Two out-of-work stuntmen sat downing pints in the dim interior of Bladderstone’s Bar and Grill.
“No one does car chases on television anymore,” the Driver complained. “Now it’s all this reality show bullcocky.”
“I’ve flown helicopters for twenty-five years and now the only gigs I can land are transporting crates of hair products for makeup artists,” muttered the Pilot, reaching for a bowl of salted pretzels.
They stared sullenly into their respective drinks.
Jethro Luggit, slurping nonchalantly on a vodka tonic a few barstools away, couldn’t help but overhear their predicament and said so.
“How would you two oldtimers like to help me pull a bank heist? It’d be a cinch for two old pros like you. Can’t offer you a benefit plan, but there’s plenty of vacation time.”
“We’re not crooks,” said the Driver.
“Me and my partner Winger will handle the crooked part. You two just help us with the getaway.”
“Dunno,” mused the Pilot. “What’s in it for us?”
“A pissload of cash.”
“What if we get caught?”
“No worries. We’ll say I hijacked your car and forced you to drive us at gunpoint.”
“I don’t like guns.”
“Won’t even know it’s there.”
The Driver gestured for the Pilot to join him over by the skeeball machine so they could confer in private. They agreed they needed the money, and their bar tab needed paying. Jethro agreed to settle their tab on the spot and the trio headed back to Jethro’s bungalow behind a sprocket factory to talk business.