By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
The lonely young man didn’t rob the bank for a simple ‘get rich quick scheme’ – he robbed it for skewed & delusional romantic reasons. Namely his aim was to impress the bank teller, a young woman whom he’d had his eye on for quite some time. Of course, she was stratospherically out of his league.
Norman’s decision making never had resided much inside the realms of reality. In his mind this was a genius plan that couldn’t fail. He told himself that his creative & non-traditional method would melt her heart & he’d have her in his arms for life.
Norman got up from the park bench where he’d been hatching his plan & loped over towards the bank. His gait was the correct gait for a weird kid, he took extra-long strides & he bobbed down inordinately low & inordinately high just like a buoy bobbing up & down on rough seas.
The bank was close by, basically just across the road. He was there in no time flat. He pushed open the door & pulled out his real looking but very fake black plastic Uzi machine gun. Being a rural bank, there was only two customers inside it both old ladies with Zimmer frames.
The old ladies screamed first & both ‘zimmer framed’ slowly out the door, right past Norman who of course let them pass by unmolested. He saw Stacey, his crush. She was shivering with fear, but not as much as you’d expect. Norman strode up to her. Now was to moment of truth.
When he put the gun to the face of the teller he said “I’m robbing this bank because I love the shape of your face & I was far too shy to tell you under normal circumstances – so give me a cool mill & we’ll run away bonnie & clyde style! I mean you must hate this job anyway right?”
Of course, the object of his affection just screamed & pushed the panic button @ ran out the back. Norman hadn’t figured out what he was going to do for this scenario – he being a young buffoon had thought she’d say yes. With all the staff huddled in the back room he had three options.
Option A blast open the vaults with his shotgun. Option B jump the teller desk & get the up to $10,000 available in the tills, then make a run for it. or C play the pinball machine in the staff room @ pretend everything would turn out ok. Norman being a very stupid 23-year-old chose option C.
Norman was having a fantastic game of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Pinball machine, he was getting “extra balls” racking up a massive score & the Multiballs were flying all over the place with the sounds of the bumpers clanging away towards the huddled frightened staff.
The Armed Police – which was actually just a single officer, swooped in slowly at first but then they heard Norman & the pinball machine – Seargent Quackles figured he’d make a swift sniper shot. He aimed took a breath and BOOM fired off a shot. It was a successful hit. It went right through the CPU of the game which was hiding under the giant “Donnatello” Turtle head mounted on the head of Pinball machine.
Quackles had aimed to miss Norman, as he had a confidant-without-knowing-why feeling he was not anywhere a dangerous as the average ‘loose cannon’ type Bank Robber.
Quackles was proved right when he walked over & simply said to Norman “look sonny the funs over, your knicked – you’re coming with me & gimme that big plastic fake gun”. Norman response was typically immature. His face was full of overgrown teenager angst & he growled in a high-pitched squeal “Man I was about to get the highest score”.
The hidden staff simply took the rest of the day off & all went back to work the next day as if nothing had happened – they, just like Quackles had at heart realised that Norman wasn’t ever going to hurt them.
Quackles put Norman in the cooler for 3 days. As he threw him in the seven-foot cubed cell he said “sorry fella no Pinball machine in there for ya, but if ya play your cards right, I’ll throw you a tennis ball tomorrow”. All the Police staff cracked up & Norman’s face blushed from Pink to Red to Purple.
Quackles felt sorry for the lad & had talked to him about life over the last 3 days. the main advice dispensed were the following
“Son it’s easy to be against everything, but when you grow up you’ve got to decide what it is that you’re for as well”
“Your generation has been ruined by screens, you all spend so much time on those things that you’ve lost vital social development years – none of you have an ounce of confidence, you can’t look anyone in the eyes, you’re all afraid of face-to-face contact”
“The best thing for you to do sonny is to go get an old-fashioned job labouring, work on a farm, hang out with a Builder, pick some fruit for a year or something, you gotta start to break out of that social media programmed madhouse that you’ve grown up in all your life. Hell you can even hang out with me on the beat for a few weeks to start with”.
All this advice was good, but didn’t really land in Norman’s brain. Norman just mumbled indecipherable responses to all of officer Quackles sage advice.
The wheels of justice moved surprisingly quickly in this tiny town & the local magistrate would see him quickly on the 3rd day of lockup.
The presiding Judge – Judge Smallbore gave Norman an ultimatum……
He said “Norm, nice to see you again – I see you decision making has not improved since you knicked that bubble gum machine last month”. Norman simply shrugged & said “This I did it for love Judge, not just a sugar hit, can you be lenient?”.
Judge Smallbore half smiled & gave swift judgement. Judge Smallbore had big connections. He was the definition of a big fish in a small pond. He was friends with all the society people including Westminster’s political sneaks. His idea would be that he’d give Norman a fright but also an opportunity. “I must sentence you harshly this time Norman you will be Chief Advisor for a week to the man in Westminster who is well hated by the working classes…..new PM Sir Schneer Karmer!”.
