Bank Robbery Quotes

What do you have there?” Mouse perked up at her interest. “I’m making ski masks to have on hand for bank robberies. Last night I finished the fingerless mermaid gloves for Eve. She likes her fingers free for gunplay.” Mouse’s needles clicked together in a peaceful rhythm.

In the meantime... ...how would you feel about robbing a bank? " "Positively! I feel positively about robbing a bank!" " I thought you might.

Fair exchange is no robbery.

If you put a smile on someones face, it was a good day.

I found the bank robbery getaway car but was scolded over the FBI radio. Why?" ~ From Walking the Corporate Beat: Police School for Business People.

The conductor was so totally without expression he could have pulled off a bank robbery without covering his face.

Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in soutern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison?

Having wallowed in a delightful orgy of anti-French sentiment, having deplored and applauded the villains themselves, having relished the foibles of bankers, railwaymen, diplomats, and police, the public was now ready to see its faith restored in the basic soundness of banks, railroads, government, and police.

I’m here to take him into custody and deliver him to the Council. (Celena) Well, that sucks. Bank robbery, handing out the passwords for the Dark-Hunter Web site, carjacking, mugging, cats mixing with dogs, and now this…writing a short story. High crimes all. You get the rope and we’ll hang him for it. God forbid the whole twelve subscribers of that magazine should actually read a fictional story and think it real. (Rafael)

Mama said that there was not going to be a bank robbery—the Lord wouldn’t allow it. Frank didn’t see why not, and Papa seemed to agree with him—he said, “Well, he’s allowed plenty of ’em.” Mama said that sometimes Satan got away with things and sometimes he didn’t,

America is fascinated by crime.

Wouldn’t hear of it. Long as you don’t need me to drive a getaway car for your bank robbery I’ll happily take you wherever you need to go. Think of it as the town welcome wagon.

Shadow was amused, and a little puzzled, to realize that he was far more concerned about breaking the rules by climbing onto the carousel than he had been aiding and abetting this afternoon’s bank robbery.

A blanket could be used to rob a bank. Guns are so Bonnie and Clyde, but a blanket bank robbery has a certain amount of seduction involved. A blanket has a lot more banging involved than the bang-bang of a gun.


As professionals , the odds were in our favor, or so we believed.

And that was when it really came home to me what I was about to do. I was going to rob a bank, committing the additional crime of arson in the process, and if I got caught I'd go to prison. Well, I thought, go on selling second-hand jalopies for another forty years and maybe somebody'll give you a testimonial and a forty-dollar watch.

I guided my heap into the heart of Capitol Hill wondering for the first time in fourteen years what I could do to get money besides drive cabs or rob banks. Both occupations had their pros and cons. For instance, bank robbery isn't quite as dangerous as cab driving, but it pays better.

At one point in the story, following a brazen daytime bank robbery, Electro is shown escaping from the authorities by climbing up the side of a building, as easily as Spider-Man . . . we see one observer exclaim, "Look!! That strangely-garbed man is racing up the side of the building!" A second man on the street picks up the narrative: "He's holding on to the iron beams in the building by means of electric rays—using them like a magnet!! Incredible!" There are three feelings inspired by this scene. The first is wonder as to why people rarely use the phrase "strangely-garbed" anymore. The second is nostalgia for the bygone era when pedestrians would routinely narrate events occurring in front of them, providing exposition for any casual bystander. And the third is pleasure at the realization that Electro's climbing this building is actually a physically plausible use of his powers.

Bank robbing is more of a sure thing than farming.

This is a story about a bank robbery, an apartment viewing, and a hostage drama. But even more it’s a story about idiots. But perhaps not only that.

Kids like her, they’re not trained for bank robberies. Kids like her, they’re trained for school shootings.

And I learned when I was on the force in Green Bay, I’d rather attend a bank robbery than a domestic in a big city.

During most of my Bureau career I worked major economic fraud investigations and was amazed at the schemes con-artist and corrupt corporate and public officials would devise to steal other people’s money. I’ve also had the opportunity to work bank robberies and drug investigations. The one thing I know for sure is… With a gun you can steal hundreds. With a pen you can steal millions.

A bank robbery. A hostage drama. A stairwell full of police officers on their way to storm an apartment. It was easy to get to this point, much easier than you might think. All it took was one single really bad idea.

The first recorded U.S. bank robbery, actually a nighttime burglary, came in 1831, when a man named Edward Smith snuck into a Wall Street bank and made off with $245,000. He was caught and sentenced to a five-year term in Sing Sing.

To live for one’s principles, at all costs, is a dangerous speculation; and the failure of an ideal, no matter how humane and noble, is harder for the world to forgive and forget than bank robbery or the grand swindles of corrupt politicians.

Eventually the bank robber shouted: “No… ! No, this isn’t a robbery… I just…,” then corrected that statement in a breathless voice: “Well, maybe it is a robbery! But you’re not the victims! It’s maybe more like a hostage situation now! And I’m very sorry about that! I’m having quite a complicated day here!

