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Satchel teeth. Jacket teeth. Backpack off. Stuff satchel. Backpack teeth. Jacket on. Shoes, pants, wig, mustache, gloves. Backpack on.
He recites the mantra for the dozenth time that morning. Probably the thousandth dozenth time overall. Not including all the times spent miming the motions in alleyways or practicing alone in the woods.
30 seconds.
That was the time limit, the cutoff.
He could do it faster, he’d done it faster—most of the time—but faster meant rushing, and rushing meant mistakes.
So, 30 seconds.
Not a frantic 30 seconds. Not hurried or frenzied or panicked. A focused, calm, slow 30 seconds.
A slow 30 seconds was a smooth 30 seconds was a fast 30 seconds.
A half minute to shape-shift.
The wig and counterfeit mustache—the latter made of real hair—he’d purchased off Amazon, same with the sprit gum; had it all sent to a dropbox when he was still 2 timezones west.
The reversible jacket too. Black on one side, bright red on the other. He hadn’t found anything with that degree of contrast at the thrift stores, and he reckoned its $90 price tag would ultimately prove inconsequential, if everything played out the way he’d planned. If not, well, then at least he’d’ve had some fun playing master-of-disguise.
The snap-off windbreakers were a lucky Goodwill score. Slightly baggy, they had fit over his jeans perfectly.
He’d just happened upon them while trawling the store looking for a backpack and shoes.
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His pack was a flimsy yellow thing with the logo worn away—there’d been quite the selection and he’d opted for the loudest color they had.
The shoes were a pair of white Nikes, children’s size three and a half. The brand didn’t actually matter, that pair had just sported the most prominent logo.
All the better that it was the swoosh, he figured, everyone would recognize the swoosh.
With boxcutters he’d cannibalized the iconic logos, and then, with some Loctite, a second pair of children’s shoes—ones with Velcro closures—and 10 minutes of his time, he’d had a set of bright white Nike swooshes to pop on and off of his black Feiyues.
He wasn’t sure how closely anyone would actually be looking at his feet, it was just one more thing to throw any would-be pattern-matchers off his trail.
Couldn’t hurt, might help.
He’d originally debated the mustache though. Just a mask would be simpler, he thought, and besides, in the post-pandemic world no one would bat an eye at some white guy wearing a blue 3-ply disposable. It’s not like he was going to be walking in wearing a ski mask.
In the end he’d opted for the ‘stache and the mask.
He’d pull the flimsy paper thing over his mouth just before walking in—but after giving that CCTV camera tucked under the awning a good long look at the mustachioed face under thick brown curls.
He’d been surprised at just how different the little chevron stuck above his upper lip had made him look. Even more surprised that he liked the way he pulled it off, maybe he’d try growing his own in a few months.
At any rate, he figured, it would help embellish his faux persona, really enrich that red herring’s stink for the authorities.
He was nervous, of course, but then at no point had he ever imagined himself the type who wouldn’t be.
When the day came, he knew his adrenaline would be off the charts.
The mere thought of it spiked his heart-rate, BPMs through the roof. Even assessing contingency routes on campus—late at night and 3 blocks removed from the soon-to-be epicenter—rendered his hands a palsied mess.
Though it wasn’t as if he’d be needing that much fine motor control.
It was a simple smash & grab. Bring the hammer down, grab and stuff—the satchel would already be open—bring the hammer down, grab and stuff, repeat thrice more, then leave—after tossing the hammer in the satchel of course, lest they figured a way to lift prints off of bleached metal.
Still, he wondered what slip ups might befoul him in the heat of the moment.
He found that the prospect of taking an extended vacation in federal penitentiary rather tended to impede his clarity of thought.
By his estimation, It was a very good deterrent—just not quite good enough.
He’d prepared for all that too, of course.
A shot of 5 Hour Energy and 2 cappuccinos were sufficient to occasion tremors bordering on the epileptic.
He downed them a half hour before his rehearsals, lending a degree of veracity to the countless drills that he hoped would buttress his psyche against its own nerves when the time came.
He hadn’t pregamed Starbucks for every practice run though.
Tolerance is a bitch like that.
He’d spaced them out, but after his 3rd hyper-encaffinated morning in as many weeks, he’d decided that that would have to do.
If 10 hours spent rehearsing the same dozen movements with artificially-induced heart-palpitations wasn’t enough to steel himself, then nothing was.
Now it’s 4:50pm on Thursday, 10 minutes til close—the average least busy time according to Google Maps—and he’s limbering in that practiced gait north up the hill along Broadway.
Pulse hammering in his ears just as expected.
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