Sweet Sweet mexico

Chapter 1

Once upon a time in a place far, far away from Australia; England, to be precise, lived two reasonably female girls. They were good friends. And these good friends had a plan. A plan to take over the world! But wait; first they needed to get their smelly fingers on some money.

Luckily one of the girls, Kenzie, worked in a bank. Kenzie was an aspiring rapper, but could not for the life of her pronounce her R’s.

Her friend, Wachaw-aw-Wobin, was luckily a dab hand at pronouncing her R’s. And also had exceptional skill when wielding her bow and arrow. That said, she was also a talented thief, having stolen many a neighbour’s chicken back home in China.

So off they went one day to the bank. Not just one day, you understand, but the day. The day when the heist was going to take place.

Kenzie got settled, as usual, behind the bullet- proof and laser-proof (but not arrow-proof, you understand) glass screen. Meanwhile, Wachaw queued up for the cashier.

“Cashier number two, please.” The electronic voice sounded from the speakers above Wachaw’s head. She bit her lip nervously. How could she go to cashier number two, when Kenzie was at cashier number seven?

Wachaw didn’t move. The tempers of the people queuing behind her were flaring. They were impatient, and this bint was wasting their time.

“Cashier number two, please.” The voice said again. Wachaw glanced at cashier number seven, where a little old lady was paying pennies into her account. There was no chance she’d be finished any time soon. Wachaw peeked quickly behind her, where a long queue of people were glaring and moaning at her.

“Cashier number fucking two!” The electronic voice squealed. This was enough to tip Wachaw’s already on-edge nerves well over the top.

With all the elegance and glace of an elephant trapeze artist, Wachaw began to run at the unsuspecting woman at cashier number seven. She ran straight into her, rugby tackling her to the ground, and sneakily stealing her wedding ring off her finger as she got to her feet. Then she turned to Kenzie, bow and arrow now in hand and pointed towards her good friend.

“Nee-how. War-hoi saw dan-hor zanza-hor. War-saw du boo-hau. War-sow nde chien!”

Kenzie, knowing exactly what her sexually frustrated friend wanted, took out a large beige bag with a picture of a dollar sign (despite the fact they were in England, not America) on the front, and began filling it with bank notes. In case you’re wondering, most banks keep these sorts of bags at hand just for situations like this.

Nobody was even noticing the robbery, however, as everybody surrounded the half dead old lady who lay helpless on the floor, and the poor, innocent child who had died as he cushioned her fall.

They fled the bank, running to the car park when Kenzie’s marvellous new Citroen C4 sat. She pushed the unlock button on her car keys, and as usual, the car began to transform, like a 1970’s transformer toy, from a car that looked suspiciously like a robot, to a robot that looked suspiciously like a car. Then the car started it’s little dance. The three stood in a row and did their jig with perfect synchronicity, as if they’d practiced it all their lives, to a little track by a strange French band called Les Rhythmes Digitales.

As the track drew to a close, the robot transformed back into it’s original car shape, and the two friends climbed in, making sure to buckle their seatbelts as Kenzie is a notoriously bad driver.