Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

Apparently from the unplanned extended version of my English class.

Freeze. Stop right there. See this? This is a hold-up gone bad. You can see from the look of panic in the attacker's eyes and the seething rage in his victimized counterpart's. This started a few seconds ago, when the victim decided to cut through an alleyway to free up some time which would've otherwise been spent walking up, over, and around several buildings in his way. Upon turning the corner to exit the dank, trash-filled side-path, he found himself with the muzzle of an old six-shot revolver pressed against his forehead. He looked up, crossing his eyes and failing to comprehend exactly what was this strange metal cylinder poking towards his brain. The muzzle was hot against his skin, having just been fired into the air roughly three minutes and thirty-seven ago as a celebration of the owner's first successful robbery.

That initial robbery was nothing too large, just your average felony. Pull back the hammer, put on the balaclava, and run into the seven-eleven. If you rushed in there with a gun, then they couldn't refuse his any demands. In was against company policy on account of potential customer collateral inspired by the cashier trying to defend his store.

That first crime had gone off without a hitch. The cashier was a compliant teenager who couldn't be bothered to care about whether he was losing money. "It was all going to the Corporation, anyways." he said. The robber and the apathetic worker had a rather pleasant exchange, and the now-felon left with a smile on his face and two bags in his hand. One was full of all the money he had earned from this little adventure (Two-hundred fourty-three dollars and twenty one cents), and in the other hand was all of the Hostess products he could find. He didn't particularly enjoy Twinkies or any of those other junky foods, he found them rather disgusting actually. No, he had just heard that the Hostess company was going out of business and these "snacks" wouldn't be produced any more. For some reason, everyone else loved them, and since all the food they made was so processed that it would never spoil, he was guessing he could sell his gains as collector's items or connoisseur's snacks within a few years.

The criminal ran out from the store and hopped on his getaway vehicle, firing one warning shot to remind the storekeeper who was in charge around these parts. The mode of transport was a small bicycle, bright pink and with sparkling tassels streaming from the handlebars. He had not stolen this prize piece of transportational work from any little girls, or older girls, or boys, or men.

Now, he had come to rest in this alley, snacking on and then regurgitating some of his stolen goods. Sitting down besides his bike and clutching his grumbling stomach, he suddenly heard the echo of footsteps rushing towards him. His heart kickstarted into overdrive. Had the police found him? Did someone tip them off? Thinking of it now, his means of transport were not the most inconspicuous. Leaving his precious loot on the ground, he grabbed the revolver laying next to him (Or as he called it, a "Cowboy Gun"), steadied his aim, and stalked towards the corner where the alley turned onto the next street.

So here we were. One man looking up at the warmed muzzle of an ancient gun, and the other afraid of the situation he had put himself in. This was no policeman. This was simply a confused and little-know poet, a man completely insignificant in society. His writing was poor, lacking the style, vocabulary, and means necessary to impart a meaningful message upon the reader. He was much better off working as a cashier in a convenience store, a job which required no real education.

Editing the ending because badness