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Radio Verté presents A Hooga by Corey Zimmerman.

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Misery Guts Act 4

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Mr. Wilson Turns to Edward

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Mr. Wilson turns to Edward.

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Not sure who he's calling an arf-arf-arf.

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Sure Mr. Wilson likes his brandy, hell, so do I.

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But the mayor is snookered by 10am.

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What a job that man has carved out for himself, Edward.

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Edward stands stiff with his revolver on his hip.

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The board coming in today?

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With broad bulging eyes,

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chin tucked back into his neck like a bullfrog choking down a fly.

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No, no, I just couldn't take any more of his nonsense.

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For goodness sake, man thinks I'm his personal checkbook.

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At his beck and call, hell,

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he wants to deputize the townspeople

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instead of adding more officers to the payroll.

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Yet he's raising taxes.

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For what?

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Surely not the roads, I tell ya.

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He's got all the markings of a man with an agenda.

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The nerve to ask me to pay for two dozen Craig Carbine rifles.

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Trying to twist my arm until it breaks, I tell ya.

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Man spends money like water.

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So what you telling, Mr. Olsen?

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Oh, we went rounds, but in the end, I told him no thanks.

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That's why we have Edward.

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Edward takes a hard swallower of the Adam's apple and shifts nervously.

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Hell, I didn't tell him that, Edward.

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I'm just joshing ya.

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And with a slap to Edward's shoulder.

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But as it turns out,

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Illinois did account for 40% of the nation's bank robberies last year.

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Can you believe that?

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Edward eyeballs a buzzing fly,

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fingers twitching behind his back.

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Mayor suggests to be on the safe side.

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Initiate a $6 premium to cover any losses.

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It's a bit over the top, I do believe.

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And I'm mighty certain he's got his eye on that premium anyhow.

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Man makes a killing off me, I tell ya.

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Mr. Olsen rubs his tired eyes.

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As old R.C. Saunders,

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inmate number 9320,

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paroled with narrow, beady eyes,

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focused firmly on Rose,

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strolls right into the bank,

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largely unnoticed.

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Rose, at just 22 years old,

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is the first female bank teller in the state of Illinois.

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In just two months on the job,

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as the man in the Kroger cap arrives at her window,

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she greets him warmly.

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Good afternoon, sir.

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And Saunders places a carpet bag on the counter.

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Failure up, he says under his breath.

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Surely this cannot be real,

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questions Rose.

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But when a.30 caliber Luger appears,

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adrenaline surges straight for the artery in her lengthy,

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sexful neck.

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And the man cannot look away,

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even in the heat of a bank job.

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Oh my, this is real.

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Honest to God.

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Life is real.

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Death is actual.

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Her young mind spiraling out of control.

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Rose's biggest regret in life?

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Saying yes to John Jamison behind the barn when she was 16.

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What a horrible mistake.

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Being pretty is a double edged sword, she believes.

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Everyone wants to give you something

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until they want to take it away,

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she warns her sister, Jen.

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To cut things fine.

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Everyone is nice until they ain't.

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Until you don't give them what they came for.

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Because then hell, they'll take it anyway.

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So upon seeing the shine in the crook's eye,

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she's done figured out what he's come for.

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And opts to give him what he wants

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before he takes it anyhow.

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The way Frank Dithers did behind the school when she was 14.

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Coolie stuffing the bag with bills,

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Rose quickly catches the eye of the teller to her right, Henry.

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Henry is caught up in a banking transaction of his own

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with Miss Smith, Rose's eighth grade school teacher.

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Miss Smith rolls a glare of shame down her long Roman nose

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toward Rose's perky breasts.

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The very breasts Tim Simmons slipped away upon

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outside her own classroom window.

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Peach fuzz and flaming young Rose's skin.

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A case of contact dermatitis.

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Dr. Gustin prescribed a miracle drug he called cocaine.

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Cocaine can cure anything, he said.

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From moral weakness, but not in the case of Jim Holden, he added.

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Hell, headaches too.

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And in your case, inflammation of skin.

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Cocaine now speeds up Rose's thoughts

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and blushes her cheeks as the crook grins her way,

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raising an eyebrow.

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Henry, an uptight pale young man with an empirical mustache,

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a self-imposed master of accurately handling

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and processing routine transactions at the customer's request,

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can hardly contain his disgust for the frayed edges of the man behind the trigger

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that eyeballs Rose's breasts.

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Get on, Nancy, says Saunders, getting back to business,

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cocking the hammer towards Henry's twitching dome,

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his collection of finely tuned facial tics madly out of control.

