The Heist

Welcome to 2006. This place is getting dusty.

So, we’re pulling a bank heist. The “we” being myself and my nameless, faceless bank-robbing crew. I mean, they probably had names, but I joined a dream “already in progress” deep in Act II, and the time for the pleasantries of a name exchange must have transpired early in Act I. They likely had faces to match their names (and their names were probably something cool; like “Ugly Doug” “Slippery Joe” or “The Rake”), but running a bank job requires anonymity of the head-hosiery or ski mask variety. Even in dreamland.
The whole deal had gone south and was beginning to get sticky. Bullets were flying, people were screaming, gun smoke was filling the air, and mayhem was erupting everywhere. In the face of this crisis, did I lose my head? No. I calmly did what any levelheaded American would do; I drew my revolver and began firing it randomly and blindly into the nightmarish chaos. I wasn’t aiming, so I didn’t really care what I hit. I didn’t care when someone shot back at me. I didn’t care if we got out with the cash. I didn’t even care when I heard police sirens outside. But I became despondent when my revolver ran dry, and panic gripped me.
I fled the scene as quickly as I could, dodging cops and making my way back to our tin shack hideout. Now, as I’ve already mentioned, I missed the first half of this dream, since at the time I was watching a different channel on the Krëg’s Dream Network. So it follows that I wasn’t present when they picked this spot as our meeting-up point, much to my chagrin. After stumbling through a briar-choked forest for four or five minutes, I came upon the clearing that held the small shack while cursing the person who chose such an inconvenient location. It was probably Tommy Sideways. Or maybe it was Ugly Doug. He always was a moron. Curse you Ugly Doug, for selecting such a remote hideout. Anyhow, once I reached the clearing, I noticed two of my crew getting out of a black Lincoln and pulling sacks from the back seat. I also noticed three or four cops trying to surround the building just beyond the edge of the clearing, and my cronies seemed oblivious to their presence. From my location, I had a clear shot at two of the plainclothes. Plus, there was the added bonus that the sound of my shots would alert my crew in time to slip loose of the trap or eliminate the other threats. Bless you Ugly Doug, for selecting such a remote hideout.
Now all I had to do was reload my gun…
Such a task should have been a snap, would have been a snap, if not for the bizarre meddling of my slumbering brain. Now, a standard model revolver has six chambers for six rounds of ammunition, and thus the clever moniker “six-shooter” became stapled to the weapon. The part I’m referring to can be seen here:

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There even exists a device called a speed-loader, which holds six bullets and allows them to drop into their respective chambers all at once. Yet even without such a contraption, it is still not a difficult or time-consuming job to load six bullets individually. Or so I would imagine. And speaking of what “I would imagine,” here is how the chamber of my gun looked:

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I mulled the situation over for a few seconds before becoming angry with myself for packing such a retarded pistol. Here, possibly due to my frustration, the dream ended, and I assume that I went back to channel surfing on the dream network.


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