All Ya Gotta Do
By: Justin Mckeon
Tags: Robbery, Crime, Fiction, Thriller, Suspense

Tom started to scream when he heard the other customer’s helpless cries. How should he know what just happened? He is only seven. Four loud bangs entered the door with the special appearance of the cash registers Cha-Ching! Tom, sitting there on the cold, ceramic floor of the gas stations little convenience store, was gulping his cherry Slurpee, but also sobbing. His mother went to use the restroom.

Stay here for one, quick second, Tommy. Mommy will be right back. But now she stands by the entrance of the lady’s room with her hands held stiffer on her head than a jackrabbit whose eyes are in the crosshair of a sniper.

The four men wore generally the same clothing. Black Gap jackets with baggy black sweatpants that had three little white stripes going down and, of course, ski masks.

One of them was a hefty man who obviously had to shop in the larger section of the store to buy his Gap clothes. He had long brown hair falling from the back of his ski mask and very chapped lips from the blizzard outside. He wore a jade encapsulated in a golden ring on his middle finger and was dressed in tattoos from head to toe — one of them reading, “Comply Or Die.”

The second man reeked of alcohol and cannabis. As he pointed his gun to the cashier and screamed: “Give me all the Goddamn money!” the putrid stench of garlic and onions leaped out of his mouth and onto the nose of the twenty-two-year-old cashier — which was his first day on the job.

The third man’s uneasy countenance and constant fidgeting of his .92 Beretta allowed him to be the lookout, standing in front of the entrance door. Sometimes he would step out for a few seconds, vomit a portion of his Applebee’s bacon cheeseburger, and light a cigarette to only give it one puff and smother the rest. He was a fairly gaunt man, especially more so from the constant puking.

However, the fourth man was peculiar. He strolled into the store carrying a bright red gallon of gasoline in his right hand and a Bic lighter in the left. He flickered with the Bic a few times, once in a while actually producing a flame, and slung his pot-belly over the counter. He removed his ski mask from his face.

“Move it, Stench. We don’t need ya ruinin’ this man’s nose with your filthy musk. Go fetch Pukey over there and give em’ this.” He stared at a bag of Flamin Hot Cheetos, picked it up with his foul skin and hairy knuckles, and tossed it over to Stench. “Mullet and I will begin, meet us ‘ere when you’re ready.” Stench gave an affirmative nod and rushed over to the main entrance.

Mullet appeared to be glowering at Tommy with a galvanized knife held tightly in his palm, turning his hand a ghastly white.

“What a’boutta kid, boss? You want me to…” He brought the knife up to his neck and made a sawing motion.

“I swear to God if you do anything to him I’ll — ” Tommy’s mother got interrupted with a large roar of the boss’ pistol, creating a hole in the Styrofoam ceiling.

“No’one ‘ill hurt ya son, ma’am. Jus’ don’t get in our way. Comply to our needs and he’ll be fine, alright?” Mullet grunted at her and sheathed his knife back into his leather holster. The boss gave a slight twitch of the head and Mullet lifted the kid with one, meaty arm — however, spilled Tommy’s cherry Slurpee which caused a blood-red pond of ice shards and artificial flavoring — and took him over to the bathrooms with his mother. Tommy wrapped his arms around her waist as she leaned down, gave him a kiss on the head, and brushed his silky blonde hair.

“Lemme tell you somtin,’ Miss. Do we look like reasonable guys to ya? The sorta people that would give ya some sorta…deal. Or an ultimatum, perhaps?” The mother spat a foamy pellet of spit, like a piece of sleet during a frigid rainfall, at the boss’ loafers which caused Mullet to place his hand on the hilt of the knife and lean angrily towards the family. But the boss reached his hand over and commanded him to stop.

Stench and Pukey came back from outside, causing an aroma of tobacco and a spoiled milk mixture. In Pukey’s hand was a white, see-through funnel with a two inch rubber tubing that stretched as far as an African snake. Stench grabbed the gasoline can and brought it over to Mullet and the boss. The boss continued to flicker with the lighter, but now created more flames than before.

In a loud, screaming voice, the boss yelled, “Everyone may now leave th’ store. Everyone except these two right here.” The other victims fled like a stampede of wild boars and a few of them dialed 9–1–1 on their way out.

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt him,” the mother said, almost weeping into a full tantrum. A stream of clear urine traveled down Tommy’s leg and made a puddle underneath his light up Sketchers.

“Oh, we’re no welshers, Miss. We won’t hurt ya son here. All ya gotta do is comply. With that bein’ said, I’m gonna give you a choice. Ya see, we don’t care much for money or robbin’ places. What we care ‘bout is givin’ fearful, desperate people like you an option between selfishness or nobility. Ya have a choice now. Stench here is gonna stick this funnel down eith’a you or ya son’s throat an’ pour this here gasoline inside it. Once that’s done, whomever consumed th’ gasoline will spark this lighter and place it in ya mouth. All ya gotta do is comply.”

“You sick bastards,” the mother was denuded of tears, but now infested with rage.

“Sick? No. This ain’t to prove our ailments, but rather to prove yours.” He gave a sinister grin and took the funnel from Stench, holding it in his hands as if constricting it like a King Cobra. “So…who’s it gonna be?”