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Henry smirks a brow and opens his drawer,

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and in a gravely tone, Saunders turns and shouts,

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Hands up!

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Now nothing sets alarm bells ringing like an iron barrel to the ribs,

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all but these words spoken in a bank.

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Mr. Olsen jumps in his shoes and turns to stare down the barrel of the man

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who has arrived to rob his bank.

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Edward raises his lanky arms, but with a whack to the head,

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Edward collapses to the floor like a dead hound,

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counting fingers twitching momentarily,

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and suddenly, still for the first time and as long as anyone can count.

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This is a robbery, goddammit! shouts Saunders.

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Wake the hell up!

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Miss Smith lets out a nasal breath as deep creases form around her mouth,

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the long feather protruding from her dark hat, a bird long extinct,

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quivering back to life in utter disbelief.

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She puckers and huffs in contempt.

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A slight disturbance to her morning routine,

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tea for two is on the tray, and Miss Elliot awaits.

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Miss Elliot, insignificant to this story.

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Ah, ah, ah! utters Saunders as Mr. Olsen attempts to tend to Edward.

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Saunders removes the.45 from Edward's holster,

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pressing the barrel of the tin shot on Mr. Olsen's lapel, saying,

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Judging by the suit boss, I'd say you the president of this here bank.

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Now wouldn't you be a gentleman and escort me to the safe?

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How about it?

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Just as Gail Tout, the manager of the lumberyard,

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enters with $95 cash to be deposited.

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Now it takes Gail Tout, a twinkling or two,

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to notice the drawn pistol pointed directly in his face.

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But in due time, the old timer raises his hands over his head,

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cashing one of them fluttering about.

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Morning! Saunders greets him.

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Now as you can see, this here is a robbery,

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as Tout looks to see Edward snoring on the floor.

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Meanwhile, Miss Smith glares at the crook with hate.

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And Saunders, shaking off her glare, shouts,

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Now nudging Tout to the floor.

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On the floor!

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And then turning back to Mr. Olsen,

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Go on boss, give that dial a good spin for me, won't you?

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And turning back to Miss Smith,

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Don't you move an inch, lady,

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or I'll take that fine hat of yours and shove it right up your ass.

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She glares right back down the barrel into his eyes.

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He flinches as a ruler strikes his swollen bosom.

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What the hell is going on, he wonders.

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Small towns, for heaven's sake.

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The slicker runs Edward's barrel across the brim of his Kroger cap,

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beating eyes twitching into the past in the particular moment of humiliation.

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Ain't nothing but a good-for-nothing crook.

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I don't know who you think you are, says Mr. Olsen,

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finally breaking his silence.

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Well, well, mind my manners, says Saunders.

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Seems I've forgotten proper introductions and all the excitement.

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Smooshing the barrel of his tin shot into Mr. Olsen's cheek.

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Now this here is Godspell.

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Godspell gets a little riled up from time to time, I might warn you.

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But you know what keeps him calm?

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Poetry of all things.

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Now I can try and calm him before he gets too flustered,

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but I might add one tiny detail about our schedule.

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If we ain't out of here in two minutes flat,

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ol' Godspell here, well, he might gonna lose his patience.

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And hell, he might just go on and sing a gospel real loud,

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bringing y'all closer to God.

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Miss Smith grabs her cross,

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the barrel swiveling into Mr. Olsen's cheek.

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Mr. Olsen doesn't budge an inch.

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Miss Smith, rather unimpressed by the path this young man has chosen in life.

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If she only had her trusted ruler,

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she'd set him on the straight and narrow by God as her witness.

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He does not wear the app—

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He does not wear the apple.

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He does not wear the appal—

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Saunders stops to clear his throat.

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Ahem.

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He does not wear the appal—

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Oh, for heaven's sake, scoffs Miss Smith.

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E-pollets.

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He does not wear the e-pollets.

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Saunders continues.

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He does not wear the e-pollets,

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nor the corporal's coat of gray,

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yet sickly gray on the flesh of this monster man of prey,

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who like some misshapen Martian toad,

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unfurled the flag of fray.

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He sits upon the latest throne,

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imperially commands our fighting lads to maim and kill the brave of other lands.

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His fat heart knows one craven wish.

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The greed of Mr. Hands.

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The two lock eyes,

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failing to see eye to eye.

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It's in your hands, boss.

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Grabbing the watch out of Mr. Olsen's vest,

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Saunders yanks on his golden chain with a snap,

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and a click of his cheek.

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Now give up the ghost.

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The lights buzz as Mr. Olsen glares back at him in silence.

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He takes a deep audible breath,

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grasps the handle,

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and opens the unlocked vault.

