Chicago – Outside the Theodore Roosevelt Bank, 9.14AM
The doors of the bank slam open and a trio of robbers run out. They have tights over their heads. Two carry shotguns and the third has two bags stuffed full of hundred dollar bills. One fires at the police cars maintaining a perimeter: BANG! Like that.
The man with the bags throws them into their waiting car. “Hurry up, man!” says the driver, “they’ve got a chopper comin’!” The three are in and the car speeds away.
“All ok?” asked the driver.
“Yeah, went smooth. Rob shot a guy.”
“Makes ‘em think I’m dangerous.”
“You are dangerous.”
“Makes ‘em know it though.”
The car screeches around a corner, cops just behind. “Take care of them,” says the driver. The two with the guns lean out the car windows, firing back at the cop cars. One swerves wildly to the left. A second ploughs into it. The sirens wail and die. The two robbers sit back inside.
“Slow ‘em down.”
The car speeds on. It turns down a slope and the wheels leave the tarmac a moment. The cops are hanging back, reeling and confused from losing two of their number.
“Shit!” yells the driver, swerving. He gets control of the car again and accelerates.
“The fuck?!” yells the guy with the bags.
“There was sick,” he says, “vomit. In the road.”
“I saw it.”
“Fuck. Drive! Fast!”
The car rounds another corner. This time the driver isn’t quick enough. A front wheel skids through a patch of puke. The car starts sliding, spinning out of control. It hits a curb side on, flipping into the air as pedestrians scream and dive out of its path. There’s a terrible scraping of metal on brick as the car grinds past a building, becoming wedged upright in an alley.
The two in the front are dead. One of the guys in the back is unconscious. One robber grabs his shotgun, the other grabs the bags and they hop out of the car.
“Fucker should have driven better.”
“His own damn fault.”
“Shut up! He’s gotta be around here somewhere.”
They edge down the alley, gazing fearfully behind every trash can and into each doorway. The guy holding the bags sees something ahead. Freezes. “Up ahead,” he whispers.
Sat in the alley, twenty metres ahead, is a vomit-stained baby carrier. In it sits an infant, not more than ten months old, wearing only a nappy and with dried sick running down his chin onto his belly. He’s staring right at the robbers and blocking the exit.
“You piece of shit, drunken baby! You killed two of my friends, you bastard!” the guy with the shotgun raises it and pulls the trigger, but the blast goes wide and marks the pavement behind the baby carrier. He pulls it again but it just clicks. “Let’s get the fucker!” he yells.
The two rush forward, they’re about to reach the baby when he starts drunkenly bawling. He sobs, wails, hiccups and occasionally spits out vomit and saliva. It echoes down the alley, bouncing off walls, through windows, out onto the road.
The robbers halt, they realise too late that they’ve put themselves in view of the main street.
“Hey, what are those guys doing to that baby?” yells a passerby.
“He’s crying up a storm, and look at all that vomit!” another.
“Smells like they’ve been giving him alcohol!”
“Paedos! Get ‘em!”
The street erupts. People desert their cars, charging towards the alley. Shop keepers abandon their counters to join in. Even the homeless grab whatever weapons are to hand and go for the kill. Before the two robbers have even had a chance to scream they’re tackled to the ground and fall under a rain of brutal blows. Somebody walks up to them with a can of petrol and a lighter. The baby carrier is nowhere to be seen.
At the entrance of the alley, two policemen lean against their car. “Mob justice” says the first, “The best kind of justice.”
“God bless you, drunken baby,” says the second, “God bless you.”
Read Part Two: A Villain’s Beginning!