A rotund figure burst through the doors of the bank tugging an unseasonable ski mask into place, “Alright you dirty heathens, I come to liberate you from this sinful vice of filthy luger! Pray to the Lord, get on the floor, and prostate yourselves before Him!” He and two goons waved guns liberally and menacingly.
The customers froze. A man in a Giants cap sat nervously cross-legged. An older gentleman began lowering himself to the floor.
A young woman with one, two, or eleven piercings tentatively raised her hand, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have a prostate.”
The thief erupted, “Fools, Philistines, and mendicants! Of course you don’t have a prostate. It’s something you do.” With cloying condescention he continued, “Face down, on the floor. Prostate.” He looked up, and satisfied the customers were complying, asked, “Now, where did the tellers go?”
Came a voice from behind the counter, “We’re back here on the ground…prostate.”
“Are you giggling back there?! This is a robbery not a church picnic!”