When the three of you bust into his office you'll be dressed
to the nines: wearing pants suits with close cropped hair and sensible
half-inch heels. The manager will gulp
at your entry.
"Can I help you ladies?" he'll ask, voice cracking
on the ladies, squeaking upward.
"You can help break the glass ceiling," one of you
will murmur into his ear from his elbow.
"You can level the career playing field," another
will say from his other elbow.
"You can stop raping," the most extreme one of you
will whisper at him from just above his head.
"Oh my," he'll say, before turning bright right
and staring at his desk.
After that introduction it'll be a simple matter to get the
keycard for a "routine vault inspection" and then, with the help of
the bank manager, the security guards, and some of the more guilty looking male
tellers and bankers, load a bunch of duffel bags full of cash into the back of
your Trans Am.
Before driving away to your safehouse one of you will say
"The Women's Rights Movement thanks you." Then you'll depart, leaving the male staff of
the bank feeling like they've done something wrong, something they're
unwilling, thanks to a combination of your good looks and a decade and a half
of sexual harassment training, to put a name to, something they're all but incapable
of putting a name to in the name of workplace equality.
Sure, you all know you'll go down sooner or later, but for
now the three of you will be robbing banks, riding high, and occasionally
selling movie ideas to a coked up James Franco.
Congratulations Sexy Lady Bank Robbers!
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