Big data is a type of supercomputing for commercial enterprises and governments that will make it possible to monitor a pandemic as it happens, anticipate where the next bank robbery will occur, optimize fast food supply chains, predict voter behavior on election day, and forecast the volatility of political uprisings while they are happening.

She’d taken a life… on the same day she’d created one.

I hate competition. It’s one of the seven warning signs of work. I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out ways to make money without working. I don’t know what I could do to get money besides driving a cab, except robbing banks. Both occupations have their pros and cons. For instance, bank robbery isn’t quite as dangerous as cab driving, but it pays better.

Stories of law violations are weighed on a different set of scales in the Black mind than in the white. Petty crimes embarrass the community and many people wistfully wonder why Negroes don't rob more banks, embezzle more funds and employ graft in the unions. “We are the victims of the world's most comprehensive robbery. Life demands a balance. It's all right if we do a little robbing now.” This belief appeals particularly to one who is unable to compete legally with his fellow citizens.

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Patricia Hearst was a woman who, through no fault of her own, fell in with bad people but then did bad things; she committed crimes, lots of them. Patricia participated in three bank robberies, one in which a woman was killed; she fired a machine gun (and another weapon) in the middle of a busy city street to help free one of her partners in crime; she joined in a conspiracy to set off bombs designed to terrorize and kill. To be sure, following her arrest in 1975, she was unlikely to commit these kinds of crimes again. If the United States were a country that routinely forgave the trespasses of such people, there would be little remarkable about the mercy she received following her conviction. But the United States is not such a country; the prisons teem with convicts who were also led astray and who committed lesser crimes than Patricia. These unfortunate souls have no chance at even a single act of clemency, much less an unprecedented two. Rarely have the benefits of wealth, power, and renown been as clear as they were in the aftermath of Patricia’s conviction.

Increased repression, genocide, starvation, widespread unemployment, inadequate health care and housing must necessarily provoke anger. Washington is preparing its defenses, punishments and armies in the streets. A series of staged exploits by the SLA created fear, suspicion and mistrust of genuine avenues of political change. Radical movements can be discredited and associated with kidnapping, terror, murder, bank robbery and violence. Under the guise of “reforms,” the door is now open for increased infiltration and disruption of progressive movements.

For property is robbery, but then, we are all robbers or would-be robbers together, and have found it essential to organise our thieving, as we have found it necessary to organise our lust and revenge. Property, marriage, the law; as the bed to the river, so rule and convention to the instinct; and woe to him who tampers with the banks while the flood is flowing.

That was close," I said at last. My heart was still hammering so hard, it felt as if it might burst. We'd snuck into someone else's house and nearly been caught. We'd committed a crime! The adrenaline coursed through my veins. But we'd escaped! We'd pulled it off! I suddenly felt wonderfully light. Darcy looked at me. "Yes." He grinned. The twinkle in his eyes made him look much younger than usual. "We did a pretty good job. Maybe we should turn professional." "Professional housebreakers?" I asked, and now I found myself grinning, too. "Sounds cool." "I reckon we've got what it takes. How about we try a bank robbery next?" "Or a roast dinner?" Darcy glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "Oh, crap!" he exclaimed. Then he started the engine.

My attorney general, Eric Holder, would later point out that as egregious as the behavior of the banks may have been leading up to the crisis, there were few indications that their executives had committed prosecutable offenses under existing statutes—and we were not in the business of charging people with crimes just to garner good headlines. But to a nervous and angry public, such answers—no matter how rational—weren’t very satisfying. Concerned that we were losing the political high ground, Axe and Gibbs urged us to sharpen our condemnations of Wall Street. Tim, on the other hand, warned that such populist gestures would be counterproductive, scaring off the investors we needed to recapitalize the banks. Trying to straddle the line between the public’s desire for Old Testament justice and the financial markets’ need for reassurance, we ended up satisfying no one. “It’s like we’ve got a hostage situation,” Gibbs said to me one morning. “We know the banks have explosives strapped to their chests, but to the public it just looks like we’re letting them get away with a robbery.

We have heard that a few days after this, when the Provincetown Bank was robbed, speedy emissaries from Provincetown made particular inquiries concerning us at this lighthouse. Indeed, they traced us all the way down the Cape, and concluded that we came by this unusual route down the back side and on foot in order that we might discover a way to get off with our booty when we had committed the robbery. The Cape is so long and narrow, and so bare withal, that it is well-nigh impossible for a stranger to visit it without the knowledge of its inhabitants generally, unless he is wrecked on to it in the night. So, when this robbery occurred, all their suspicions seem to have at once centered on us two travelers who had just passed down it. If we had not chanced to leave the Cape so soon, we should probably have been arrested. The real robbers were two young men from Worcester County who traveled with a centre-bit, and are said to have done their work very neatly. But the only bank that we pried into was the great Cape Cod sand-bank, and we robbed it only of an old French crown piece, some shells and pebbles, and the materials of this story.

