curls tickle his jaw as she leans against him. "Gets me hot."
Craig winds up wound up in Bebe, and takes her to bed under Clyde's glowering stare.