261 - Ponga el Dinero en la Bolsa


The bank robbery went as well as can be expected; you even had time to fish out the dye pack before you left the building and throw it in that stupid teller’s face. She fumbled it her hands for a full ten seconds like a one-man game of hot potato. Classic.

You used the footpath through the small patch of woods behind the bank you found while you were casing- perfect getaway, the dumbass cops always expect robbers to use the roads. You come to the parking lot on the other end of the thick brush. Leaning against the dumpster behind the church, as you left it, is a small duffel bag with your change of clothes.

In a mad scramble, you take off your black ski mask, matching obsidian turtleneck and pants. You throw the clothes into the dumpster and pull on your red white and blue spandex pants, star-spangled boots, and luchador mask. No one will ever suspect.

You throw the cash bag back over your shoulder and walk smoothly to the street, whistling a tune to help calm your racing heart. You whistling is soon drowned out by the wail of sirens as a column of police cars comes screaming down the street. The first two cars blow by you, but the third screeches to a halt. A young-looking officer quickly jumps out from the passenger seat and draws down on you.

Stop right there! shouts the cop, his gun shaking at the end of his fully extended arms.

You put your hands up and freeze in place.

A much older cop steps slowly out from the driver seat of the car. He looks at the young guy and furrows his wrinkled brow. “Gunderson, what the hell are you doing?” he asks young cop.

Gunderson is visibly flustered. “Description said guy in a mask with a green duffel bag, Sarge.” He takes a hand off his pistol to point at you. “Look, duffel bag and mask.”

“No, Gunderson,” Sarge scolds, “the description did not say guy in a mask with a green duffel bag. The description said guy in all black with a ski mask with a green duffel bag. You’re a couple notes off there, rookie. That is clearly a luchador mask, not a ski mask, and there isn’t a speck of color on the guy that ain’t one of the colors of Old Glory.” Sarge turns to you. “Sorry, sir, kid’s still learning, you know?”

You cough to gruff up your voice and put on your best Mexican accent. “No es problemo.”        

“I still think we should get that mask off and identify this guy,” Gunderson interjects. “I mean, who walks around dressed like a latino wrestler?”

“Your new is showing, rookie. You can’t just go pulling masks off of people. We got a little thing called the fourth amendment, kid. Besides, Arizona vs El Reincidente decided you gotta beat a luchador in the ring before you can pull his mask off. Case law, kid. Rules are what separates us from the animals.”

“But Sarge, if he isn’t our guy, what’s in the bag?” asks Gunderson.

Shit, you think. It’s all over.

Sarge smooths his mustache over with a pensive look on his face. “What is in the bag, hombre?”

An awful, lingering silence fills the space between you and the cops while you do your best to formulate an answer. At the end of your nervous rope, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Estra tights,” you say.

“Good enough for me!” says Sarge cheerily. “Let’s go, kid.”

“But sarge-“ starts Gunderson.

Lets. Go.

Gunderson reluctantly climbs back into the car. The rear tires spin for a moment, kicking up dust and rocks, before the cop car speeds back on its way to the bank.

Dios bendiga America.