Norman shrieked loudly & his bloodcurdling cries mixed with the gasps from the onlookers in the public gallery. Norman composed himself & retorted. “Judge this is unholy travesty! Give me life, give me death-hell! give me the electric chair! But don’t saddle me up with that lily livered buffoon, my online friends will laugh at me forever”.
Judge Smallbore replied steadfastly & with gravitas, making sure to ham it up. “Norman, it’s the only way you will learn – life in prison or even our misfiring electric chair would not deter you. I know I must give you the worst job in Britain. This sentence will ensure the blind will indeed lead the blind. …I am willing to risk the final fall of England in order to rehabilitate you, Norman! You start the day after Sir Schneer is sworn in as PM – next Tuesday!”.
Norman started sobbing like a baby. His mother Sue ran over from the public gallery & hugged the boy & dried his tears with her hanky. She said some words in her version of motherese “There there Norman, it’s only for a fookin’ week, it’ll be over fookin’ before you fookin’ know it – & besides maybe you will fookin’ enjoy it”.
Norman’s stopped crying & looked at his mother’s eyes & then just started crying again more loudly & more wildly than before – just like a two-year-old who had been refused a candy bar at the supermarket.
The Judge told the security staff to remove the mother from the dock so he could dismiss the child to the custody of his staff who would then take him in a squad car to No 10 where he would meet Sir Schneer & begin his sentence.
Before you go Norman…”Pray tell Norm, what will you first advice be to our beloved PM Sir Schneer?”
Norman sighed & said…”Well isn’t if smeggin’ obvious judge? I’ll be asking where his fookin’ video game consoles reside, I haven’t played Fortnight in a whole fortnight”.
Judge Smallbore sighed & muttered under his breath “These Gen Z’s are all the same – when war WW3 breaks out we’ll all be screwed” He made a gesture to his staff to take him away & on to Sir Schneer & No 10 Downing street.
The weird thing was that World War Three did break out only two weeks from that day. And Norman would feature massively in England’s outcomes. Little did Smallbore know but the Gen X Sir Schneer had grown up in the Golden era of arcade games & had a soft spot for Norman’s type.
Given that Parliament was on it Break the lifelong bachelor Sir Schneer spent basically the whole two weeks holed up in the No 10 video games room with Norman. They played mostly Fortnight & not only that but Sir Schneer also talked all the while about the fact England’s military servers were being attacked by some rogue foreign state.
Norman eventually said “let me look at it PM – what have we got to lose”. Sir Schneer normally wouldn’t let a Twenty-Three-year-old Gen Z kid hook up a laptop to England’s biggest military mainframe, but all his so called “experts” hadn’t been able to quell the rogue state’s hacks despite all their so-called knowledge & resources so what did he have to lose? He’d simply designate a temporary tech expert security clearance via MI5 & give him an hour maximum to see if he could work some magic.
Sir Schneer figured that no one needed to know about Norman’s handywork & he told himself nothing could go much wrong – I mean the worst he could do would be to trigger an automatic shutdown of the mainframe, which was a standard safety feature that kicked in – at least that’s what Sir Schneer thought at least.
Sir Schneer called the relevant Military staff to whisk them to away the mainframe. They waited by the Front reception room in No 10 for the text message to come. Sir Schneer’s phone pinged & he looked over to Norman who was sitting in teenage sloped halfway down the chair fashion like a ball of slime.
“We’re outa here, now get off that comfy chair put that blindfold on so you don’t know they way to the Military HQ”. Norman slithered onto the floor, like the overgrown teenage human slimeball he was & pulled the black blindfold from the standign Sir Schneer’s hands & put it on. The door swung open & both of them were sitting in the back of the car within seconds.
The ten minute of the drive no one said anything to each other – there was only awkward silence mixed with in trepidation. Unfortunately, this was when Norman felt his bowel twitch. Because of his nervousness he had a giant ball of gas swelling up & fighting its way downwards to be released. Norman squeezed it out silently. Sir Schneer’s nose twitch first….then his eye’s started to water. Then the driver coughed & spluttered. It was a bad one. Luckily Norman had ‘English avoid embarrassment at all costs culture’ on his side, & no one in the Car said a thing, not Norman Sir Schneer, not the driver & not the armed Military man in the front passenger seat. Of course, Sir Schneer knew who it was – the pimply purple face of the culprit was the firm incontrovertible evidence.
The car stopped. Norman got out last & felt two arms on each side grasp each of his arms. Sir Schneer walked behind them. Norman felt himself get into a lift & go downwards for seemingly about five minutes – they were deep underground in the figurative bowels of London somewhere. Again, no words were spoken. Finally, the lift doors opened.
Again, the two sets of arms grasped each of his arms. They walked through seventeen sets of security doors. Again, no words the only sounds Norman heard were footsteps on vinyl, the security passes hit the sensors & the swoosh of the airtight security doors as they opened & closed behind them. Then he felt carpet. He moved about ten paces & stopped. Then his blindfold was taken off.