The elevator came to a jerking halt and the doors slid open. A young vault manager was waiting for us. She looked up and then froze in fear, dropping the papers she was holding. I don't remember much else about her, but I'll never forget her scream. It wasn't even particularly memorable. Like most, it started like a high-pitched yelp and ended in hysterical sobbing. The timing was what threw me off. During most robberies, it takes a few seconds before someone lets out a yelp. Sometimes there is even this strange pregnant silence through the whole thing because everyone's too shocked and scared to move. But not this time. As soon as the elevator doors opened up, the woman started screaming. I grabbed her by the hair and threw her into one of the teller windows.

Where's Mason?” “Planting explosives.” Zinio did a double take. “You actually handed that man explosives?” “Damn it, Zinio. Let other people have some fun.” The explosion in the distance was followed by Mason yelling, “Yahoo!” Zinio and Delaney stared speechless as Mason flew by in the adjoining tunnel, riding the concussion wave of the blast. Finally, Zinio stomped after him. He peeled him off the floor in the adjoining tunnel. “You having fun yet?” “Hell yeah!” “Wanna go again?” “Hell yeah I wanta go again!” A short while later, Zinio watched Mason fly by on a concussion wave from the latest explosion, as Mason shouted, “Hot Diggity!” Zinio made his way over to the somewhat more charcoaled Mason. “You had enough yet?” Mason nodded shakily. “Good—because it'd be nice if we actually put a hole in the fricking wall! That is the object of this little exercise.

What do I do now?” I ask desperately. “Tell me! What do I do now?” He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, “Keep living, Ed…. It’s only the pages that stop here.” He stays perhaps another ten minutes, probably due to the trauma that has strapped itself to me. I remain standing, trying to contemplate and recover from what’s transpired. “I really think I’d better go,” he says again, this item with more finality. With difficulty, I walk him to the door. We say goodbye on the front porch, and he walks back up the street. I wonder about his name, but I’m sure I’ll earn it soon enough. He’s written about this, I’m sure, the bastard. All of it. As he walks up the street he pulls a small notebook from his pocket and writes a few things down. It makes me think maybe I should write about all this myself. After all, I;m the one who did all the work. I’d start with the bank robbery. Something like, “The gunman is useless.” The odds are, however, that he’s beaten me to it already It’ll be his name on the cover of all these words, not mine. He’ll get all the credit. Or the crap, if her does a shit job. But I just remembered the I was the one- not him- who gave life to these pages. I was the one who- I tell me to stop. It’s an inner voice and it’s loud. All day, I think about many things, though I try not to. I look through the folder and find everything as he said. All the ideas are written in and people are sketched. Scratchy excerpts are stapled together. Beginnings and endings merge and bend. Hours wander past. Days follow them. I don’t leave the shack, and I don’t answer the phone. I barely even eat. The Doorman sits with me as the minutes pass by. For a long time, I wonder what I’m waiting for, but I understand it’s just like he said. I guess it’s for life beyond these pages.

Conservatism" in America's politics means "Let's keep the niggers in their place." And "liberalism" means "Let's keep the knee-grows in their place-but tell them we'll treat them a little better; let's fool them more, with more promises." With these choices, I felt that the American black man only needed to choose which one to be eaten by, the "liberal" fox or the "conservative" wolf-because both of them would eat him. I didn't go for Goldwater any more than for Johnson-except that in a wolf's den, I'd always known exactly where I stood; I'd watch the dangerous wolf closer than I would the smooth, sly fox. The wolf's very growling would keep me alert and fighting him to survive, whereas I might be lulled and fooled by the tricky fox. I'll give you an illustration of the fox. When the assassination in Dallas made Johnson President, who was the first person he called for? It was for his best friend, "Dicky"-Richard Russell of Georgia. Civil rights was "a moral issue," Johnson was declaring to everybody-while his best friend was the Southern racist who led the civil rights opposition. How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? How would some sheriff sound, declaring himself so against bank robbery-and Jesse James his best friend? Goldwater as a man, I respected for speaking out his true convictions-something rarely done in politics today. He wasn't whispering to racists and smiling at integrationists. I felt Goldwater wouldn't have risked his unpopular stand without conviction. He flatly told black men he wasn't for them-and there is this to consider: always, the black people have advanced further when they have seen they had to rise up against a system that they clearly saw was outright against them. Under the steady lullabies sung by foxy liberals, the Northern Negro became a beggar. But the Southern Negro, facing the honestly snarling white man, rose up to battle that white man for his freedom-long before it happened in the North. Anyway, I didn't feel that Goldwater was any better for black men than Johnson, or vice-versa. I wasn't in the United States at election time, but if I had been, I wouldn't have put myself in the position of voting for either candidate for the Presidency, or of recommending to any black man to do so. It has turned out that it's Johnson in the White House-and black votes were a major factor in his winning as decisively as he wanted to. If it had been Goldwater, all I am saying is that the black people would at least have known they were dealing with an honestly growling wolf, rather than a fox who could have them half-digested before they even knew what was happening.

