Harold's Brush with the Robbers

     The high-pitched feminine scream reverberated in his ears for what seemed like three eternities, yet Harold was incapable of movement.  Harold’s lack of responsive movements was yet another example of his poor decision-making skills.  While his pale, paunchy body stood frozen in time like a motionless Michelin man in bad clothing, the rest of the customers in People’s Bank on this not-so-fine Thursday were scrambling like cockroaches that had just being exposed to light.  Only Harold remained standing with a queer expression on his face, as if he were listening to voices the rest of the customers did not hear.  Truth be told, he was.  His mother’s screechily nagging voice was playing in his head like a bad recording, repeatedly telling him how bad he was at decision-making.  Oh, not being able to make a decision because your mother’s voice in your head is nagging you about your poor decision-making skills was irony.  Sadly, irony was lost on Harold.

When he finally shook the paralysis that had grasped his body, he looked around and realized he was the last man standing.  He found himself face-to-face with a rather burly, muscular man wearing a ski-mask and holding an extremely massive gun. 

It is unclear even now if Harold fainted or soiled himself first.

The End

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