He looked around, it looked nothing like what he was thinking of. This did not look like a rich country’s military controlled core mainframe room. It looked like a run-down office space from nineteen ninety-five. Instead of sleek humming tall stacks of modern supercomputers, there were rows & rows of what looked like old Microsoft computers stacked on top of each other.
Norman looked around some more – the ceiling was that cheap holey office ceiling squares & the who ceiling was off level. he looked around more. There were those fake wood grain veneer old desks strewn haphazardly around, most of them had old papers messily all over them & no computers on any of them at all.
Then Norman smelt the mildew – it was thick & as horrible as a heavily neglected university students flat. he couldn’t help himself & he blurted out “This place is a smeggin’ DUMP Sir Schneer – what gives?”. the hired help looked purposefully blank, trying hard but unsuccessfully to hide their smirks.
Sir Schneer then let out his trademark nervous laugh – a loud baritone beginning with a short budgie type squawk at the very end. Sir Schneer simply said “Well it’s been a long time since we were an Empire Norman – We’ve been well well well broke at least since 1918, in fact we’ve been bankrupt for decades – you don’t know it because we don’t let the media report this ghastly little truth. Sad but true Norman – but that’s beside the point – lets get to work – there’s the terminal – now do your amazing earth-shattering anti hacking stuff!”.
Norman understood, duly forgot the dilapidated nature of England & stepped forward to the wacky little twenty centimeter by ten-centimeter big buttoned terminal. The first thing letters were arranged in ABCD manner instead of the QWERTY standard. How weird he thought. Then he looked at the screen, a massive old TV tube type with what he though was a green pixelated login prompt. he looked over at Sir Schneer
“So what’s the login”
Sir Schneer went over to the man who was in the front passenger seat of the car on the way there. They whispered to each other. Sir Schneer went over to Norman’s ear and said
“It’s er ah admin a-d-m-i-n” he said sheepishly.
Norman laughed as quietly as he could & put the characters in. Then he was in. He could see each server port which was interfacing with the outside of the room – he saw that mainframe 77 was being attacked – all its source code was jumbling 7 blinking with changing characters. He first thought he’d try something silly but something he’d read on the internet hacking forums. It said that all of England’s military mainframes had a backdoor which controlled the nuclear missile silos.
Norman wanted to see this for himself – why not, Sir Sneer wouldn’t know what he was doing & the other two guys were looking the other way talking about the premier league standings, he even heard one of the say “up the arse! – the Arsenal’s favourite supporters’ slogan. Norman poked around here & there & then low & behold there it was the names 7 serial numbers of all England’s at the ready nukes! There they were in true comic book fashion Antler, Totem, Mosaic, Buffulo, Grapple, Charlie, & even some cool ones like DelBoy, Mainwaring, Le Mesurer, Boycott, Lennon. Then suddenly his screen froze.
Norman had now spent twenty minutes trying to unfreeze the screen to no avail. Sir Schneers legendary impatience had been rearing its head for the last seven of those. Sir Schneers was screaming at the top of his lungs, red faced & spitting right next to the side of Normans purple face. I’m trying Sir Schneer, but nothings working. The other two were still talking football without a care. “Look kid, I took a punt of you & your effing it up royally – let me have a go”.
Sir Schneer pushed Norman unceremoniously aside via walking into him. He randomly clacked at the keys…nothing changed. He lifted up the terminal & banged it…nothing changed. Then he furiously pushed the ‘escape button’ he wouldn’t stop he just kept pushing it like a madman, then he pushed the button for the last time.
America’s cable news of course naturally reported it all first.
“Shocking news out of England – and viewers remember this is all preliminary – we’re being told at KNAW-NN that all – that’s right all of England’s nuclear 175 nuclear warheads have seemingly self-destructed & is now an unpopulated giant smoking ball of sandy dust & debris from coast to coast”.
“We’ve contacted five-eyes spokesman & Pentagon top brass Monty Haig & he suggests that the ‘self destruct code was somehow activated from inside the Military’s own nuclear mainframe command centre.”….
……”At this stage Monty Haig believes it could be a coordinated multi-country foreign power attack, or maybe a terrorist hack, or sadly & unbelievably perhaps even worse, this all may just be a horrible ‘schoolboy error type mistake’ by a dim-witted government staffer.”………
.…….”Monty Haig told us that as he cannot at this stage confirm whether it’s an attack or simply – and we quote… ‘an accidental fuckup’, he cannot say if a retaliatory attack will be launched by allies on behalf of what is now the former country of England. More to come later”……
Eventually after the nuclear dust had settled, the pages of History all agreed that it was not at all a surprise that England would self-destruct at some time in the twenty first century. However the intelligentsia had all got it wrong in their general prediction, that it would go with a whimper rather than a big bang.
The End
Anton Martin Smith Writer 