What if I say to the church, “God chose you for salvation and Jesus died for you,” and then some of those people fall away and apostatize and end up in hell? Haven’t I lied to them? No, I haven’t. I have spoken the truth. In Scripture, truth is more than just conformity to the facts. It is trustworthiness and faithfulness.10 I have spoken to these people in a trustworthy manner. I have spoken to them in a faithful manner, a manner that they can bank their whole lives on, because I have spoken to them in accordance with God’s revelation. There is a tough, challenging, and surprising passage in Ezekiel 33:13 and following. The Lord says there: When I say to the righteous, he will surely live, and he so trusts in his righteousness that he commits iniquity, none of his righteous deeds will be remembered; but in that same iniquity of his which he has committed he will die. But when I say to the wicked, “You will surely die,” and he turns from his sin and practices justice and righteousness, if a wicked man restores a pledge, pays back what he has taken by robbery, walks by the statutes of life [NASB margin] without committing iniquity, he will surely live; he shall not die. None of his sins that he has committed will be remembered against him. He has practiced justice and righteousness; he will surely live.11 Yet we want to say to God, “You said to the righteous man, ‘You will surely live’—living you will live, in the Hebrew idiom—but he died. You said to the wicked man, ‘You will surely die’—dying you will die—and he lived. You lied to them, didn’t you? You didn’t tell the truth to them.” But who are we to teach God how to speak the truth? This is how God speaks. He says to people, “You will surely live,” and then they die because they trust in their own righteousness instead of trusting in Him. But God was telling the truth when He said to them, “You will surely live.” He was not lying to them. He was saying something trustworthy. When He says to the wicked man, “You will surely die,” He’s saying something trustworthy to that man and the man takes heed to what God has said. He trusts what God has said. He believes that if he stays on the path on which he is going he will surely die. In faith he trembles at the warning and he will surely live. God speaks this way and we must learn from him how to speak. God speaks to His people and He calls them elect, and therefore we also need to speak to God’s people this way. We must. We have no other choice but to let God teach us how to address his people, even if we don’t have it all worked out in our minds. If we are not comfortable with biblical language, not only hearing it but also saying it, if biblical language sounds strange to us, and if our theology gets in the way of our speaking and receiving the language of Scripture, then what has become of us—we, who are to live by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord?

The Bank of England distributes the nation’s money regionally in this way to avoid the danger of a single calamitous incident at one building destroying its stock of bank notes. This is important because, despite cheques and plastic, the public still uses a vast amount of cash. Approximately £37 billion is fluttering around the national economy daily in paper money.

during the forty-five years of the socialist system in Zagreb there was only one bank robbery!

Morning sickness and bank robbery doesn't mix well.

They’re vermin, Bob. They’ve been driven inland by over-fishing and now they’re spreading disease, attacking waste collections, keeping people awake in the small hours, and carrying away stray cats and small dogs. Next thing you know they’ll be cloning credit cards and planning bank robberies.” “Yes, but…” I see no point in arguing; it’s not as if I like seagulls.

But the Rabbit did not care. This Toad—this courageous, gay, glorious Toad—seemed to her a sort of beau ideal, precisely the sort of fellow a young animal might esteem and even strive to emulate. She exclaimed, “You are so very resourceful!” “Not at all, not at all,” the Toad said. “You seem a Rabbit of intrepidity. I am sure you have had adventures of your own.” “O no, nothing to compare,” the Rabbit said with envy. “I have only been in a hot-air balloon ascent, and there was the time I became involved in a bank robbery. But they were very nearly accidents.” She sounded regretful. “Dear Lottie,” said Beryl warningly, in a tone most of those present recognized, having used it themselves many times with the Toad.

Morning robberies yield far more than afternoon robberies . . .' - When to Rob a Bank: A Rouge Economist's Guide to the World by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner

In 1974, San Francisco newspaper heiress Patty Hearst was kidnapped by a radical group called the Symbionese Liberation Army, whose goals included “death to the fascist insect that preys upon the life of the people.” After being kept in a closet for a while, she came to identify with her new peer group. Before long, she was enthusiastically helping them generate income, at one point brandishing a machine gun during a bank robbery. When left alone, with an opportunity to escape, she didn’t take it. She later described the experience: “I had virtually no free will until I was separated from them for about two weeks. And then it suddenly, you know, slowly began to dawn that they just weren’t there anymore. I could actually think my own thoughts.” Hearst didn’t just accept her captors’ “subjective” beliefs, such as ideology; she bought into their views about how the physical world works. One of her captors “didn’t want me thinking about rescue because he thought that brain waves could be read or that, you know, they’d get a psychic in to find me. And I was even afraid of that.” Hearst’s condition of coerced credulity is called the Stockholm syndrome, after a kidnapping in Sweden. But the term “syndrome” may be misleading in its suggestion of abnormality. Hearst’s response to her circumstances was probably an example of human nature functioning properly; we seem to be “designed” by natural selection to be brainwashed. Some people find this prospect a shocking affront to human autonomy, but they tend not to be evolutionary psychologists. In Darwinian terms, it makes sense that our species could contain genes encouraging blind credulity in at least some situations. If you are surrounded by a small group of people on whom your survival depends, rejecting the beliefs that are most important to them will not help you live long enough to get your genes into the next generation. Confinement with a small group of people may sound so rare that natural selection would have little chance to take account of it, but it is in a sense the natural human condition. Humans evolved in small groups—twenty, forty, sixty people—from which emigration was often not a viable option. Survival depended on social support: sharing food, sticking together during fights, and so on. To alienate your peers by stubbornly contesting their heartfelt beliefs would have lowered your chances of genetic proliferation. Maybe that explains why you don’t have to lock somebody in a closet to get a bit of the Stockholm syndrome. Religious cults just offer aimless teenagers a free bus ride to a free meal, and after the recruits have been surrounded by believers for a few days, they tend to warm up to the beliefs. And there doesn’t have to be some powerful authority figure pushing the beliefs. In one famous social psychology experiment, subjects opined that two lines of manifestly different lengths were the same length, once a few of their “peers” (who were in fact confederates) voiced that opinion.

