Chris struggled to breathe, each pocket of air less than the last, the burlap sack over his head robbing him of vital oxygen. He was in panic mode. Maximum overdrive. A pair of headphones, clamped tight over his ears, drowned out all conversation and ambient noise, replaced with lyrics from a Nicki Minaj song. His hands were bound, his own handcuffs, metal pinching into his flesh.
"Not built for comfort, Buddy." That line played over and over in his head, spoken multiple times on reruns of Cops.
This was no ordinary Monday at the bank. Not an hour ago, he was bored to tears, slightly amused as a little old lady retrieve her SSC from a hidden pocket inside her bra. It was business as usual, tellers explaining to irate customers that overdraft protection was for their benefit, even though the customer was close to a negative 300 dollar balance. He kept tugging at the stiff collar on the security uniform, trying to stop it from punching him in his Adam's apple every time he swallowed, resisting the urge to rip if off his neck.
One customer after the other, shuttled into the wrap around line, the velvet rope borders guiding the sheep to the sacrificial window of currency. More people were giving money than taking these days. Doing what they had to do to keep the lights on, food on the table, and the debt wolves at bay. At least he had a job, Chris thought to himself as he fought the collar as non-conspicuously as possible. Every time the door opened, He was greeted with freezing spit from Mother nature. Not yet sleet, but far from a light drizzle, the Atlanta area was hit with a slow moving weather system that picked and chose where to let the rain fall.
Some customers planned ahead, equipped with umbrellas, shaking them out a few feet from him, little drops of water landing on the patent shine of his shoes. He began to make bets on which drop would hit the floor first. He was that bored.
One woman who clearly didn't get the memo about the rain, raced through the double doors, t-shirt soaked to the bone, muttering to herself. A small thrill ran up his spine as he watched her stiffened nipples peeking though the pink bra. She was too busy trying to wipe the moisture from her iPhone to notice. She shook more water from her face and her hair, a crazy anti-rain dance that disturbed the people in close proximity.
Chris took a long hard look at her ass as she did her little dance and didn't realize that Hell was next in line.
He felt it before anything else. A hard piece of steel, placed right below the base of his skull. It fit in nicely, too nicely. Then the godawful sound of a round being chambered made his asshole pucker.
"You know what this is, don't you?" asked the romantic accent. He barely moved his head in an affirmative direction, not wanting the gun to answer back, out of spite. He thought about the trajectory of the bullet, creasing a ragged swath up the middle of both lobes and exiting out through his left eye. A closed casket funeral.
He was quickly relieved of his own pistol, a nice heft on his right hip, replaced by lonely want. The barrel pushed against his skull and he obliged taking baby steps away from the front door, back towards his desk, where he wasn't even allowed to sit unless on break.
Three figures raced past him, all wearing dresses, low heeled pumps and their lower faces covered with ski masks. The other difference between them and the rest of the morning patrons were the deadly pieces of iron they removed from beneath their rain coats.
"Showtime!" screamed the largest of the trio, jacking a round in the Mossberg shotgun, sawed off on both ends. The clacking sound echoed through the large waiting room, freezing everyone in place. The bark was worse than the bite and people complied without fuss as she screamed orders to the dozen on so patrons. Chris watched the old woman with the SSC try to stuff it back in her bra, shrinking against the fake mahogany panel of the teller window. The other two women ran to each end of the counter, outflanking the petrified crowd.
"Hit the ground!" screamed the one on the left, her yellow slicker trailing behind her as she slid butt first over the counter, heel of her shoe planted firmly in the chest of the skinny effeminate teller. He gave her no resistance, hitting the ground with a feeble shriek and crumbling under a desk.
The barrel pressed against Chris's skull didn't budge and his own commandeered Glock aided in the robbery. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the gun pointed over his right shoulder and into the crowd.
"Ninety seconds!" screamed the voice behind him. Two of the robbers were behind the counter, moving steadily from drawer to drawer, shoving bundles of cash into plastic bags. The large one in the middle kept the shotgun trained on the splayed out crowd, eyes darting left while the shotgun went right. Nobody moved, barely a peep was heard, except for Tweets, Facebook updates, and missed calls from the countless cell phones.
