He felt the fresh Atlantic brine breeze creeping over his scarred face like hairy legs of a minute invisible hobgoblin. His heart bubbled with flooding gushes of delight as the thought of spending the lucre flashed and burst into his wicked mind. He loved the sensation the thought yielded into every part of his body. It was as if an evil forbidden magical bean had suddenly burst into bloom. “Venezuela here I come!” He shouted and crazily guffawed, scratching his greedy belly. The television before them blinked the 8 o’clock news and totally deceived the world as per planned. The reporter had already taken his dash. “Well done my son .Well done Joe”, the old man patted him on the shoulder and drained a glass of expensive wine, Petrus Pomerol 1945. The sound of the old man’s voice made him feel indestructible. He loved it and refilled their glasses.

After robbing Gold and Cash Bank, Joe lurched towards his silver glistening Dodge Tomahawk bike, casting furtive glances in all directions. He wore a black scary mask, so firmly plastered on his face, creating a false illusion of his facial features. That without a very close investigative eye, one would be deceived to conclude that it was his real face. Clad in tight jeans, black Cowboy shoes and a huge vestal black leather overcoat, he looked like some tough guy ready to perform in a movie. He jumped onto his bike and evoked the starter, the engine roared and growled fiercely like some unearthly formidable beast. “Come on the Viper, speed demon the game is now on “, he smiled as he heard police sirens wailing a few yards away.
He cleared away from the scene as if it contained a deadly contagious virus. The fat bag of cash glued on his back, appearing like a rare overgrown shapeless and pimpled tumor. The moment police vehicles arrived at the crime scene, the loud roars of Joe’s bike could be heard falling into faint little scattered vanishing echoes.

The police dared the chase but to no avail. They had no chance worse of all they only discovered that they had carried rubber bullets while their suspect had live deadly ones, sputtering and pelting from a new automatic folded butt AK 47. There was a three -ring circus in Cape Town CBD, as witnesses scattered away. Shops closed and vendors vanished from their sites. Some screamed, some fell as two police vehicles suddenly burst into angry devouring flames. Breaks squealed, tyres screeched and burned, horns blurred as their operators panicked. Inside the bank Joe left two dead and four extremely wounded. Journalists soon showed up on the scene like voracious vultures, with staggering camera men laden with instruments of work.

Around 7:30 pm Joe parked his bike in a very secretive place on a farm. He then drove his Z4 BMW to Bantry Bay to meet the old man, the captain. The old man’s mansion stood just a few meters away from the Atlantic Ocean, the fresh breeze gently blew into the old man’s well -ventilated longue, playfully caressing his floral curtains. The old man sat in a very comfortable leather sofa treating himself to a glass of wine, anticipating the sudden arrival of his accomplice though sometimes he regarded him as a cat’s paw. Soon his intercom rang and the usual voice he expected spoke “I am here Madala, “Joe said, the old man waddled to the door and opened for his son.”Well done my boy. Well done my son. We did it again “, the old man’s voice boomed with delight.”The Captain never fails. We are the blind coal- we burn but do not emit smoke. We sting so unexpectedly.” The old man sat down and took another swig from his glass.

The 8 pm news bulletin flashed on the flat LED Smart TV and the journalist reported as the old man had instructed him. “Today there was a disaster in Cape Town CBD; an unknown armed robber attacked and robbed Gold and Cash Bank today, and however he was soon arrested before he escaped. However, he burned the cash upon realizing that he had been caught.” A few policemen appeared on the crime scene holding the recovered fire arm and some ashes of the burnt money.

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