The two minute rule [antikvár]

prologue MARCHENKO AND PARSONS circled the bank for sixteen minutes, huffing Krylon Royal Blue Metallic to regulate the crystal as they worked up their nut. Marchenko believed Royal Blue Metallic gave them an edge in the bank, made them fierce and wild-eyed, Royal Blue being a warriors color; Parsons just enjoyed the spacey out-of-body buzz, like being separated from the world by an invisible membrane. Marchenko suddenly slapped the dash, his wide Ukrainian face purple and furious, and Parsons knew they were on. Marchenko screamed, "Let's get this bitch DONE!" Parsons jerked the charging bolt on his M4 rifle as Marchenko swerved their stolen Corolla into the parking lot. Parsons was careful not to place his finger on the trigger. It was important not to fire the weapon until Marchenko gave the word, Marchenko being the leader of their little operation, which was fine by Parsons. Marchenko had made them both millionaires. They turned into the parking lot at seven minutes after three that afternoon, and parked near the door. They pulled on black knit ski masks as they had twelve times before, rapped their gloved fists together in a flash of esprit de corps, now both shouting in unison like they meant it— "Get this bitch DONE]" They pushed out of the car, the two of them looking like black bears. Marchenko and Parsons were both decked out in matching black fatigues, boots, gloves, and masks; they wore load-bearing gear over armored vests they had bought on eBay, with so many extra