Chris felt the nudge of the gun again and moved to the middle of the room. The shotgun wielding crook removed a plastic bag from her coat pocket and shoved it in his direction.
"Get the phones." she barked at him, barrel pointed at his gut. "You leave one behind, you'll wish you had one last chance to jack off this morning." The shotgun dropped three inches lower. Chris nodded and took the bag. He began moving from person to person, bag opened so they could dump their electronic lifelines. He gathered them all, praying that no one was holding back. God forbid a ringtone went off at the wrong time. The look in her grays eyes said that she meant to keep the promise. The girl in the soaked t-shirt looked at if she was going to object to parting with her phone, but the nod Chris gave her in the direction of the waving shotgun changed her mind.
Grabbing his own phone last and dumping it in, Chris went back to the front where the first robber was standing. He could see in her eyes that she was smiling, pleased with his obedience.
"Why don't you hold onto that, Carino?" She turned him away from her twinkling hazel eyes, replacing the barrel of her gun right back where it fit and yelled, "Two and a half, move yo ass!"
The two behind the counter were done, bags stuffed with as much as they could gather. The one with the shotgun began to walk backwards, still scanning the crowd for trouble. Chris felt his hands placed behind his back and his own handcuffs cinch tight against his wrists.
"Wanna go for a ride?" The last thing he heard before he was jerked backwards through the double doors by two pairs of arms and into the driving rain. The back of his legs bumped against a door sill and he fell into the empty cavern of a cargo van. He tried to gather as much information that he could in as little time but everything was moving too fast. His hands were bent at a miserable angle and he cried out when the pressure of his whole body fell upon them.
"Shut the fuck up," growled the large one as she threw a headband over his eyes, and someone presented his ears with a pair of massive headphones. Then came a large sack and he was promptly rolled onto his stomach against one side of the van. He still held onto the plastic bag of phones, but someone snatched them out of his hands.
He did his best to keep time, but the songs that were being pumped into his ears were constantly changing, some played out in their entirety, while others only lasted 16 bars. The genre changed from rap, to country, to classical. He attempted to count the songs, but lost it around 23. Chris tried to think, play back everything that happened. He feared the worst because he knew who he was dealing with..
There was a notorious group that has been moving up and down the East coast, as far West as Louisiana, hitting banks every few months. Their MO was the same; a quartet of females, dressed very casually, with their faces covered. Sometimes they wore wigs, sometimes dyed hair. They always took a hostage, a man. He would be found days, sometimes weeks later, naked with two bullet holes. One in the head and the other, a little more personal. The Succubus Crew became their Nom de plume, granted by media pundits that loved to sell the fear.
He did everything they asked of him, but they still took him. He could imagine the look on the faces of those cops who find him, naked in a ditch, trying to explain to his mother what became of her son, his face plastered on the news as the latest victim. Chris tried to move his legs, but someone was sitting on them. The familiar potholed streets played havoc on his kneecaps as the van bumped and swerved through the city.
The bumps and rattles slowed after some time and Chris felt the pressure on his legs lighten. He had no comprehension of where he was, or how long it took him to get there. The headphones kept blaring. Willie Nelsonwas replaced by Lady Gaga, cut short by Gnarls Barkley. The bag shifted on his head, but no light was granted. He was pulled by his feet to the edge of the van and forced upright. He could only go along with the program as a gun was shoved in his ribcage and a hand grabbed him by the wrists.
He stumbled a few times, but shuffled along at a steady clip. His mind raced faster than his feet, trying to think of a way to get out his impending doom. Left, left, right, long straight, right, stumble down the steps, quick right, and he was thrown down. Thankful that he landed on something soft, he gave a quick prayer of gratitude. The way his body bounced, he figured it to be an air mattress.
Hands were on him again, working on his wrists. He felt something very hard pressed against his head and he froze in place.
Somebody worked quickly with his cuffs, freeing one of his hands. He was flipped onto his back and his arms placed above his head. He felt a new pair of cuffs placed on his newly freed wrist and inwardly groaned as he was re shackled to something very large and unforgiving. He was bound in a reclining position, his arms were pulled above his head and attached to a chain that was connected to a part of the room his couldn't see. His back rested against rusty metal, flakes of it fell on his arms when he tried to move. The bag was yanked off his head and he was released of the excruciating mix tape. For the first time, he began to understand why silence is golden.
