Robert W. Howington

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 10, 2012

Robert W. Howington is a Charles Bukowski junkie and a lover of black and white gangster movies. He lives alone with a cat, Oscar, and works a full-time dead end job. His only hobbies are smoking cigarettes, writing and photography. Check him out on Facebook at this link:


by Robert W. Howington

We busted through the doors and took command.

“THIS IS A HOLDUP!” Chandler shouted.



It was just like in a movie. I was thinking Al Pacino and DOG DAY AFTERNOON.


It all started that afternoon when Rader came over to my double wide with some crack and pot he scored the previous evening after picking up a cheap piece of STD-laden poontang on Riverside Drive. I called Chandler and told him to come on over and party with us. He showed up with a movie, RESEVOIR DOGS, and a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe. I ordered two sausage and pepperoni pizzas from Lou’s Pizza & Burgers and got the bong out.

The three of us were your typical All-American losers. We had amounted to nothing in our 30+ plus years on the planet. We were all ex-Gen Xers with no jobs, no motivation, no ambition and no free pussy.

But that afternoon we got as high as Elvis, got inspired by the cool bad guys in the movie and got hungry — hungry for something new. Hungry to get what everyone else seemed to have: gobs of money, fine automobiles, flashy clothes, much love and respect, their faces on TV and sex with strippers.

We watched RESEVOIR DOGS and became Tarantino’s characters. Rader was Mr. Brown. Chandler was Mr. White. I was Mr. Pink because Steve Buscemi kicks motherfucking ass.

As the credits rolled we decided to rob a bank and head for Las Vegas and party til the money ran dry. If we got killed in the process we didn’t give a shit because we didn’t matter to anyone and we knew it. We were expendable because America had no need for our slacker kind, guys who would rather get high than get a job, guys who didn’t like to work hard so the company would prosper and make its shareholders happy, guys who didn’t like having any responsibility — even for themselves, guys who didn’t like any authority figures, guys who didn’t give a flying fuck for America and apple pie and all that other horseshit that goes along with it.

Unconsciousness from ingesting large amounts of inebriants meant relief, though briefly, from our waking pain.

“So what the hell?” Rader said after taking a hit off the crack pipe. “Why not do something cool like robbing a bank?”

Chandler and I agreed.

But we needed guns and masks for the job. So we piled into my crapmobile, a 1985 Pontiac 6000 I called the “Exxon Valdez” because of its oil leak, and headed for Wal-Mart.


Rader went over to where the bank’s security guard was lying on the floor. He reached down and took his gun and called the guy a big pussy.

“Pussies don’t deserve to die,” Rader told him. “Only anti-heroes like me and my pals deserve infamous immortality. One of these days we’re gonna meet Oswald in hell and do tequila shots, eat stuffed jalapeno peppers and trade war stories with him. Meanwhile, all the pussies will be having angel food cake and punch with God and his asshole buddies.”

Chandler went for the money.

I kept the time and an eye on everything going on. My Heckler & Koch 9mm semi-automatic’s safety was off and my index finger was firm against the trigger. I didn’t want to kill anyone unnecessarily but if they made me shoot them then that was their fucking problem not mine.

I watched as Chandler went from one cashier window to the next. He was putting a lot of money into the backpacks. All I could think was that we were gonna party like crazy ass motherfuckers and have the roller coaster ride of our lives with all that dough.

It was about time.

Rader tucked the security guard’s six-gun underneath his shirt and kept his position with the shotgun raised and ready to blow off anyone’s head that moved.

“This is going great!” Rader said. “For once in our lives we’re doing something right. Damn, this is fun. We should have thought of doing this a long time ago.”

The bank’s employees and its customers remained silent. I’m sure they were shitting in their pants. I was almost doing that myself.

Chandler zipped up the backpacks, both jam packed with cash money.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” I said.

As we headed out the door Rader stopped for a second and told the people in the bank, “Hope, y’all have a nice day. With all this money we just took we’re certainly going to.”


The unexpected knock on the door made us all freak.

“HIDE THE STASH!!” Chandler yelped.

Rader grabbed the bong and hid it in the dishwasher. I scooped up all the crack and pot and papers and pipes and put it all on a plate. I slid it underneath the couch we got via dumpster diving. Chandler got a can of deodorizer bought at General Dollar and sprayed it all around.

I opened the door.

It was Henderson, the motherfucking trailer park manager.

“It’s the 5th,” he said. “Your rent is due.”

