The Call Pt6

John Dillinger. American Gangster. Depression era icon, a robber for the people if you will.

“We only want the banks”

Except he kinda wasn’t. He was impulsive, willingly violent and embittered from his own bad choices. He felt he would’ve turned out better had the world been willing to give him a break.

Not only a fuck up but entitled too… Fuck…. He sounds like the extreme version of me.

The realization bonked me, a palm to the forehead of my ego. I lick my wounds in the form of research. Knowledge, a false solace became the cane in which I balanced. Hours breezed by as my angst nearly erased the existence of time; there was nothing but this in the world as I knew it.

My body creaked as I rose to line up the cash receptacles.

There has to be a clue here. What are they trying to tell me? Clearly, dude is poetic if not flamboyant. A theater kid deprived defies. 

The first bag was a tattered military duffle that had these thick woven worn straps and a tiny button that simply said Resist. The second a worn leather bag. I inspect both bags looking for anything that could tell me about this guy. My hand glided against the interior linings when I suddenly felt a small tear in the duffle. My curiosity gets the best of me as I wiggle my fingers through, tearing as I separate the lining from the bag. It wasn’t until nearly my entire forearm was in that I felt it. My face sears with anxiety as I pull out a tiny note.

“Resist the system. Be the change. RH”

RH? What level of pompous do you have to achieve to think of yourself as Robin Hood? Just like Dillinger, this guy is self righteous, maybe he sent me to that library to get inspired. If I look it up, the detectives will find it. 

I was off to the library first thing to snoop the undetectable old fashioned way, an unchecked book. I decided to keep the note to myself for now, the secret quietly burning in the background.