66 lines
3.2 KiB
Plaintext
66 lines
3.2 KiB
Plaintext
Volume One of a forthcoming series:
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A Cool 3.7 Million
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...An Excursion Into The World of
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The Stainless Steel Rat...
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I stood in line, as patient as everyone else, my filled out forms gripped
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hotly in my hand. There was 3.7 million credits being held (for the moment) in
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the supposed safety of the vault here at the Planetary Revenue Service office,
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and I intended to have every single millicred in my hot little hands within the
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hour.
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After an interminable wait I came to the be second-in-line. I assured myself
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that I had all of my equipment by casually patting my various pockets.
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The ancient, waspish teller scowled as she asked, "Your forms please sir."
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Then she expectantly extended a aged and wrinkled hand over the counter.
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"Yes is a matter of fact," I reply, letting the paperwork fall away to reveal
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the bore of the immense .70 recoilless pistol in my hand, "bring me to the
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vault."
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All of the alarms went off at once, and I heard the doors crash shut. The
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teller grimaced smugly.
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"Good for you," I said, with a broad smile that showed the broad expanse of
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gleaming, needle sharp teeth I sported today.
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"Don't let a litle thing like that stop you from leading me to the loot."
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She chose that moment to faint. People started to rush about in a cheerfully
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agitated way and gun-waving guards began to appear, looking about
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enthusiastically for someone to shoot, so I tripped the radio relay in my
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pocket. There was a series of delightful explosions all around the bank, from
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trash cans where I had planted a variety of different gas bombs, followed by the
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even more delightful screams of panicky customers. I slipped on the gas tight
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goggles and clamped my mouth shut so I was forced to breathe through the filter
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plugs in my nostrils. The combination of tear gas and sleepy-gas was almost too
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much and for a moment I thought I might succumb too.
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I leapt dexterously over the counter and ran for the "safe." My trusty
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laser-cutter made short work of the manifold locks, and I was in.
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There were a few guards inside, so I smiled and tossed a sleepy-gas grenade to
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the nearest. He caught it reflexively, and then slid to the floor with a look
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of bafflement.
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The other guards barely had time to draw their guns before they too were
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affected by the gas. Someone had thoughtfully put the money in bags for me, so
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I hurriedly donned the uniform of one of the guards and grabbed the money.
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Leaving the vault, I exited the bank through the back exit, and found that the
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same thoughtful someone who had bagged the money had towed my getaway car away.
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Luckily for me, they left a nice armored car in it's place. I climbed in, and
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tossed a sleepy-gas grenade into the driver's lap.
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After moving him to the passenger side, I wheeled around the block, ditched
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the truck, And removed the uniform, pointy dentures, wig and the pillow in my
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shirt. I then hailed a cab and rode with him for awhile. After paying the
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cabbie, I loitered about for a bit, hailed another cab, sped for the airport to
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my waiting helijet and a glass of premium alcohol, at the expense of the
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taxpayers, of course.
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-- Berserker (10/29/85)
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