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Gloves. Ski masks. A silvery Magnum for me, a jet-black pump action shotgun for Lazarus (Yes, Lazarus. His parents hated him). Check. Check. Check.

Dimitri gets us a shot of vodka each, and none for himself, he's driving today. "Luck", he says, managing to mangle a one-syllable word with a pronounced Slavic accent. We solemnly shake each other's hand.

It is time. We approach the car. Lazarus brandishes the gun and says "I'm calling shotgun". A laugh relaxes the tense atmosphere, and we hop in and drive off.

We're in. Dimitri waits outside in the getaway, while we two find a place away from cameras to pull on the masks and pull out the guns.

Time. I walk forward, catching glances of amusement, rapidly changing to expressions of fear.
"FREEZE, MOTHERSTICKERS," shouts Lazarus. "This is a..."
Something's gone wrong. "Fuck-up," he finishes lamely.

Everyone's frozen alright. A second, two seconds pass in complete silence, and I hear a muffled snort behind my back. A giggle here, another one, it gets louder and louder, the nervous laughter of suddenly relieved tension, and laughter breaks out all aroud us. The fat teller is laughing out loud, his enormous body shaking. A pimple-faced teenager is trying to hold in the laughter, but a loud snort betrays his intentions.
We start backing away, toward the door. I have a gun, a loaded gun, but I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. I back away, then turn and break into a run, Lazarus following me closely. We practically fall over int our seats in the car and gesture Dimitry to drive like hell.
Well, shit.