Slit Eyes lay slumped on the yellowish-brown sofa which reeked a deep rusty scent, with a half-chewed cigarette resting succinctly between his cold lips. Exhaling the occasional puff and eyes gazing into a re-run of Pulp Fiction, he zoned out every now and then. Slit Eyes knew that his time had come: retirement was never this easy. That was him. As for the cash, sending his daughter through college wasn't an issue. Ensuring his legacy was.
"I love you, Pumpkin."
"I love you, Honey Bunny."
"All right, everybody be cool, this is a robbery!"
"Any of you fucking pricks move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!"
The final blow came in and all was left was a shaken Yolanda and Ezekiel 25:17. Ringo was dead.
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