It had been a lean Christmas in the Fisher household this year and true to form Santa had at forgotten to place the deployable minigun that I had requested (in a hand written and wax sealed letter for 6 years running) under the tree.
It was then, whilst trying to order some cheap Dutch female mud-wrestling videos over the internet that I found that my credit card had been declined.
Boxing Day ruined.
After spending then next few minutes inscribing “FML” on Facebook and looking at photographs of everyone’s Christmas dinner that I decided to pay a visit to the bank to see what the problem was. They’d be open on Boxing Day, right?
I’d spent longer than I had intended in Poundland, having taken full advantage of their 10% sale and saving myself well in excess of 10p on the mornings essentials.
I then heard a call from my friend. Turning around I saw he was rather grim faced. It transpired that he too was unable to purchase the aforementioned mud-wrestling videos and that his Boxing Day was also a complete write-off. Conveniently, we shared the same bank so decided to go together.
It was a bit of a mission since the bank was based in Panama, but we shared a bag of Haribo on the way which made the hours just fly by.
En route I also idly considered the idea of changing my name to $am Fi$her, but my companion informed me this was a perfect way to be a cunt, so I decided against it.
The Bank.
I must say staff were a little surprised when my companion and I rocked up at the MCAS Banco de Panama at 11am on a Thursday morning.
It may have been something to do with the AK47 strapped to my back, or the fact that I was erect due to the AK47 strapped to my back. Either way, they weren’t letting us in.
I tried to explain, as did my companion. All we wanted was to watch some quality mud wrestling on Boxing Day and if the female members of staff would just like to remove all their clothes and crawl into the mud, even the gutter would do, then we would happily be on our way and would address the declined cards in the morning.
Their response was unanimous in its indifference, save for one enterprising character who at least took the time to inform us that not only did the bank have no female members of staff but that the remaining men would not be willing to drape themselves into the gutter for our personal entertainment.
Well. For my riposte I informed the guards that I had some dirt on their current manager Hugo and if they all wanted to still have a job in the morning they had best open up.
The most access I saw in those next few minutes included a man’s anus as he mooned us and then the guards holed up and said we weren’t getting our money.
It was then my companion and I went to work.
Carefully infiltrating the building through a network of lift shafts and air conditioning units we entered the main sales floor at sometime just after midday.
The room was teeming with guards ad we were lit up like a Christmas tree as the Sun poured in and silhouetted us against the windows.
Taking time to close the blinds we then opened fire and the room quickly filled with shattered glass, bullets and faeces.
Hunkered down behind a filing cabinet with my companion it was then I realised that I had indeed soiled myself. It was a shame since for my trip to Panama I had opted to wear my best slacks, not having expected the day to take such a downward turn, despite having turned up locked and loaded, as well as pre-lubed.
“What are we going to do!?” shouted my companion as he fired a few suppressing rounds at the enemy over the top of the cabinet.
“I have a plan” I responded.
It was a ploy I had used many time before and had failed me on more than one occasion. I thought I heard my companion sigh as I lowered my gun and reached for the grenades.
With two hands I was able to throw at twice the speed, instantly filling the room with small cylindrical devices. It was then that I noticed I had left the frags at home and had just thrown 6 smoke grenades into a confined space. In hindsight I suppose it could have been worse…
“Shit”
My partner and I hit the deck and began to choke as the place fogged up forthwith…and I’m not talking about the stench from my recently soiled slacks.
The gunfire seemed to lessen until all that remained was one guy as he commando rolled across the floor for no reason, uttering the immortal phrase “Looks like somebody got some smoke grenades for Christmas!”
I had, in fact, received the grenades in this year’s stocking.
It looked like Father Christmas had fucked things up once again.
Git.
~Lordt
lewtocalypse.com 
What the fuck am I doing with my life?