Deposits and Withdrawals: The Suicidalist’s Approach on Banks

A suicidalist, named Bob, practices chronic suicide.

Bob goes to the bank and gets to let off some steam on some robbers. Oh, and he becomes a hero.

Hello, everyone and welcome. . .

Welcome to episode eight (or Chapter 8 if you want to get technical) of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.

Bob has had quite the trip. We’ve seen his lowest of lows it seems. . .or have we? Up until now, Bob has really only been on the look out for himself. As of late, though he’s had a sort of. . .change of heart. He’s killed a rapist. Now? Well, he’s taking his line of work serious.

He has a conversation of sorts with himself. He starts to believe in himself and that he has finally found a purpose, and maybe, just maybe, he can get back home to his family.

It’s an emotional rollercoaster for him. The tough times are not behind him, yet. There are still a few episodes left in the grand story of our beloved suicidalist.

It’s also safe to say that yes, the sad sap that is Bob, the suicidalist. . .is becoming a superhero. Why not? Superheroes don’t always wear capes, they don’t have to be the traditional “get your powers, save the world” kind of thing. He does have the traumatic background bit.

In any case, I’ll let the rest of the episode here speak for itself. Next week, will be a few episodes before the finale. Have a great weekend, folks.

Until next time,

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 8 – The Last Action Hero

I know what you’re thinkin’, “Bob, what the hell is goin’ on here now?”

Well, folks, I ain’t so sure myself of what’s happenin’. Apparently, though, I am goin’ Dr. Who every time I ax myself. . .or so it seems. So what happens from here on out? I am not quite sure. Truth be told, I am scared shitless and I sure as hell don’t wanna ‘become one with the darkness.’ I am pretty sure that ain’t signing up with the band or being Tim Curry’s protégé in Legend either.

I guess. . .I guess this is going to be it.

***

Bob awoke in his bed. Alone. He heard no one in the house. It was quiet, abnormally quiet from how it’d typically be bustling with the kids running amok, and his wife shouting after them. His lips curled into a smile at the thought.

He laid in bed wondering, wondering what in the hell was going on. Who was this Bob? What kind of life did he lead? Was he a good father? A loving husband? A schmuck? A has been? He sighed as he got out of bed and wandered over to the mirror above the dresser. He looked his body over. Pockmarks of bullet wounds, stab wounds, rope burns, burns, marks from every suicide he had made were manifesting at an alarming rate. He stared at his reflection, hard. He could barely recognize himself. He had wondered if other people would see him the same way or not.

He did a morning ritual in which he had not completed in some time since his newfound ‘power’—shower. He shaved, brushed his teeth, clipped his nails. It was all something he had almost forgotten about. He stared at himself in the mirror. The reflection seemed to cry out in agony, pain. . .deceit. A man that was trapped within. This spurned the sadness within, invoking those ever-burning feelings that had first started the motion of his self-perpetual motion killing machine. He stared down at the razor for a few minutes. He debated with himself. . .with himself.

Don’t you ever get tired of it all?

Well, yeah, I am tired. So very tired.

Why do you keep running? If what he said is true, then it’s pointless in trying to do anything.

There’s always hope.

Was hope there when you first jumped? When you first started the chain of events that led you where you are now?

That was my choice.

And yet, you continue to evade the real thought, the real answer to your question. You know it’s pointless, you know it’s all going to come crashing down on you. You know you’re going to lose, and you hate losing. That’s all you’ve known. You’re just one big walking contradiction; talking about choices and hope. You’re pathetic.

If I could take it all back and try again, I would. I would make an effort. I would better myself. I want to fight.

Bob turned away from the mirror and the razor and exited the bathroom. He stepped with a purpose, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time now. He dressed in his best attire and set out for the day.

He wagered that his wife and kids were probably at school and work, being that typical kind of day. He wandered into the city and ventured downtown. There were no sightings of the knife, no wraiths, nothing. As much as he wanted to believe it to be tried and true, he knew it was only a matter of time. He found himself at the bank; a feeling, something drew him here unbeknownst to him. He looked around and found nothing out of the ordinary.

The clock struck noon and in came a group of men donned in black. They had different president masks on and waved their different automatic guns around, occasionally firing a few rounds in the air. One carried a bag of what Bob could only figure were small bombs or plastic explosives. Everyone got down on the ground except for him. He wasn’t afraid of death, and he surely wasn’t afraid of them.

“Get the fuck down on the ground, you piece of shit!” shouted a man in a Ronald Reagan mask.

Reagan clubbed Bob over the head and kicked him on the ground. “Don’t even fuckin’ think about tryin’ to be a hero!”

