The Sunday Papers

Sundays are for waking up alongside a hilariously beautiful partner. They turn over and whisper softly in your ear that the pair of you should rob a bank. You agree, if only because of the heavenly way in which they roll the R in rob on their tongue as they say it. You buy matching ski masks and shotguns from a totally regular man in a car park. The next thing you know, you’re pressing two barrels up against the plastiglass of a window and screaming at a terrified clerk to stick it all the fucking bag. You call out to your partner in an effort to ascertain how long it’ll be until the cops show up. “I am delayed,” they respond in a brick-like monotone. What? You wheel around. They’re standing in the middle of the foyer, t-posed in a manner which provokes questions about their treatment of workers. “I am delayed,” they repeat. You turn back around. Thump.
You’re flung onto your back, and a dull pain begins to throb on the right side of your stomach. The bank manager, Adrian Edmondson,