I couldn’t believe I was sitting in Ricky’s rusted Acura idling outside of our local gas station with one of those black ski masks with the eye and mouth holes cut out of it sweating through a pair of black sweatpants and a navy sweatshirt (we couldn’t find black in time). It was this, or drop out of school and start all over again, probably go to Tri-Cities junior college with my tail between my legs and take intro classes with all the losers I tried to leave behind.

Two of those losers (Ricky and Chad, or Chode) piled in the car with handfuls of snacks – pepperoni sticks, Pringles and Monster energy drinks. Ricky put the car in gear and cranked up some speed metal as we pulled out onto the highway.

“This is a robbery, not a road trip,” I screamed over the music, or at least tried to.

Ricky shook his head.

“Dude, you’re the one who dressed like the fuckin Hamburglar,” Ricky said.

I reached over and cranked the music down as we pulled onto the darkened road which led up to the Richards House.

“Probably not a good idea to announce our arrival with meth rock either.”