Junk Food For Your Brain

The silence washed over the bank customers like a gentle rain on a summer day, extinguishing all conversation like a noise-canceling-bucket poured onto a campfire of noise.
“All right,” shouted the robber like a drill sergeant on his first day with new recruits, “Everyone down on the floor”.
The customers dropped to the floor like dogs lying down after their owner told them they would get a treat for doing so. They looked at each other as two babies would when threatened by higher interest rates.
The robber advanced towards the teller, slowly, as if waiting to hear from the teacher what he got on the last test.
He handed his bag to the teller.
“Fill it full of hundreds,” he grunted like a sick sea lion who washes ashore in Los Angles and interrupts a volleyball game to ask for directions back to the Arctic.
The teller did as he was told, like a person doing as they’re told from a robber brandishing a gun and after being handed a bag and told to fill it with hundreds.
He stuffed the bag full of hundreds til it seemed like it would overflow and burst through the bag, rampage throughout the countryside, devouring everything in its path like that movie the Blob. It didn’t, though. It just got really, really full, like a really, really full bag.
The robber, happy as an empty bottle of sour cream, slowly backed away from the counter and out the door. He kept backing long after it was necessary to do so. He backed down the steps, still facing the bank like a crab that walks backwards instead of sideways, or a snake that slithers backwards instead of forwards, or a bear walking backwards. He continued to back across the street where he was bit by a bus and died like a bus driver who didn’t see him.

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