Chapter Summary
When you mix stupidity and guns, chances are someone will be having a bad time.
Chapter Notes
Warning: Written quickly, not beta'ed, and edits are not in depth. Will continue to edit and refine if I spot problems. Thinking this might be a fun thing to work as a series of sorts.
Tomas Thurgood Tripton, aka Triple T was what you'd call the stereotypical hog biker, the hard core 1% type with a patched vest and dark black tats for the BoH in Barnsville Prison and the Vandals out of Tulsa. The spider web on his neck telling the world he finished at least a five year bid at a serious penitentiary, the runic bolts a membership in a supremacist gang in prison, the bloody dice on his knuckles that he had shed blood for the organization. He was in essence what most Zollywood directors wanted in their gruff criminal extras.
Triple T was not what most would call the sharpest knife in the drawer, or brightest bulb, or the any of the dozen or so ways one described a object not being the best. He had flunked out of high school with a wild smile and on his way to doing a nickle at the Barnville. He lived at the edges of what polite society called well...society. What they'd call a two time loser, but what he knew was only someone who'd sharpen their skills among his people. He was a young angry hog who loved his roadster bikes, the so called hogsters, big chrome handlebars and good old domestic engines. Big V6s that roared. He was a young angry hog that loved his whiskey, and his sows, and the feeling of his big crampons digging into some poor fool's neck...and he loved guns and money. He was a young angry hog on a trip, alone, and he needed some cash.
He was not the smartest hog around, but he was one that knew what he wanted. And what he wanted was inside this faggy little hipster shithole, specifically he wanted what was in the cash drawer and the little strong box under the counter.
A really high class joint, with those new flatscreen LCDs and Plasmas and whatever, pastels and mood lighting and homey wood furniture. Gilt's, probably some pancy's idea of a artsy name. Name a bar Virgin and all that...and whatever race traitor pig thought of that idea didn't even have the good decency to serve the right sort of folk. Or hire the right sort of folk. Probably some rich asshole that didn't even visit the place. Some literal fat cat working the bar, and a fox the till. Sure, there were some proper pigs here and there, but they weren't his sort. With their "geek chic" and their big black nerd glasses, and they're prep school shit. Big fruity drinks and finger food that had stupid shit like truffle oil or whatever. Hell, the only normal dressing ones were Tigers and everyone knew how perverted those mongols were. Why, whoever the pig was that owned this place, Triple T was doing them a favor. Reality check.
Now, Triple T might have not known what a parabola was or who Martin Luther was or what nations sat on the UN security council, but he was a hog who had put in work and knew his way around a sawed-off and fast getaway. This Gilt's place was a few miles from a cop shop sure, but if he hit it during the shift change, they'd turn a 5 minute response into a 15 minute one. The highway entrance was just a few miles further on, and once he got on that, he could skim off into the slums and tunnels. His fast road bike liable to get lost in the clutter. And with his plates in his saddle bags, and his face covered by his goggles, helmet, and bandanna...well, chances were no cops would break themselves to find someone like him.
Something like this happened every second in a big city like Zootopia.
Yeah, that was the plan alright.
So it was like that, he idled his hog in the loading zone, just near the door, ready for his getaway. From his saddle back he pulled good old Bertha, a old sawed-off double barrel he got off some old coot's truck a few weeks after he was released from Barnsville back in '12. He hid the thing under his road jacket, the taped up butt sticking out ever so slightly. His road crampons clicked as he opened the door, that canned easy listening shit playing softly in the air. God, this place was a joke. Fancy photos with people in suits all around, and movie stars, and all sorts of shit that some idiot thought looked good for a bar. Like a real bar would have patches next to hubcaps next to plates and use old construction wire reels as tables and have their walls and fixtures looked done up by some post-modern minimalist tripe with steel plates and rivets and glass covered bartops. Mixed fucking signals all that was. Probably served kale and gluten free crap...not that it did the fat cat with the spots any good.
The door jingled as he walked in, his game plan already ready.
"Welcome to Gilt's! What can I get ya-" The fat cat didn't get a chance to finish, Triple T whipped his sawed-off out and shoved it into his snout.
"GIVE ME THE FUCKING CASH! NOW! NOW! NOW! YOU FUCKERS BACK THERE, ON THE GROUND!" He screamed, tossing a look over his shoulder. "DON'T FUCKING LOOK AT MY FACE!"
...
There was a pregnant pause. Triple T stared at the customers, who stared back.
What the fuck was wrong with them? Couldn't they see this was a hold up?
There was a click and screech, as chairs fell over and each and ever one of those fuckers, from the pigs in their preppy ass sweater vests to the tiger in sweats to the fucking pregnant ass elephant all pulled out a god damn piece. Revolvers and Semis, tranqs and tasers, and was that a fucking Mac-10?! What?! They all flung themselves to hard pressed spots behind furniture and walls.
Triple T blinked at the surreal scene before he felt his entire body twist forward and a fat arm locked him into a headlock and wrench his gun from his hooves. His tusk cracked glass as old Bertha was pulled from his grip. The fat cat shoving his face into the glass and pulling him off his hooves with one arm, the other paw handing the sawed-off to the fox working the register. The barrel of a gun to the back of his neck prompted Triple T to do the smart thing, which was not resist.
"Oh Mem Goodness Hun, such a big mistake you made today..." The fat cat with the spots purred with a frankly uncomfortable accent...not that he was into that or anything...or shut up. Triple T sweated.
"Yeah...how does it feel to be a rocket scientist boyo?" The fox added as he unloaded the shotgun with a practiced ease, snapping open the shotty with a flick and catching the ejected shells without looking. Triple T sweated some more, and maybe a little pee came out.
Had he fucking hit a mobbed up joint?! The door jangled, not that he could see.
"Nick! Sorry if the bike is one of your 'friend's', but it was in a loading zone, so I gave...it...a ticket...wut?"