Gradually I began to notice a peculiar thing. These men had done everything from bust into a piggy bank on the Federal Reserve to murder, rape, arson, bank robbery with hardware apprehended--they had run through the whole of Title 18 of the U.S. Criminal Code and illustrated it for the government. Yet, invariably they would bit their fingernails in exasperation and total disapproval of the villain, and when the cops, especially the sainted U.S. Marshals, with supernatural powers of marksmanship and divinations appeared to rescue the gal, actually and literally cheer. When the villain was liquidated, or led off in chains, they approved thoroughly. If the gendarmerie had lost for once they would have taken the TV set apart.

You took up a gun, your world could turn upside down in a heartbeat. A bank. A gas station. A patrol, the other side of the world. Or a robbery, the fields of Texas. You stepped off, the fall could be an inch, a mile - unending. Nobody to save you, nobody there.

I committed bank robbery and they put me in prison, and that was right. Then I committed journalism and they put me in the hole. And that was wrong.

This sordid exercise has a soothing, if mystifying name: ‘dividend recapitalisation’ – though to call it that would be akin to relabelling a bank robbery as ‘asset redistribution’. The private equity firm that cost Gillian her job has practised straightforward asset-stripping, with financialisation providing the necessary smoke and mirrors. Looters, who have created no new value, have simply ransacked a pre-existing care provider. To use the language of early economists like Adam Smith, it is a classic case of feudal rent defeating capitalist profit; of wealth extraction by those who already have it triumphing over the creation of new wealth by entrepreneurs. And the key point to note is that the success of such a scheme depends on these looters being able to sell subsidiaries like PropCom at high enough prices once the original company has been destroyed.

Nowhere could hold a candle to England with its big skies and making do people still fighting World War Two with humour and a stiff upper lip.

Generosity is like a boomerang, the harder you throw it out, the faster it comes back to you.

And teacher Bertolt Brecht, communist, German playwright and poet (in that order) wrote: “What’s a bank robbery compared with the crime of the establishment of a bank?

The problem with good looking women, they always expect a bit more than you’ve got to give them.

You have to come at a novel like you’ve met a stranger on an empty railway platform and you don’t know what’s going to come out of it. Life was like that. Every day was a new page.

Isn’t Gresham on the route to get to Colton and the Association’s farm is just down the road from there?” Lt. Vincent rubbed his hand over his face. “Yes, figured you would think of that. But it’s not enough.” “Not for a warrant, but it’s an indicator.” They stared at each other. “My captain just assigned two three-man detective teams to the murder.” “You must have more. What about descriptions of the men? Didn’t the people in the bank give you anything on them?” “Not much. One army sergeant said that four of them were young, moved quickly. The fifth one seemed older, a little heavier, maybe overweight. Only one man spoke, the old guy. The rest of them just waved guns and pointed to put the tellers and the customers down on the floor. “Oh, the first robbery was just before opening. They grabbed an employee who had just unlocked the front door, pushed her inside, all five rushed in and they locked the door behind them. So no customers to deal with. “The second robbery was just before closing time. Again they locked the front door then put everyone on the floor. Two of the men vaulted over the counter so quickly that the workers didn’t have time to press the alarm buttons. So there was no rush to finish the job.” “With military precision?” Matt asked. “Sounds like it. They left both banks by rear doors that are always locked so nobody saw them make their getaway except one guy in the alley who was painting the rear of his store. He was the one who got the plate on the Lincoln.” “You knew the dead guard?” “Yes. He had retired from the PD before I came, but that was my bank and I always talked to him when I went in there. A nice guy. Good cop. Damned sorry that he’s gone.” “What about this lady cop?” “She’s off at four. I’ll ask her if she can have a cup of coffee with us here about four fifteen. Her name is Tracy Landower. She’s barely big enough to be a cop. She stretches to make five-four, and must weigh about a hundred and ten. She’s strong as an anvil tester. Strong hands and arms, good shoulders and legs like a Marine drill sergeant. She runs marathons for fun.” “I won’t try to out run her.” “Good. She has short dark hair, a cute little pixie face, and eyes that can stare you right into the pavement.” “Sounds like a good cop. I’m anxious to meet her.”   CHAPTER FOUR   Anthony J. Carlton was an only child of parents who were comfortably fixed for money and lived in a modest sized town near Portland called Hillsboro. His father was a lawyer who had several clients on retainer, who took on some of the toughest defense cases in the county, and some in Portland. He was a no nonsense type of dad who had little time for his son who had a good school and a car of his own when he turned sixteen.

