Dagwood Hightower, whose favorite joke was the word, humble-sexual, was also undeniably gay, not violently gay but obviously gay which made the fact that he called himself Woody a predictable source of silent humor in some circles. An even younger Woody had procured a small fortune from a successful college business project. Woody was in no shortage of liquid assets. And a wealthy young man with a low tolerance for peer pressure combined with his particular sexual inclinations lead to successive hours doing destructive things under strobe lights or huge mirrors or both, in fact usually both.
Weird stories of $600 dollars hidden in places like the coffee shop, between the pages of some Dean Koontz book or taped under a chair or tossed into a light fixture, would spark dramatic little cabals of fortune hunters and Woody could always be seen orbiting the stratus of the soft turmoil as people lost their heads with the idea of finding it. People rarely found any money but once was enough to cause a stir. There were rumors of overdoses and the obligatory tales of stomach pumps and hints at an explosive temper. He spent a small majority of his time in the shop furthering a degree in pharmaceutical science.
That kid is trouble, Poole would begin, he’s not unpredictable like these Dog Boys but he is fucking trouble. Yep, Hatchet agreed, and you know what else he is? I shudder in anticipation. He’s a full-fledged card carrying Jesus-freak. What? He still works in the accounting office of Calvary Fellowship Church. Not this again. There is no again; this is still and I’m still convinced it could be done. Poole stared across the room at Woody splitting his attention between a chattering brunette and his active phone. Have you talked to him about it, Marcus? I have; vaguely. Poole judged the silence between them. And?
And he seems viable, possibly even reliable.
Poole reached across the table and gave his friend’s shirt a quick yank, his arm the size of a tugboat hawser. Come out back with me for just a sec, will ya? Poole didn’t give him the chance to argue. He had already covered half the distance between Hatchet and the parking lot exit at the rear of the room. Hatchet gave Woody a salute as he went past him and through the exit door into the parking lot and a shower of sunlight.
You can’t be serious about this heist thing. Why not? and let’s save the carny voice for when we need it. Hatchet made a pressing motion with his hand to quiet him. Marcus, it’s one thing to toss the idea around a campfire or a couple of bar stools but to really go so far as to—. As to explore the possibilities that it could actually be done? Yeah, as to that and the idea of relying on someone as flaky as Woody for anything. What do you know about Woody? it’s not like I’d need him to hold a gun, Poole. Guns? Oh Jesus, Poole, you’re making too much outta this. How long have you been thinking about guns? I haven’t been thinking about guns, man. That kid in there would get killed if there were any guns involved; he’d get you killed if there were any guns involved; he’s got victim all over him. This is all just theorizing, man! Hatchet slugged him in the shoulder. There wouldn’t be any guns and there wouldn’t be any victims, Poole, there are no victims, only volunteers.
Weird stories of $600 dollars hidden in places like the coffee shop, between the pages of some Dean Koontz book or taped under a chair or tossed into a light fixture, would spark dramatic little cabals of fortune hunters and Woody could always be seen orbiting the stratus of the soft turmoil as people lost their heads with the idea of finding it. People rarely found any money but once was enough to cause a stir. There were rumors of overdoses and the obligatory tales of stomach pumps and hints at an explosive temper. He spent a small majority of his time in the shop furthering a degree in pharmaceutical science.
That kid is trouble, Poole would begin, he’s not unpredictable like these Dog Boys but he is fucking trouble. Yep, Hatchet agreed, and you know what else he is? I shudder in anticipation. He’s a full-fledged card carrying Jesus-freak. What? He still works in the accounting office of Calvary Fellowship Church. Not this again. There is no again; this is still and I’m still convinced it could be done. Poole stared across the room at Woody splitting his attention between a chattering brunette and his active phone. Have you talked to him about it, Marcus? I have; vaguely. Poole judged the silence between them. And?
And he seems viable, possibly even reliable.
Poole reached across the table and gave his friend’s shirt a quick yank, his arm the size of a tugboat hawser. Come out back with me for just a sec, will ya? Poole didn’t give him the chance to argue. He had already covered half the distance between Hatchet and the parking lot exit at the rear of the room. Hatchet gave Woody a salute as he went past him and through the exit door into the parking lot and a shower of sunlight.
You can’t be serious about this heist thing. Why not? and let’s save the carny voice for when we need it. Hatchet made a pressing motion with his hand to quiet him. Marcus, it’s one thing to toss the idea around a campfire or a couple of bar stools but to really go so far as to—. As to explore the possibilities that it could actually be done? Yeah, as to that and the idea of relying on someone as flaky as Woody for anything. What do you know about Woody? it’s not like I’d need him to hold a gun, Poole. Guns? Oh Jesus, Poole, you’re making too much outta this. How long have you been thinking about guns? I haven’t been thinking about guns, man. That kid in there would get killed if there were any guns involved; he’d get you killed if there were any guns involved; he’s got victim all over him. This is all just theorizing, man! Hatchet slugged him in the shoulder. There wouldn’t be any guns and there wouldn’t be any victims, Poole, there are no victims, only volunteers.
Edit 11.5.2018