“Why do they always go for the head?” Joe said as the painful buzzing continued in his brain.

He looked down at the casts currently imprisoning his hands. Well, I guess they don’t always go for the head.

He fumbled with the four loose keys on the art table in front of him, trying to scoop them up. There might still be time, if he could just get the keys and get to the bank before it closed.

Dammit, next time when they ask legs or hands, say legs.

He finally managed to get the keys and made his way unsteadily to the door. He worked the door knob and it slowly opened.

Standing in the door way was a brick wall of a man.

“Hi, Joe. On your way out?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t have it anymore.”

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“Honest.” He turned his head and pointed his cast at the blood trickling from his scalp. “How do you think I got this?”

“That looks like paint.”

“Well there’s probably some blood in there,” Joe argued.

The man grabbed Joe by the collar with two meaty hands.

Not again.