The Taste Of Crime: A Short Story Inspired By True Events

This is a short story inspired by this story.

It’s the tale of a man, a robbery, and intense hunger.

Chapter One

Two steps out of a Southern fried Chicken. Once he entered that door and waved his gun around, he knew there would be no turning back.  He breathed deeply, composing himself. “God,” he thought. “I really should have eaten this morning.”

Shoving all other thoughts aside, he fastened his black scarf around his face and lifted the hood of his jacket over his head. He gripped the pistol in his hand, feeling the pimply ridges on the handle. Everything felt so real to him – so detailed. His adrenalin pumped hard. He knew the only way it would settle is if he dove head-first in to the moment.

And so he did.

“Everybody hit the fucking ground! Now!” he yelled. Terrified patrons hit the floor, almost instinctively; most not even bothering to turn and look at the armed assailant behind them.

“You! You! How much you got in the register?” he said to the counter girl. She couldn’t have been older than 19, but her fear reduced her speech to that of a stammering 3-year-old.

“Bu—uh…I—I don’t know!”  said the counter girl.

“Open the fucking thing up!” He pointed his pistol in to the kitchen. “And you, you move and I’ll blast your head clean off your bodies!” Wrought with fear, they complied.

Damn, it smells good in here

“Put all the money in this bag. If I find out that you left out one red cent I’ll kill everyone! Understand?!” he said. The nervous counter girl gave a nod that was more akin to a twitch.

Is that…fried chicken? Man, I can really use one of those. I’ve got a rumbly in my tumbly.

The counter girl crammed coins and bills in to the bag as fast as she could, catching only small glimpses of gun barrel pointed at her head, knowing its small dark void could be cut with a bullet at any moment if she did not comply.

She handed him the bag, the register was clean. The assailant paused.

If I leave now, I’ll have some money to go buy some delicious chicken. Or, I can stay and enjoy some of the fine deep fried goodness that this establishment has to offer. Hm, choices. I’ve never been good with them.

“Give me one of those Hunga Busta Meals too!”

Chapter Two

I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking. My mouth was as dry as our biscuits. I couldn’t tell if I was going to throw up or pass out. Or both. I was paralyzed. I could feel my body swaying with my vicious heart beats, but I was too frightened to even attempt to control it. I don’t think I even blinked.

It’s been fifteen-minuets since the robbery – since the man with the scarf and hoodie changed up to me and demanded that I give him everything we’ve made today. I couldn’t have given him more than one-thousand pounds, cash. A bounty most small time thieves would be grateful for, I assume.   Shit, I’d be grateful for it. But one thing I would certainly not do is eat our chicken. I’ve seen Steven back there find a roach on the floor and smash it all up and toss it in to the fryer. I couldn’t eat chicken – even at home – for the next 2 months. Lord knows what Steven has done to the chicken today.

So, as I stood there, trying to calm my nerves, I couldn’t help but wonder: why hasn’t the armed assailant left yet? Isn’t it proper robbery  procedure to leave once you’ve stolen something? I’m—I’m confused.

Has he really been sitting there eating a bucket of chicken for what’s now, like, eighteen-minuets?  Does he want to get caught? Was he that hungry?

My eyes darted around, trying catch the expression of anyone else that was willing to look my way. Finally, I caught the eye of Arnold, the drive-thru manager. “What the fuck?” he mouthed, with eyes as wide as a man whose eyes are really wide because his store was just robbed and the armed assailant hung around for twenty-minuets just eating fried chicken in an awkward silence that was occasionally cut by a slurp or some loud chewing.

I can honestly say, with full sincerity, that I have no fucking clue what’s going on here.

Chapter 3

The phone rang a couple of times before there was an answer. Normally, an officer picks up the telly in the middle of the first ring. When the officer answered, I instantly understood why: laughter. Officer Marx, Officer Brent, Officer Crook, Officer Tinsly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them crack so much as a wry smile, let alone a bellow of laughter.

“Ah-ha-ha-ha,” sounded Tinsly as he held the ringer to his ear. “’ello, Miss Wheeler! I take it you’ve heard the news, eh?”

“Please, Charles – please! – tell me this is real!” I said, cracking a smile of my own. “I will love you forever!”

“Virginia, I am here to confirm for you that yes, it is, in fact, very real.” He said.

“My God…” I said. “Care to give an official statement to the The Sun?”

“Yes,” said Tinsly. “”We’ve come across some stupid criminals in our time but this beats all. Normal practice is to grab the cash and run. But this man was obviously controlled by his belly rather than his brain. “