We already knew how much there was; it was splashed all over the evening papers in large, glaring headlines: ‘Bank robbers grab £67,500!’ ‘Biggest bank robbery ever!’ ‘Daring bandits escape with huge sum!’ Take your pick; it all made lurid reading. According to the press the police were closing in on the raiders and their arrest was imminent. I got up and put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door - that should stop them!

As equally as one may use size, the cunning James Crosbie was once classified as the most dangerous man in Scotland, notorious for his daring bank robberies and escaping on a bicycle. He was the criminal mastermind behind many successful crimes carried out throughout the UK.

What’s your husband in for? Oh, bank robbery? Really? Mine’s in for murder. Yep, strangled a girl. Off to the gym after this, are you?

For two seconds I stared, like a shocked pedestrian watching a bank robbery spill out onto a noontime city street. Then I dropped my pack and took off running, making a beeline into the woods away from the campsites. I stayed away from camp until late in the afternoon, sitting on a log, fighting a combination of prickly fear and disgusted boredom.

For two seconds I stared, like a shocked pedestrian watching a bank robbery spill out onto a noontime city street. Then I dropped my pack and took off running, making a beeline into the woods away from the campsites. I stayed away from camp until late in the afternoon, sitting on a log, fighting a combination of prickly fear and disgusted boredom.

What followed would inaugurate one of the most spatially astonishing crime sprees in U.S. history. Nineteenth-century New York City police chief George Washington Walling estimated that Leslie and his gang were behind an incredible 80 percent of all bank robberies in the United States at the time, until Leslie’s betrayal in the spring of 1878. This would include the great Manhattan Savings Institution heist of October 1878, which netted nearly $3 million from one of the most impregnable buildings in North America.

A female cop in my dream observes a shuffle, and takes note, but doesn’t fully see the bank robbery I have just committed during the planned distraction. All she sees is a man with a lot of money and draws the wrong conclusion—that I am more handsome now than I was when she didn’t know I had money and she saw me walk in the door.

Holman held the door for a young woman leaving the bank. He smiled at her pleasantly, then stepped inside and took in his surroundings. Banks were usually busy during the lunch hour, but now it was almost four. Five customers were waiting in line for two tellers. Two manager types were at desks behind the teller cages and a young man who was probably a customer service rep manned a desk on the lobby floor. Holman knew right away this bank was a target for robberies. It had no man-trap doors at the entrance, no Plexiglas bandit barriers shielding the tellers, and no security guards. It was a robbery waiting to happen. Holman

These funds had been built up over many years, mainly from North American sources sympathetic to the cause of a united Ireland, and it seemed that the money never entered the Republic of Ireland or the Province, but would be invested mainly in Europe. There was also income from protection rackets, bank robberies, post office raids, black taxis, DSS scams, video and CD pirating, fruit machines, republican clubs and pubs and local collections among sympathisers. 

Technically, nothing was better than sex with Sean, but the burger had the edge right now because it wasn’t complicated. It tasted amazing and it didn’t screw up her life beyond her having to make a half-assed promise to herself to eat more salads to make up for it. Sex with Sean was screwing up her life. As promised, the orgasms were very real and very numerous, but there should have been fine print. By accepting the orgasms, she’d also agreed to accept a level of intense intimacy she didn’t think either of them had expected. With mind-blowing sex came the tender touches. The way he’d capture her gaze with his and she couldn’t look away. And he was a talker, always murmuring to her about how good she felt and how he never wanted it to stop. And there was the life-screwing up part—she never wanted him to stop, either. “You’re thinking about my magic penis again, aren’t you?” She almost choked on a fry. “No, I am not. And stop saying that.” “You started it.” He leaned across the table. “And, yes, you were. I see that flush at the hollow of your throat and the way you’re looking at me. You’re all hot and bothered, right here in the bar. I was right about you.” “I am not an exhibitionist,” she hissed. “Oh, shit.” She followed his gaze and saw that Kevin and Beth had just walked in and Kevin had spotted them. “Just be cool.” “Be cool?” She laughed. “We’re having lunch, not planning a bank robbery.

I will not give away my hard-earned skills to a machine. It’s a bit like robbery with violence, for (machines are) not only intended to diminish my bank balance, but also to steal my power.” — John Brown

Excitement, then, is a defense against anxiety, a transformation of anxiety into something more bearable, a melodrama. And if one lives protected from the worst of the endless random true mysteries, risks, and traumas of the real world, there grows a hunger for excitement - hang gliders, cigarette smoking, pacts with the devil, gambling, hallucinatory drugs, bank robbery, art, books written without adequate data. Most people who can have it cannot long bear calm contentment.

