All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
An Average Robbery
The time was 0530 hours. A light fog rolled over the worn-down country road and the air tasted of burnt ash. Coming over the horizon, a motorcycle carelessly sped past the sign that read “Speed Limit 55.” A large backpack was attached to a figure with a face that was intricately disguised in a three-hole balaclava. No features were noticeable except for the longevity of the rider’s body, which was elegantly clothed in black leather. The motorcycle pulled into a building, labeled “Shell”, the driver looked into his backpack and grimly smirked as he pulled out a silver piece of metal, and tucked it under his vest.
The man walked into the gas station and pulled the object he had tucked under his shirt. With a demanding posture, the man yelled a few words, pointed his instrument upwards, and a bright flash of light was emitted from it. Several people fell to the ground on their hands and knees.
The man walked over to the cashier, and barked a few orders. Frightened, the innocent man walked out from behind the counter, and showed the man an aisle. Searching through the aisle, the crook grabbed soap, a small container of gasoline, Styrofoam, and a large glass jar. The man stormed out of the store, mounted his motorcycle, and rode off into the morning sun.
“Another convenience store robbery?” Bruce, a middle aged man with a calming face and friendly posture groaned.
“Yes. You have to get the job done, Tomlinson. Just because you’re the oldest member on the DPD doesn’t make you any greater than the rest the officers.” were the words of his superior, Lieutenant Johnson.
Officer Tomlinson got in his police cruiser and pulled out of the station, and started tuning his police radio to 145.5 KHz, his squad's standard. As he creeped up on the 140's, a woman officer boomed "This is Officer Kirkenson, I've got a 211S at the 7/11 off of MacArthur, requesting backup!"
Tomlinson was confused as to why two gas stations in the same general district were being robbed so closely together, so he picked up his handset and excitedly replied with "Officer Kirkenson, this is Tomlinson with the DPD. 10/4. I'm on my way." Tomlinson flashed on his lights, made a sharp U turn in the road and slammed on accelerator.
Blood pumping, Tomlinson passed a car. A horn blared. Right turn. Pedal to the medal. Left turn. Another car was passed. Tomlinson cut through a run down factory. He was there after a straight shot. Tomlinson got out of his car and upholstered his pistol. He saw Kirkenson and several other officers that responded to the call and heard out Kirkensons's plan. Officers closed off all exits, as Bruce and Kirkenson ran in to the front with other officers not far behind. Battery aisle - clear. Food aisle - clear. Candy aisle - clear. Household necessities - clear. Kitchenware - not clear.
Bruce made eye contact with a man in a three-hole balaclava trying to find a soap dispenser. Shocked eyes darted from commanding eyes, as the burglar ran out the back of the store. Bruce wasn't far behind. Bruce turned around the store corner, as the robber swung a crowbar at his face. Body completely focused, Bruce ducked while the crowbar nearly missed his head. Bruce delivered a sharp uppercut under the lung cage, followed by another uppercut to the jaw. The man was out cold.
Yellow tape soon surrounded the entire gas station, and the crook was taken off for interrogation. Kirkenson, the man who almost got knocked out cold asked the cashier what exactly the robber tried to steal.
“Some gas, Styrofoam, soap, and a big steel container” the attendee whimpered with fear.
Tomlinson walked off as he got to thinking. What would a man need gas, Styrofoam, soap and a jar for? He picked up his police radio and reported back to his commanding officer.
“I just investigated a robbery at 7/11 off of MacArthur, a man tried to steal gas, Styrofoam, hand soap, and a container, any ideas on this?”
“Styrofoam, gas, hand soap… the robbery that happened earlier today had the same items stolen! Come back to the station right away.”
Tomlinson rushed to his car and drove straight back to the station. Trekking through the blue-lit and well-guarded entrance, he flashed the security clerk his card and was promptly halted by another officer.
“Bruce, I’ve got it.”
“Got what?” were the confused words that flew out of his mouth.
“What gas, Styrofoam, soap, and the container can be used for!”
“Spit it out already, son!”
“They’re used in the manufacturing of napalm. It burns over 1,000 degrees, spreads like wildfire, and gives third degree burns on contact.”