Day of the Heist
The difference between a perfectly executed plan and a total farce can often be attributed to the whim of Fate. And boy, is Fate feeling fickle as our two protagonists try to get rich quick in this, the fourth episode of Genres Not Included! Joe Nelson presents the start to this one, after Eva’s introduction. You may wish to put on some Cher to get in the mood…
Danger may be in store for you all tonight. The following thread could be riveting flash fiction.
Or a train wreck.
Who cares? It’s #GenresNotIncluded and the best typewriter improv on the planet with my good friend and fellow author Joe over at
and it’s GO! — Eva Newcastle, July 12, 2024
The difference between Mark and Barry was pretty clear.
Mark wore black, fingerless biker gloves as he cradled the shotgun he planned to use to rob the First National Bank.
Barry? He had Gucci Goldie Red nail polish gleaming on his nails.
They both had the same model shotgun.
The differences were deeper than cosmetic. Besides music — a little “Thunderstruck for Mark to push the adrenaline, a little vintage Cher for Barry — Mark had the robbery planned down to the minute, a heist that took months to map out.
Barry was the designator getaway driver.
The security company would do their pick up and drop, there would be a half-dozen employees and a few customers, and Mark would brandish that shotgun and make payday.
Barry had the Econoline in the parking lot with the stolen plates.
And that damn Cher CD playing in the stereo.
The Esonoline was the wrong color, which Barry had argued about until Mark could have blown a gasket. But Barry had a point. Red on nails was apropos. A red car was sure to draw attention.
The red roses were dropped on the sidewalk? A replay of Dog Day Afternoon? A bad omen.
Red…Mark fumed as he marched up to the front of the bank, hiding his shotgun under the leather jacket he bought at Goodwill.
What was it with fucking red?
He he gripped the shotgun and tried to push the door open.
He rebounded off the glass.
It was locked.
“Are you kidding me?” he screamed through the window, pounding on the security glass. “Are you kidding me?” he screamed toward the car, rubbing his forehead.
Mark pulled on the door. Hard. He took two steps back and turned.
“Are you kidding me?”
The car inched down a hill.
Barry was watching Mark try to make their big score. That and listening to Cher’s Bang Bang. Damn, he loved that song.
Barry, despite good taste in music, had little skill with a stick shift. And the Econoline van was a manual.
He was halfway down the hill before he noticed.
Barry struggled with the boa, wrapped around the clutch, the feathered boa he swiped from Goodwill while Mark — the mastermind — paid a buck for the leather jacket.
“Shit,” Barry muttered, unaware of the Nova blasting through a yellow traffic light.
Volume up, he swerved.
Barry sideswiped the Nova and overcompensated, slamming the the Econoline into the rear of the cop cruiser.
Inside, Eddie, Barry’s second cousin, spilled coffee all over his lap. He was a deputy in the sheriff’s department.
And currently pissed as he climbed out of the cruiser.
Sweltering heat. A hot lap. That damned Cher tape was stuck on a loop.
“Shame.” Eddie eyed the Nova.
Up a hill, a dame locked the bank door behind her, 100k in cold hard cash stashed in a cheap purse because Mark couldn’t keep his damned mouth shut some lonely nights.
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