But that isolated coup was as nothing compared to the body of work sustained over years by George Leonidas Leslie (or Western George, as he was known) and his colleagues. This Ohio immigrant lived a remarkable double life. At one moment he was an independently wealthy man-about-town, known for his impeccable manners, his tailoring, his love of books, and his membership in several excellent clubs. At other moments he headed a highly sophisticated gang of bank robbers whose careful preparations—obtaining architect’s plans of the building under scrutiny, or constructing special burglars’ tools—helped pull off perhaps a hundred jobs like the robbery, in 1869, of the Ocean National Bank at Greenwich and Fulton, which netted them over threequarters of a million dollars. Beginning in 1875, Western George spent three years preparing for his master heist, a knockover of the Manhattan Savings Institution on Bleecker and Broadway, arrangements that included purchasing a duplicate of the Manhattan’s vault in order to ferret out its weak spots.

It starts with that damn bird in the backyard. Actually, no. I guess it starts with the dog, right? Turbo's barking from the living room is what makes me look outside at the bird. I mean, if you want to get particular, it starts last year, during the bank robbery/hostage situation that added a special layer to the bedrock of PTSD all three of us already had. You could get really particular and say it starts in Florida on a tennis court that day Raymond Keane approached me and my mom; or that night, a few years later, when I chopped dear old stepdad's fingers off to break into his safe and guarantee my FBI-bartered freedom. Or, more particular: it really starts the day I was born to a con-artist mom who taught me everything she knew, made me a partner in her schemes as I grew up, only to dump it all to marry a criminal much worse than her and force me to turn snitch to escape before I hit my teens.

It doesn't matter if you start late, as long as you start.

But Ballard knew that it could also be that this was the new LAPD—officers stripped of the mandate of proactive enforcement and waiting to be reactive, to hit the streets only when it was requested and required, and only then doing the minimum so as not to engender a complaint or controversy. To Ballard, much of the department had fallen into the pose of a citizen caught in the middle of a bank robbery.

MAHR BUILDING 1892 SITE OF THE SAN MIGUEL VALLEY BANK BUTCH CASSIDY’S FIRST BANK ROBBERY JUNE 24, 1889

He was released in 2006, and his memoir, the book for which he was getting the prize in Dayton, In the Place of Justice, tells his story, from being a confused kid caught in a bank robbery gone bad, to a man who had fully taken

There is a onus upon a writer to promote the truth and damn the falsities for what they are. To reveal what is hidden behind the veiled GFA deals, that not only protect double agents; concealing the depth of their work, but rewarded them for it with the money from a fake bank robbery...

I love the beach after a storm. When I was thirteen, a banker's bag washed up on this same beach with exactly $319 inside--- I know because I counted out every bill--- along with a waterlogged handgun. Bee called the police, who traced the remnants to a bank robbery gone wrong seventeen years prior. Seventeen years. The Puget Sound is like a time machine, hiding things and then spewing them back onto its shores at the time and place of its choosing.

My family, the Alderidge family, is one of the major four syndicates that specializes professionally in what some might call “criminal activity.” We never leave enough evidence to get caught, and we never fail a mission. If you are born in the family, you work for the family, and you never go against the family. With members all over the world, we have our hand in everything from elections and assassinations to bank robberies and jewelry heists. That is how it has been for hundreds of years. I, however, am praying I get stationed in Paris with my Aunt Magdalena who makes personnel files on everyone from presidents in Polynesia to your average pancake flipper in Memphis. You never know who you might need to blackmail, bribe, or break to complete a mission. You may fear Big Brother spying on you, but the person you should truly fear getting your personal information is my Aunt Magdalena.

Okay, I talked to my lieutenant and he said don’t touch the body. He’s trying to find our homicide guy.” “I didn’t know we had a homicide guy,” Bruce said. “I can’t remember the last murder on Camino Island.” Nat said, “It’s Hoppy Durden. He also does bank robberies.” “I can’t remember the last bank robbery.” “He’s not very busy.

But there was a further way in which Djugashvili participated in events of that time. In various sections of the country, including Transcaucasia, fighting groups of the party carried out a series of “expropriations,” i.e., armed robberies of banks, mail coaches, and so on.

The first in that string of shootouts to usher in the militarization of America’s police forces occurred the same day as the meeting from which the Glock 17 was born: the Norco Bank Robbery.

And besides, bankers are all thieves, so a bank robbery technically shouldn’t be illegal.

Finally, in terms of scene goals, it’s important always to keep in mind the general direction in which you the author want the story to go after this particular scene. If you’re intent on writing a mountain-climbing story, you don’t have Fred go in for the bank loan, telling himself that if he fails to get the loan, he’s going to go get a gun and rob the joint. The result of such an ill-advised plan at the outset of the scene will force Fred to turn bank robber after the disaster ending this scene – and we wanted to write a story about mountain climbing (not bank robbery), remember???

Lacking wealthy benefactors or steady access to resources, BLA (Black Liberation Army) cells often relied on bank robberies to secure funds (a tactic revolutionaries call “expropriations,” for it involves taking money that capitalist institutions have secured through other people’s labor and using it ostensibly to further liberatory ends).

