"I have to do something", Brain-Dead Boy thinks to himself. "I have to do something now, and it has to be the right thing. I won't get two chances. I'll bet he has a gun... or a bomb... or something like that."
Just thinking about these possibilities brings unpleasant images to Brain- Dead Boy's mind, and makes his stomach queezy.
The robber starts to whisper something to the teller, who points to the other teller and whispers back. The bank robber whispers again, and pulls a gun out from beneath his windbreaker.
Brain-Dead Boy's mind goes blank. All he can think of is that he has to do something, and now, his stomach is starting to get seriously upset. He takes a step forward, feeling the sour taste of bile in the back of his throat.
The bank robber points the gun at the red-haired teller, and whispers again, jabbing the gun towards her.
Brain-Dead Boy takes another step, as his stomach convulses. He is close enough now to see the teller's eyes. They are vivid blue, two blue china plates staring into the muzzle of the gun. Brain-Dead Boy raises his right arm slowly. "I'll... Hit... the... Gun..." he thinks loudly. "I won't be sick. I'll knock away the gun."
The bank robber doesn't see Brain-Dead Boy stepping up behind him, but the teller does. Her blue eyes open even wider as she watches Brain-Dead Boy raise his hand.
"NO!", she cries, as the robber turns and points the gun at Brain-Dead Boy.
Brain-Dead Boy looks down the narrow muzzle of the pistol. "It's probably a . 22 caliber", thinks a part of his mind, "barely a starter's pistol." The other part of his mind thinks "That hole is the size of a railway tunnel, and this is it. My whole life, gone. I'll see the finger twitch, but I'll never hear the bang"
Time slows to an interminable crawl as he sees the robber's eyes widen behind the ski-mask. The eyes are hard and steel grey. They close slightly as the robber braces himself. His index finger starts to tighten.
Brain-Dead Boy's stomach churns one last time. His breakfast suddenly rushes up, and erupts in a pungent fountain of half-digested eggs and bacon, straight into the face of the bank robber.
The bank robber drops his gun, and starts wiping his face as the red-haired teller presses the alarms. Brain-Dead Boy leans forward, his stomach not quite empty yet, and vomits again onto the gun, covering it with yellowish, chunky, slimy goo.