I came up with a story title, 'Reno Failure', that would be about a robbery gone bad in Reno. This is not that story. I was away from the interweb for a couple of weeks and could not Goog...research Reno and so know nothing about the place. I do however know my home town, a small city, Lafayette LA. Here's a fictional version.

UNEASY

“It'll be easy.”

“It's never easy.”

“Well, that one time in Sacramento...”

“I did a trey in Folsom for that. You fucking skated. It. Is. Never. Fucking. Easy.”

“Well, that one time in...”

“Shut up.”

“Well...”

“Shut the fuck up.”

That did the trick. Skater STFUed. The throbbing behind Strick's eye faded in the silence.

They were tiny casinos pretending to be truck stops. Something in the fucked up laws in this fucked up state allowed gambling machines at truck stops. Along the interstate were a fuckton of places with a couple of pumps, a case of oil, and an assload of machines.

Slots, poker, blackjack, roulette...any game designed to separate marks from money was rendered in electronic form. No dealers, croupiers, or sweet-assed cocktail waitresses made them pure profit. This interstate oasis offered travelers and tourists four chances to lose their per diem and gas money, one at the corner of each off-ramp.

North of the interstate was a lot of country. To the south (and Strick's surprise) was a small city. A university, several hospitals, and a flock of shopping mall. By the traffic Strick figured that a large part of the state was there to shop or see a doctor.

“Cool. Bowling alley...bummer.”

Skater's bummertude was due to the marquee's message (“THANKS FOR SIXTY-THREE YEARS!”) and the pile of rubble adjacent to the giant bowling pin sign.

After a peruse (“'Zat an oil well? What the fuck's a po-boy?”) Strick drove them back near the off-ramp and began to plan. Skater's phone was plugged into the car to keep up with the power suck of constant YouTube-ing.

The trick was to get away and hide quickly then wait for the laws to widen their net past you. After that it was a matter of waiting until things were cool enough to travel.

Waiting with Skater was a chore. Strick stocked up on soft drinks, snacks, and delta-8 gummies then made sure Skater's phone charger and cable were in good shape. Handling Skater took planning and patience.

A big part of why it was never easy was because Skater was an idiot when he wasn't behind a gun. Cool as fuck on the job, a dumb-ass stoner off the clock.

Strick would have ditched Skater long ago but had promised their shared grandfather. Strick and Skater didn't believe in much bit they believed in their grandfather.

The plan was as solid as it could be. They had checked into another extended stay hotel with their fraudulent cards. The new place was close enough for a quick return but far enough away to not be immediately suspect. On they boosted a car and scouted a good spot to ditch it.

The casinos shared an armored car service. Strick blessed their confidence. They would hit at the load up of the second stop. He had seen that the guards were most alert at the first and last stops but were relaxed in between, more apt to chat and laugh with the minimal casino staff. Halfway through was the best time.

Then it was time.

The guards were cooperative, the off-duty cops were not. Skater stayed cool and died that way. Strick made it to the ICU but unfortunately survived.

He landed in a prison named after a place in Africa. Strick thought that the wet heat made that apt. Skater's death was on his tab and paid for a ride long enough to get him through criminal menopause. His grandfather was pissed and would not fill his commissary.

It. Is. Never. Fucking. Easy.