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Golly, says Saunders,

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shaking his head in astonishment.

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Didn't take me as that type.

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Now get on in there and fill it to the brim.

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Mr. Olsen clenches his teeth and snatches the carpet bag from the crook's hand.

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Now I know what you're thinking.

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I'm just some low, life, good for nothing crook,

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says Saunders.

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Matter of fact, I was,

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says Mr. Olsen,

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as he carefully places each bundle of cash into the bag.

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But you know,

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the only difference between you and me,

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says Saunders,

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is you ain't honest.

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In fact,

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you're a victim of your own success,

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stealing from the common man.

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You can't even see it when you look in the mirror in the morning.

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K-R-O-K written right across your forehead.

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He runs the barrel of the tin shot across his own brow.

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There's on him,

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and a man knowing what color his blood runs.

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Hell if it ain't a downright virtue.

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See, boss?

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My blood runs green.

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Green as a Martian toke.

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Casting an eye over at Rose,

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trembling in her ankle boots,

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Saunders loses train of thought.

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Come to think of it, boss,

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you get that sweet little thing out of this predicament alive.

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Well, hell,

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truth is,

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ladies tend to get a little loose after the excitement of a bank job.

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You know what I mean.

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He stops to scratch his temple with the barrel.

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More proflu-

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More prof-

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More proflu-ly.

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Profligate,

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says Mr. Olsen,

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shutting his eyes and dropping his head in nausea.

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00:11:39,600 --> 00:11:41,900
Don't be getting all squeamish on me now, boss.

257
00:11:41,900 --> 00:11:43,200
Come on out of there.

258
00:11:43,200 --> 00:11:47,600
Mr. Olsen lugs the stuffed carpet bag overflowing with cash out of the vault.

259
00:11:47,600 --> 00:11:50,300
Now be a darling and carry it to the door for me, would you?

260
00:11:50,300 --> 00:11:54,400
Says Saunders as he stuffs his shirt with leftover banknotes from Henry's feet.

261
00:11:54,400 --> 00:11:55,800
He stands pigeon-toed,

262
00:11:55,800 --> 00:11:59,400
tweaking his left eyebrow as he turns his head away and repulsion,

263
00:11:59,400 --> 00:12:04,000
as Gail Tout hands forth his $95 cash from his position on the floor.

264
00:12:04,000 --> 00:12:06,300
But preoccupied with Rose's silhouette,

265
00:12:06,300 --> 00:12:08,500
Saunders' menacing eyes soften,

266
00:12:08,500 --> 00:12:10,600
and with an honoree grin he says,

267
00:12:10,600 --> 00:12:11,500
Aw, hail,

268
00:12:11,500 --> 00:12:13,400
let the poor devil keep his money.

269
00:12:13,400 --> 00:12:14,400
It ain't insured.

270
00:12:16,100 --> 00:12:17,300
And with a whisper,

271
00:12:17,300 --> 00:12:19,200
he lies into Rose.

272
00:12:19,200 --> 00:12:20,900
So what's your name, darling?

273
00:12:20,900 --> 00:12:22,000
Rose,

274
00:12:22,000 --> 00:12:23,700
she says, lip quivering.

275
00:12:23,700 --> 00:12:25,500
The queen of all flowers,

276
00:12:25,500 --> 00:12:28,400
the loathsome canker lives in the sweetest bud.

277
00:12:28,400 --> 00:12:30,700
I thought you in Godspell had somewhere to be,

278
00:12:30,700 --> 00:12:32,000
says Mr. Olsen.

279
00:12:32,000 --> 00:12:33,100
All right, move it,

280
00:12:33,100 --> 00:12:34,400
says Saunders,

281
00:12:34,400 --> 00:12:36,200
leading Mr. Olsen, Rose,

282
00:12:36,200 --> 00:12:37,800
Henry, Miss Smith,

283
00:12:37,800 --> 00:12:41,300
and Gail Tout in his $95 cash for the vault.

284
00:12:41,300 --> 00:12:43,200
He gives the dial a good spin,

285
00:12:43,200 --> 00:12:44,400
steps over Edward,

286
00:12:44,400 --> 00:12:46,000
and dashes out the door,

287
00:12:46,000 --> 00:12:47,500
joining his cousin Hank,

288
00:12:47,500 --> 00:12:50,600
who is awaiting in the old dusty rambler out front.

289
00:12:50,600 --> 00:12:51,400
Hank,

290
00:12:51,400 --> 00:12:53,500
a greasy-haired man in overalls,

291
00:12:53,500 --> 00:12:55,100
grinding the gears,

292
00:12:55,100 --> 00:12:58,600
and they flee as fast as a one-cylinder might.

