mr. furley?

“I know people may judge, but… it makes me feel good. More put together, you know? Hell, even a little pretty. And sometimes I just like to do something nice for myself. I work hard. I deserve it,” he explains.

“Yeeeaaaah. I meant clear polish for my armoire.”

He looks at his nails.

He looks at her.

“Can we forget I said anything?”

“You better hope so,” she replies.

He taps his foot on the floor.

He whistles.

Her already high blood pressure goes higher.

“Stop it,” she growls.

“Stop what?”


“Oh. Sorry,” he replies.

“It drives me nuts. Quit it.”

He’s never wanted to whistle more.

To distract himself, he stares at a poster on the wall. It’s of an owl wearing glasses. The caption is “Whooooo hasn’t started a retirement fund?”

“Also… Was that a Kelly Clarkson song?” she asks.

“I don’t know…”

He knows

He wonders why all banks are decorated essentially the same. Just… neutral. He figures they’re trying to lull you half to sleep so you won’t notice the fees they charge.

“Hey, that guy looks like Don Knotts,” he says, pointing to an elderly man to their right.

“That guy?”


“He does not.”

“He mostly certainly does. In fact… I think it IS Don Knotts.”

“Sweetie, Don Knotts died five years ago.”

“He absolutely did not,” he insists.

“He did.”

“I’ll bet you.”

“Fine. Loser buys dinner. All I had for lunch was a big block of cheddar cheese,” she blahs while sticking her tongue out.

“I’ll show you,” he says, pulling his phone out.

He types.

He stares.

He types some more.

He puts the phone back in his pocket.

“Forget the bet, it is my turn to buy dinner anyway,” he mumbles.

A terrified little man stands up from behind the counter.

The man shakily hands over a bag.

She grabs it.

“Finally!” he says. “Now back on the floor!”

He points at the floor with his gun. The little man is quickly lying on his stomach.

He steps back, waving his gun around, and adjusting his ski mask as he does.

He bends over and takes a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of the security guard on the floor. He steps on them.

“You… Don’t be a hero,” he says to the man.

“What was that?” she whispers.

“I thought it would be bad ass.”

“Ehhhh,” she shrugs.

“Whatever. Can we go now?”

She hands him the big bag of cash.

“Why do I have to carry it?”

“You’re the man.”

“Well if we’re sticking to gender roles, do I also get a bigger cut of the loot for the same amount of work?”


“What? Robbers say loot!”

“Mmmhmm. Let’s go on the lam. The fuzz are chasing us.”

“I loathe you,” he holds the door open for her. “Back to Redwood Forest!”


“You know… Redwood Forest. Robin Hood?”

“That’s Sherwood Forest.”

He glares at her.

She smirks at him.

He whistles loudly.

More Kelly Clarkson.

They make a run towards their van.


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