He could breathe easier since the sack was removed, but the sweatband remained, his vision blocked. He wasn't sure if he was alone, the reverberations of songs past in his ear. He gulped many times, the constricting collar on his shirt was back again, tap dancing on his esophagus. After what felt like hours, probably minutes, they were back.
The bind was removed from him eyes and he blinked at the lone light bulb that swung above his head. The concrete room he ended up in was windowless, smelled moldy and unused for years. He kept blinking at the hazy figures standing before him until he began to make out more than shapes and shadows.
The Succubus Crew, live and in living color. He remembered how he use to laugh that the stupidity of the moniker whenever the anchorman would repeat it. Now, he was petrified. Their bite was worse than the bark.
"Well, well, well." spoke the largest one. She was built like a linebacker, hair braided back into cornrows, and could pass for a guy, with the right attire. "Never thought this would happen to you, did you?"
Chris didn't know if he could even get his voice to work so he kept quiet.
"I'm sure, you've heard of us," she continued. "Probably ranked up there with Bigfoot and Hogzilla, the creature under your bed; designed to make you be a good boy, say your prayers and eat your veggies." She scratched at the one of the tracks on her head. "But, we're real. Oh, so real." She let out a throaty guffaw, laughing at her dry humor. No reply from the others. The ski masks stayed put, a neoprene half- mask favored by snowboarders and hp skiers, but he could see enough to deem her Caucasian.
"Here are the rules," said the smallest of the four. She had Asian features, but Chris couldn't tell Japanese from Korean.
"We work hard, and," gesturing to the rest of the crew, "play just as hard." She removed her rain coat, revealing a short black dress and a shoulder holster with two nickel-plated 1911 Colts snug against her torso.
The others removed their outerwear as well. There was a Black woman, tall in stature with wide hips who had two Glocks under her arms. She took her hat off and shook her frizzy Afro free, running a hand through the thick mane. On any other day, Chris would have bought her a drink or try to friend her on Facebook, but he all had was the urge to piss his pants right now.
The last robber approached him. She was the one who kindly kept him company with a gun at his head. Her weapon of choice was a Desert Eagle . 50 cal. She had long black hair, thick figure and a massive set of breasts that made anyone do a double take. From her accent alone, Chris knew she was of Hispanic descent. All big guns, too much firepower for the average gun enthusiast, but these women were far from average.
"We," said the Asian with the .45's, "don't have time for relationships, drama, and emotional baggage. Sometimes, we want a little more than a vibrator." She stared at him lustily. "That's where you come in."
"Speak for yourself," said the large one, cradling the shotgun like a newborn.
The petite woman continued. "All you have to do is get through the four of us; one at a time mind you, we want to give you a sporting chance."
The mannish female crouched down in front of him, licking her lips. "If you don't hold out, neither does my friend here." She patted the top of the Mossberg. "You look like you've been around the track a few times, but, looks can be deceiving.
The Black chick giggled as Chris squirmed in his shackles. "Don't scare him girl, I'm horny."
"Okay then, said the voluptuous Latin. "Let's draw." The quartet gathered in the middle of the room and reached into their pockets. Drawing out some coins, they began to flip. Chris watched as they kept flipping. He couldn't believe that they were going to run a train on him. On a normal day, this could be every man's greatest fantasy. He always thought about having sex with more than one woman at a time, in a day, back to back. Hell, a foursome was paradise, but this was a life or death situation. If he couldn't perform to their standards, he was a dead man. He wondered if they would shoot him in the head or the dick first? He thought about all the times he may have left a woman unsatisfied. Was this Karma?
He figured he still had a chance. These were professionals; they haven't given away their names, or shown their faces. He couldn't give the authorities too much info if they dropped him off somewhere. He could actually make it out alive. He knew that the small window he had was whenever they released him from the chains binding his wrists. He would have to bide his time until then. To keep his mind sharp, he began to give names to his captors.
