Congratulations Shotgun Amy!

Sarah’s called you that ever since that night where her boss tried to touch her and you showed up and shot him in the knee with your daddy’s gun. He started screaming at you, cussing, calling you a cunt, a whore, a slut. You spit on him and told him to find a doctor, then you called him a pervert.

You knew what you were doing was right, but that the law wouldn’t agree so you started running that night. You took all the money he had on him (two hundred dollars in folded twenties and fifty dollars in ones, the piece of shit), borrowed your boyfriend’s car and left town to head west.

All you had on you was the money, the shotgun and your wits, but you kept moving and kept your head. Before long Missouri was long gone out of your rear view and you were well into lawless country, into the Southwest and the Four Corner’s states.

When you showed up in New Mexico you were almost out of money, doling out the folding ones so you could buy food and water at gas station rest stops. Before long you hit a small town, low on gas and low on options.

You didn’t even catch the name of the place, you just saw the bank sign and before you knew it you had your bandana off your head and over your face and you were in that bank telling people to grab their fucking ankles and not let go until it was all over.

You didn’t get away with much, just a few dozen grand. But it was enough. You sent it back to your family through a few obtuse channels – your grandmother to set up a nest egg for Sarah’s college, your aunt to make sure your daddy doesn’t drink himself to death and your best friend to make sure that the people you care about are always okay. You kept around a third for yourself so that you can stay on the road.

The next bank you hit will be in North Dakota. By this time you’ll have a different car, a new bandana and new clothes. You’ll have a new haircut and everything. The only thing that will be the same, the only thing that you’ll carry between robberies will be the shotgun.

This time you’ll walk away with over one hundred grand.

You’ll send most of it back home, again, but you’ll have learned a lot after those two robberies. You’ll be pretty good at it after that. You’ll drive from place to place, using fake names, changing cars every once in a while and hitting banks.

Before long you’ll be in the papers. An anonymous note to the papers from your sister will have them using the right name and everything. Shotgun Amy.

No one will know where you came from, who you really are. They won’t know where your money goes or why you do it. They’ll just know that you don’t kill and that you’re fast and smart. They’ll know you can strike anywhere at any time, and that you’re so far off the grid that you might as well be living in the seventies.

You’ll be like a sexy, female Dillinger. Cafépress will sell t-shirts with your name, people will make bumper stickers about you. Coeds will buy frisbees with silhouettes of women with shotguns. You’ll work alone, you’ll work fast, and you’ll live like a legend.

Before long you’ll have enough stashed away to live comfortably for the rest of your life, enough to make sure that your sister and your dad never have to worry again. You’ll just need one last job to put yourself into retirement.

For the first time in your career you’ll choose your next hit well in advance. It will be a bank in downtown Tucson, a branch of one of the places that was propped up by the bailout, one of the places where the CEOs tried to keep the money for pay raises. It’ll be a quaint form of justice, a nice way for you to end your career.

Everything will go smoothly at first. You’ll have the money at your feet and you’ll be genially thanking the people in the bank for being so cooperative, but then everything will go wrong. One of the guards will get it into his head to be a hero. He’ll take a few shots at you and you’ll put a nice big cluster of buckshot into his chest, putting him to the ground with a heavy thud.

After that the only sound in the place will be his sick, wet breathing as he struggles against the blood filling up his lungs, but you’ll know right away that the alarm has been tripped. You’ll grab the duffle bag and run.

You’ll run out the door and into your car and you’ll be speeding towards a used car lot on the south side of town. When you get there you’ll ditch your ride and wire another one. You’ll slap on temporary plates but by the time you get out of town they’ll be looking for your new ride.

You’ll hop from car to car, making for Mexico. You’ve always hated Mexico – you wanted to retire in Toronto, but you’ll see this as, at best, a minor setback.

It’ll be rough going for you. Cops will be all over the place and by the time you get to the border they’ll have the crossing all locked down, just for you. You won’t be able to get the nerve up to try and cross. Instead you’ll look around town for another way.

You’ll find one in a pair of married pair of pet groomers/smugglers who take people across the border. They usually work the other way around, bringing people from Mexico to America, but they’ll have heard of you and for you, they’ll make an exception. You’ll give them one hundred grand, enough to make any future they’d like, and they’ll keep your trust for it.

Your story as Shotgun Amy will end happily with you in Tijuana looking for flights to get the fuck out of Mexico. Sorry if it seems like an anti-climax, but you’re just that good.

So congratulations Shotgun Amy. You’ll be lonely for a while, but you’ll get to Toronto eventually, and your sister will get in early decision at McGill two years from now and you guys can meet up there. It’s not that long a drive away by your standards, after all.