Pablo was a bit of a tit. He was born a tit and had lived his life in the shadow cast upon him by that very label. Sadly for Pablo, as much as he didn't agree with such a perception, he was far too lazy to go about changing it and instead resigned himself to being what everyone already assumed he was. The more time passed the more Pablo grew into his role until eventually he was a full on metaphorical D-Cup and, somewhat unsurprisingly, involved in the murky underground world of Mexican gang violence. Yeah, that's right, he's called Pablo and he's in a Mexican gang; stereotypes all have to come from some kind of truth.
Pablo enjoyed his job. It wasn't all that fancy and it earned him barely any respect throughout his peer groups, but it did allow him to hit people with bats and shoot others with guns. If Pablo were to have a CV those two things would be in his 'Desirable Skills' section. He'd been in his current employment for a couple of years now and while it gave him all the pleasures a man could expect from a vocation, it also left him feeling an urge to impress. He was surrounded by men in more expensive suits than him, men who didn't have to wash as much blood from their hands when they returned home as he did and men who actually had a home to return to, rather than a basement in their mum's house. He wanted to become one of those men. To do this he would have to convince them that he could do what they do, and that was make money.
"I can do this," he would tell himself in the mirror, only with a thick Spanish accent that meant the letter s sounded like 'th' and all his vowels were extended. Stereotype - truth. After a while he decided he was going to do something about these desires and approached one of his seniors with a plan.
"Hey boss, mister, I have an ideaaaaaa," he said one morning, hounding a much smaller, older man as he headed towards his car.
"What eeez eeeeet?" the older man asked in response, pulling his black coat up around his shoulders. He may have even twirled a moustache, I don't know, use your imagination. Pablo took his moment and pitched what would turn out to be the most daring job of his career to date: he was going to rob a bank. The old man nodded his head wisely and instructed Pablo not to come to his house on the day his daughter was to be married. And so it was done.
On the day the heist was to take place Pablo had everything ready. He was there, some guns were there, two muscular men to carry the guns were there and a sense of knowing how much happier Pablo would be once he had all that money was there. The only thing missing were the scary bank robbery masks. Instead all Pablo had managed were some from the discounted costume section as a local bargain store.
"Uuuhhhh boss, what eeezz theeeesss?" one of Pablo's muscular men asked, holding his mask up to the light. It wasn't a clown, or Margret Thatcher, or Manchester United defender Phil Jones pulling a funny face; it was a fairly average looking witch. Not like Maggie T at all.
"Eeett's a disguiiisee, now poot it on!" Pablo insisted, pulling his own mask over his head. The other men unhappily followed suit and, fully covered up, picked up their arms and headed in through the bank front doors.
"THEEESS EEEEZ A HOLD OOOP, ERRR'BODY GET DOOOWN!" a heavy shouted. People got down and the men made their way over to the cashier's desk. After a bit of gentle persuasion with the end of one of their shotguns, the cashier opened the door and let the men into the big safe at the back. Pablo walked in and opened up a bag handily marked with a dollar sign, so he knew what to put in it. This would be the making of him and his expensive suit, he just knew it.
"Load them oop fellaas, we have heett theee big time!" The men started to fill their bags with money, dreaming of holidays in Margate and cars that actually belonged to them and not the man they'd previously stuffed in the boot. All was going to plan,
UNTIL....