293
00:12:58,600 --> 00:13:01,000
The newsboy looking on in wonderment,

294
00:13:01,000 --> 00:13:03,900
the headline having arrived at his curb.

295
00:13:08,000 --> 00:13:09,400
Puttering east down to Elm,

296
00:13:09,400 --> 00:13:12,400
Hank makes a sharp right and jumps the curb on fourth,

297
00:13:12,400 --> 00:13:15,300
passing P&O Plow Factory.

298
00:13:15,300 --> 00:13:18,000
The rambler tops out at 14 miles per hour,

299
00:13:18,000 --> 00:13:20,500
a pack of yelping strays keeping pace,

300
00:13:20,500 --> 00:13:22,300
racing south for the railyard

301
00:13:22,300 --> 00:13:25,400
in the low part of town.

302
00:13:30,900 --> 00:13:32,400
The lacquer barely dry,

303
00:13:32,400 --> 00:13:34,100
the Japan Black Patrol car,

304
00:13:34,100 --> 00:13:35,900
souped up to 20 horsepower,

305
00:13:35,900 --> 00:13:37,900
speeds east past the newsboy

306
00:13:37,900 --> 00:13:40,800
in quick pursuit.

307
00:13:40,800 --> 00:13:41,800
At the wheel,

308
00:13:41,800 --> 00:13:43,100
chomping at the bit,

309
00:13:43,100 --> 00:13:44,600
a grain Chief Roy,

310
00:13:44,600 --> 00:13:47,500
waiting all his days to see action like this.

311
00:13:47,500 --> 00:13:48,400
Thin-lipped,

312
00:13:48,400 --> 00:13:50,400
brow crinkled with rage,

313
00:13:50,400 --> 00:13:51,500
not in my town,

314
00:13:51,500 --> 00:13:53,400
stomping the pedal to the metal,

315
00:13:53,400 --> 00:13:56,800
engine roaring to 42 flat.

316
00:13:56,800 --> 00:13:57,800
The passenger,

317
00:13:57,800 --> 00:13:59,000
Officer O'Brien,

318
00:13:59,000 --> 00:14:00,100
a sturdy man,

319
00:14:00,100 --> 00:14:01,700
tough as game and gristle,

320
00:14:01,700 --> 00:14:03,400
first-generation redhead,

321
00:14:03,400 --> 00:14:05,200
spinning the cylinder of his six-shooter

322
00:14:05,200 --> 00:14:08,000
like an All-American.

323
00:14:08,000 --> 00:14:09,500
The officer spot the getaway car

324
00:14:09,500 --> 00:14:11,100
at the corner of Oak and Fourth,

325
00:14:11,100 --> 00:14:12,800
parallel to the railyard.

326
00:14:12,800 --> 00:14:14,200
Chief Roy cranks the wheel

327
00:14:14,200 --> 00:14:15,600
and flies around the corner,

328
00:14:15,600 --> 00:14:18,600
catching the eight-horsepower Jeffrey in a snap.

329
00:14:18,600 --> 00:14:20,300
With escape suddenly narrowed,

330
00:14:20,300 --> 00:14:22,300
Saunders takes a defensive position,

331
00:14:22,300 --> 00:14:24,300
shooting from the back of the Rambler.

332
00:14:24,300 --> 00:14:26,000
As bills trickle from his collar,

333
00:14:26,000 --> 00:14:28,000
a gun battle ensues,

334
00:14:28,000 --> 00:14:29,400
and the strays flee.

335
00:14:29,400 --> 00:14:31,700
Roy speeds up alongside the getaway car,

336
00:14:31,700 --> 00:14:33,300
and O'Brien leans out the window

337
00:14:33,300 --> 00:14:34,800
and fires across the hood,

338
00:14:34,800 --> 00:14:36,500
shooting out a front tire.

339
00:14:36,500 --> 00:14:37,700
Swerving to the right,

340
00:14:37,700 --> 00:14:39,400
Hank nearly crashes into a tree

341
00:14:39,400 --> 00:14:41,400
before overcorrecting to the left,

342
00:14:41,400 --> 00:14:42,500
jumping the tracks,

343
00:14:42,500 --> 00:14:43,800
and jarring the Rambler's rim

344
00:14:43,800 --> 00:14:45,700
into a scissor crossover.

345
00:14:45,700 --> 00:14:47,100
The axle snaps,

346
00:14:47,100 --> 00:14:48,700
and the crooks come to a rough halt

347
00:14:48,700 --> 00:14:50,400
to top the sleepers.