The UFF [United Freedom Front] claimed credit for nineteen bombings in the Northeast in the 1980s against assorted U.S. military installations and corporate headquarters, such as General Electric, Motorola, and IBM. These actions were done expressly in solidarity with the revolutionary struggles against racism and U.S. imperialism in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and South Africa. The UFF took precautions to ensure that no one was killed in any of its bombing attacks; like most other groups, it relied on bank robberies to secure funding for its activities.

Jobs fill your pockets, adventures fill your Spirit. I found my happy place by after recent visit to Thailand. A good problem with making travel plans is that there are a lot of funny activities in Travelling. Make your presence a simple clip and easily show you how rustic it is For all adrenaline fans and movements out there, you will be amazed to find that Thailand has so much to offer! Aside from the various temples, tuk-tuk and Pad Thai weighed down the streets, Thailand is a wonderful place to travel and thriving. Enjoy a wide variety of hiking activities from mountain biking, bungee jumping, all the way to the sky. The Kingdom of Smiles explores so many containers that make it an ideal destination for all travelers. You will find bustling cities, sandy beaches, lush forests, and ruins of historic empires. Delicacies are a delicacy in the world, and nightlife is a myth. This is one of the countries with the best travel prices. Your money will go some distance here, ensuring a good feeling about bank robbery.

Butch: What happened to the old bank? It was beautiful. Guard: People kept robbing it. Butch: Small price to pay for beauty.

When I say Bolivia, you just think California.

On another occasion, he claimed, he walked into a bank and wrote a note on the back of a deposit slip: “This is a robbery. I have a bomb. Give me money or I’ll blow the bank.” Then he put the slip back on the pile as a surprise for the next customer.

Let's just say robbing a bank is beginning to look like a way out." Destiny leaned onto the desk with both elbows and propped up her chin in her palm. "I could do that for you," she offered, straight-faced. "It's rather a speciality of mine. Walk in, sight unseen, collect what I need and get out. No one's the wiser. And doors don't stop me; neither can a safe. Where do you think the money I've donated came from?" She widened her eyes to look as innocent and sweet as possible. There was a moment of silence. The smile faded from MaryAnn's face and she looked horrified. "Destiny, surely you didn't steal that money? I used money from a bank robbery for my sanctuary?" There was a squeak of alarm in her voice. Destiny blinked rapidly. MaryAnn wadded up paper lying on the desk and threw it at her. "You're awful! Why do I think I like you? You also gave me a heart attack." "Shame on you for even thinking such a thing. Although, now that you mention it, the possibilities are endless." "Don't even joke about it.

The note was paid in full on the due date and Starr never robbed their bank. In fact, none of the Phillips banks were ever robbed. A remarkable record, considering that for many years there was at least one bank robbery per day in Indian Territory. Frank bragged that he never lost a penny in dealing with oil operators or outlaws.

I’d never understood why old people said ‘be good’ while leaving. Couldn’t do that, Mr. White. Already planned a riot, a few stabbings, and a bank robbery. I mean, really. What did they expect us to get up to? While IN SCHOOL.

International intervention in the country is like asking security guards to patrol a bank in mid-robbery. The guards may end up robbing or running the bank, whether

Thus, much of the ‘great apostasy’ or ‘great falling away’ will arise from fear. Richardson notes that the “Stockholm Syndrome” could cause many to fall away as they see Islam becoming the world’s largest religion, due to population increases by Muslims worldwide. Stockholm Syndrome is a response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker. The syndrome is named after a bank robbery in 1973 in Norway in which the abductees, held for five days, became attached to their captors, not having killed them during their captivity. They then defended their captors when finally released unharmed.

Purple Dress is extremely enthusiastic and wants to know what his “plan” is, because she hasn’t been part of a gang with a plan since she was young and was part of a gang that was planning a bank robbery, she tells them. “Wow! How did that go?” Green Shirt asks. “Oh, it didn’t happen. The bus was late, so when we got there the bank was closed.” Purple Dress shrugs. “You took the bus to a bank robbery?” Green Shirt wonders. Purple Dress looks a little offended. “Well, if we could afford a getaway car we wouldn’t have had to rob a bank, now would we?

They didn’t need to inspect each vehicle’s interior; they simply needed to examine each exhaust pipe. Bank Robbery 101: The getaway car was already fired up and ready to go.

Mortar shells whizzed through Martyrs’ Square, adding a few more martyrs to a long list. Mortar shells landed on hospitals, where the sick got sicker and pregnant women gave birth to premature babies. Mortar shells fell on holy places, where people prayed this would not be their last day. A barrage of mortar shells fell on schools, on marketplaces, on shops and shoppers, and on banks. Panic, horror, and hysteria took hold of the city. Those who were inside buildings rushed out, and those in the streets frantically hurried into buildings. The injured and the dead were left lying in the streets. Run for your life or join the dead. Everyone was searching for a way out: by car, by bus, on a truck, on a cart, on a bike. Looting was pervasive. Robberies were many. There was no water, no electricity, and no fuel. No ovens to bake a loaf of bread, or shops to buy food from—or, for that matter, banks from which to withdraw money.