Butch was an easy tag for the beast with the Mossberg. She looked like she would rather kill him than fuck him. He named the woman with the Afro, Foxy, because she looked like a retro upgrade of Pam Grier. Her swagger and demeanor was from the seventies. The Latina was now named Sofia. She had the look of that actress from Modern Family, thick accent, exuded sexuality with each step, and any woman who could handle an Eagle had to be a bad ass broad. The Asian one was a little harder, but he ended up with Suzy. All he could link her to was a Asian stripper named Suzy Q that he use to throw singles to at the strip club; when there was no such thing as a recession and nobody got laid off.
"Yes," squealed Suzy, giving a tiny power salute as her coin came up as a winner. "I never draw first round." "Even the sun shines on a dog's ass once a day," quipped Foxy. She rubbed her coin for good luck, giving Chris a quick once over before flipping again. The trio flipped until a shout from Sofia dwindled them down to two. Butch seethed as Foxy won the last flip. "C'mon, you don't like dick anyway." Foxy told Butch. "Besides the point," she growled. "This shit is a waste of time anyway. I'm going to count money." She put her quarter away, spat on the ground and with a sneer in his direction, left through the only door in the room.
"Help me strip him?" Suzy looked at the other two.
"Sure." said Sofia, reaching under her dress and pulling out a butterfly knife. Chris tried to scurry back away from the approaching women, but the trio was on him with a quickness. Foxy and Suzy grabbed his arms, Sofia planted firmly on his legs.
"This blade is sharp, Mi Amor. It was designed to cut tension." She giggled at her own joke and leaned forward, grabbing his jaw with one hand. With her free hand, she flipped open the knife, her hand a blur of cold steel. The blade glinted as she slid the tip of the knife along the seam of his shirt. His buttons popped off effortlessly, rolling down his stomach, off the mattress and onto the dusty floor.
"Please?" croaked Chris. The first words out of his mouth since this morning.
"Aw, how sweet," chirped Foxy. "He has manners. Momma raised him well.
Sofia worked, skilled like a surgeon, cutting away his collar, shirt and leaving nothing but two shirt cuffs.
"Now he looks like a Chippendale." she joked.
"I heard they were all gay, anyhow." answered Suzy. "You're not gay, are you? The last two were, and it didn't work out too well for those guys."
Chris shook his head no, the pictures of the two bank guards in Virginia and North Carolina ingrained in his cortex.
"At least he works out," remarked Foxy, giving his biceps a squeeze. Suzy ran a manicured nail up and down his chest, also checking his physique. Sofia took off his gun belt began to undo his belt buckle when Suzy stopped her.
"I can handle it from here." She grinned like a child on Christmas morning.
"Fine." Sofia rose up off his legs, sheathing her blade and tucking back on the inside of her thigh. Foxy joined her as they left the room. "Remember, you are one, we are four, and you're chained to the wall. Behave, huh?"
She gave the bulb a playful tap, making it swing back and forth, before leaving with Foxy trailing behind her.
Suzy walked to the door, made sure it was shut. "I'm kind of shy."
Chris tried to test his bonds, but he was securely attached to what may have been an industrial boiler. It wasn't on, but pipes that connected it to the floor was solid. They must have been planning this for weeks. The chains, mattress, location. This wasn't a last minute setup.
"I'm Chris." he said, trying to start some conversation.
"Doesn't matter. Just do what I tell you to, to the best of your ability and you might make it through."
She reached up under her dress and removed her panties. "I don't know what gets me more wet, robbing or this, right here." She sniffed them before tossing them over her shoulder.
"You must have gotten a big enough haul; you got away clean." Chris tried to reason once more. "What's with the kidnapping?"
"We have our reasons." She looked at him, tapping her feet impatiently. He was going to say more, but the look in her eyes told him that his rebuttal session was over. She was ready to get down to business.
She straddled him and began to work on his belt buckle. "You watch porn? I mean, of course you do, you're a man." She pulled on one end of the unbuckled leather. "I mean, do you watch a lot?"
"I guess." Chris answered. He was being modest. He watched more than his fair share. About 8 GB of worth.
"Well, throw that timid Asian chick squealing like she's being murdered shit right out the window. I don't like fisting, eels, pissing, shit, fish hooking, sharking, aliens, or any of that other crazy shit that you guys see on the web. I like dick. I like it hard, obedient, and, pardon the pun, long time."