348
00:14:50,400 --> 00:14:52,500
Steam rising from the engine,

349
00:14:52,500 --> 00:14:54,500
Chief Roy stomps on the brakes,

350
00:14:54,500 --> 00:14:56,400
leaving 20-foot skid marks,

351
00:14:56,400 --> 00:14:58,400
and jumps out and proceeds to fire

352
00:14:58,400 --> 00:15:01,800
at the intersection of Cherry Lane.

353
00:15:03,800 --> 00:15:06,700
Out of ammo,

354
00:15:06,700 --> 00:15:08,500
Saunders takes cover on the floorboard,

355
00:15:08,500 --> 00:15:10,500
and Hank pulls out a Winchester lever action

356
00:15:10,500 --> 00:15:11,700
from behind his seat,

357
00:15:11,700 --> 00:15:13,700
firing non-shots in return.

358
00:15:13,700 --> 00:15:16,820
crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.

359
00:15:16,820 --> 00:15:21,780
Punching two holes in Chief Roy's chest, his rage-filled face descending into agony

360
00:15:21,780 --> 00:15:26,900
as he slides down the side of the patrol car. Blood pooling around him as the final crack

361
00:15:26,900 --> 00:15:31,620
throws lead right into O'Brien's chest. He collapses to his knees with a gasp as

362
00:15:31,620 --> 00:15:37,700
he bleeds out into the palm of his hand. His vision fades, but something inside him

363
00:15:37,700 --> 00:15:44,260
gathers. He clenches his eyes tight, nurturing a lump of hot coal, a man at the dawn of time,

364
00:15:44,260 --> 00:15:49,460
nursing the light, nursing the will, staying off the darkness with the spring of the eyelids.

365
00:15:50,020 --> 00:15:56,180
He raises his sidearm, peers down the quivering iron, and with the tiniest of possible breaths,

366
00:15:57,140 --> 00:16:01,460
steadies. He squeezes the trigger with a single

367
00:16:01,460 --> 00:16:09,700
sound. The round flashes out of the barrel, peeling back with mad velocity as it screams

368
00:16:09,700 --> 00:16:14,980
through the air and whacks into Hank's chest, landing him squarely on his back with a thud,

369
00:16:14,980 --> 00:16:18,180
blood projecting from his mouth and splattering on the brick.

370
00:16:19,300 --> 00:16:23,700
Saunders rolls out of the car, cash fluttering as he flees on foot unscathed,

371
00:16:24,340 --> 00:16:29,380
carpet bag in hand, scurrying between two ramshackle houses, or he takes a panicked

372
00:16:29,380 --> 00:16:36,820
position against the corner of a south-facing wall. Somewhere beyond, a mutt howls, as above,

373
00:16:36,820 --> 00:16:41,140
a startled starling circles about, a wind a-blowing through the trees,

374
00:16:41,700 --> 00:16:47,700
and an unsettling calmness fills the air. Wide-eyed Saunders takes a deep breath,

375
00:16:48,580 --> 00:16:57,460
counts to five, one, two, three, four, and lunges away from the wall, floundering,

376
00:16:57,460 --> 00:17:02,820
knocking me for the backyard of the house, where a canine on a chain barking furiously comes into

377
00:17:02,820 --> 00:17:08,660
view, and with one step of a shiny shoe out from behind the trunk of a dead sugar maple,

378
00:17:08,660 --> 00:17:14,420
an officer wielding a sweaty mustache and a long, chromed barrel stops Saunders dead in his tracks.

379
00:17:16,260 --> 00:17:22,020
With a sudden bang that spooks the sparrows from the eaves, there's a chunk of lead between the

380
00:17:22,020 --> 00:17:27,540
eyes of the filthy crook's look of surprise. He drops the loot and then into his knees,

381
00:17:28,180 --> 00:17:36,100
loot gathered by the breeze, and with a plop, Saunders goes face down in the weeds as smoke curls away.

382
00:17:36,100 --> 00:17:40,820
With a quick pat down, a shiny gold watch is discovered in a breast pocket, and the loot

383
00:17:40,820 --> 00:17:46,820
is retrieved, and blood spurts out impulses from the hole in the back of the head.

384
00:17:46,820 --> 00:17:55,700
The bottom line, when you're left holding the bag, it's only a matter of time. Misery guts.

385
00:18:01,380 --> 00:18:09,140
The bottom line, when you're left holding the bag, it's only a matter of time. Misery guts.

386
00:18:09,140 --> 00:18:17,540
The bottom line, when you're left holding the bag, it's only a matter of time. Misery guts.

387
00:19:09,140 --> 00:19:09,780
you