Lincoln, Clinton, G. W. Bush, Nixon, Obama, and one in a Donald Trump mask all jumped over the counter. An armored truck then came through the front entrance. More men in masks jumped out and began tying up hostages, taking their phones, wallets, jewelry, anything of value.

Reagan came back to Bob, “Alright, dickhead, let’s see what you got.” Bob laid there calmly, though, he could feel the rage beginning to swell inside. He watched them hit women, some with their kids. They told them to their faces that they were going to be taken, raped, and then killed. That no one would find their bodies, and that their kids would be sold into slavery, human trafficking. He had enough.

“You’re pathetic,” said Bob to Reagan.

“What was that, fucker?”

Bob stared deep into the man’s eyes under the mask, “I said, you are a fuckin’ coward. All of you.”

Reagan laughed, “Oh yeah? I got the gun, bitch.” He then colt-copped Bob with his gun and sent him to the floor. “You’re gonna wish you never opened your mouth, man. I’ll fuckin’ end your life, then your families.”

Bob started to laugh. All eyes were on him.

“You don’t even know what I’ve been through, what I’ve seen. You, all of you are lower than the pieces of shit that I flushed down the toilet this morning. You are nothing, nothing but cowards that hide behind masks, scared of reality, scared of being caught, scared—afraid of all of us, having to use guns. You’re weak. Pathetic.”

Bob then spat on the floor.

“Oh yeah? Who’s goin’ to save ya, pal? No one. And there ain’t a God damn thing you can do about it,” said Reagan with a grin.

Bob grinned maniacally. “No, friend, you’re wrong. I am gonna kill you, all of you. I will see to it that you all are gutted, left to rot on this floor, and these people freed by my hands.”

Reagan motioned to shoot Bob in the head.

That’s when it happened. . .

Bob reached out and drew the knife from nothingness. He slit the heels of Reagan and drove the blade into his chest. Two shots rang out into the air. The rest of the gunmen raised their arms to take Bob down. Bob rolled around and dashed towards the next masked man. He grabbed Bush and slit his throat, letting him take a few bullets while moving on to the next target. Lincoln and Nixon were next, both killed each other as Bob got between them both. He took a handgun and returned a few shots as he ran at some of the masked men by the truck, dropping them. Bob went after Obama by the counter. He dived over the counter, taking the bag that was slung around Obama. He snapped the man’s neck like a twig.

The feeling, the rush, the excitement. . it was nothing like he ever experienced. He thirsted for blood but not for the blood of innocence like he once did. He looked around; there weren’t many left now. A few climbed into the armored truck and attempted to leave. Police had descended onto the scene and fired wildly at the vehicle. They were of no concern to Bob now. All that was left was “Trump.” He took a woman and child hostage, a knife to the child’s throat, and a gun pointed at the mother’s head.

“Don’t even fuckin’ think about it, bud. You don’t even know what you’ve gotten yourself into!” said the man in the Trump mask.

Bob slowly walked towards the man. “I think you have it all wrong. You don’t even know what you’ve gotten yourself into. You know you’re about to die, one way or another. Yet, you would jeopardize this woman and child to save yourself? Pathetic.”

“Don’t come any closer! I’ll fuckin’ do it!” shouted the man.

Bob shrugged, “Two lives to save around 30 or 40. . .those are odds I can live with.”

Trump was now backed into a corner. Police shouted on the loudspeaker to have the man stand down and for the advancement of police. “You’re completely surrounded. Don’t be stupid.”

“Hear that?” asked Bob.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked the scared Trump.

“Just another guy who is tired of being wronged by assholes like you,” replied Bob.

The man knew he was done either way. He motioned to slit the boy’s throat and pull the trigger. Time slowed down. Bob noticed this and took advantage of it. He moved the knife up to the man’s throat and raised the gun to his head. He pulled the boy and woman away, dislocating their shoulders in the process by the jerking force. Bob stood with a grin on his smile as time played back to its normal speed.

A bang and a sudden gasp for air. The man laid crumpled on the floor in a bloody mess. The mother and child cried out in pain and shock.

Police advanced into the bank. Having pulled some men out of the armored truck alive. Shame, Bob thought.

The knife disappeared, and Bob fell to the floor. Some blood poured out from underneath him onto the cold marble tile. Life didn’t leave him, he fought, this time, trying to keep hold of what mattered the most to him.

“Show me your hands!” an officer shouted as he approached Bob.

Bob slowly raised his hands above his head, legs sprawled. The darkness was coming.

“He saved us!” some people cried out.

Bob last heard the police calling out for medical personnel to come over before passing out. The last thought he was, Being the hero for once was nice.

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS A WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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