“Look, man,” I said. “I told you I’m unemployed right now. As soon as I get a job I’ll start making up for the shit I owe you.”

“Bullshit, Hudson,” he said. “You said the same thing last month. If the rent money is not on my desk by 5 p.m. today I’m gonna have you and your double wide hauled out of here.”

Fuck, I thought.


We ran to the car and got in and took off. We peeled off our masks and I started driving west on Interstate 30. On the radio The Eagle was playing Rage Against The Machine and I turned volume all the way up to LOUD AS HELL.

Chandler and Rader each had one of the backpacks and were looking at all the money we had just stolen. Rader put a fresh $100 bill up to his nose and smelled the beauty of it.


“LET’S PARTY!” Chandler screamed.

“But aren’t we going to Vegas?” Rader asked.

“It’s too long of a drive,” Chandler insisted. “I don’t want to wait that long before we start spending this shit.”

I made a suggestion.

“We can go to New Orleans Nights strip club and party there. It’s just off of the Alta Mere exit that’s coming up here in a minute.”

“Cool,” Chandler said.

“Strippers, money, alcohol and drugs are the best things in life,” Rader said. “Now we can buy as much of that shit as we want to.”

“YEE! HAW!” Chandler exclaimed as he covered himself up in all the loot.


We went to the Wal-Mart on Cherry Lane. The first place we looked for masks was in the toy department. Chandler found all the Halloween masks that were leftover. The pickings looked mighty slim. It was a bunch of clown and cute animal masks. All goofy looking shit. Stupid ass junk for America’s rampaging Ritalin Generation.

“I’m not wearing a Daffy Duck mask while robbing a bank,” Rader said as he put the mask on. It didn’t even cover his entire face. “What if I get killed? I’ll be shown laying there dead on FOX NEWS with a stupid ass cartoon mask on my face and Bill O’Reilly saying how stupid I look. I’m NOT stupid. I just have a low IQ.”

I had an idea.

“What about wearing Dallas Cowboys wool caps that pull down over your face with holes for the eyes and mouth?”

Chandler and Rader both liked the idea so we walked over to the men’s department. There was a bunch of Cowboys shit there. Wal-Mart was big on selling Cowboys shit, whether the team sucked or not. They were ‘America’s Team’ and they always would be. We found the wool caps and tried them on. They were perfect. We looked at ourselves in a mirror. We liked what we saw. We also got matching pairs of Dickies pants and Nike shoes. For shirts we decided to wear band tees. AC/DC for me. Van Halen for Rader and Ministry for Chandler.

Rader said, “We’re gonna be the first-ever commercially viable criminals. Football and hard rock.”

Now we needed some fire power. I was thinking THE GUNS OF NAVARONE.


New Orleans Nights was the best nudie joint in Fort Worth. It was housed in an abandoned restaurant location, the old Ore House, next to a city owned golf course called Z. Boaz. Chandler and Rader left a majority of the cash in the backpacks and locked them up in the trunk with the guns and Cowboys wool caps.

We had a couple grand each to spend on strippers and booze.

“I’m gonna get me a bunch of lap dances,” Chandler said. “I plan on finishing off inside my pants after the stripper dry humps her nude pussy up against my zipper.”

I told them I was gonna drink like Ted Kennedy on New Year’s Eve and generously tip the broads dancing on the stages.

“This will be the first time I’ve gone into one of these places where I could actually tip more than a lousy dollar. I’ll be tipping these bitches with $50s and $100s. I bet I’ll get a lot of their phone numbers.”

Rader said he didn’t have a plan of attack for New Orleans Nights.

“All I want to do is have a good time. After I flash them my wad of bills I’m sure the ladies in there will be more than willing to think up something fun for me and them to do together.”

We walked into the place and were seated at a table near the back stage. We gave the cocktail waitress our orders and waited on the drinks and the dancers.

For the first time in our miserable lives we were on top of the world. It was a nice place to be — no matter how long it lasted.

I was thinking James Cagney and WHITE HEAT.


The Fort Worth Star-Telegram classifieds showed a man in Haltom City wanting to sell two H&K 9mm handguns and a Browning 12-gauge shotgun. We figured that was enough weaponry needed to rob a bank. We pooled together all of our remaining resources and, after pawning my shitty 25-inch, rabbit-eared TV, 1000-watt microwave oven and boom box stereo at a pawn shop on Camp Bowie, we had the cash to buy the guns.

As it turned out Rader was able to talk the guy down some on his opening price — he told him a fib about how his girlfriend was gonna kill him if he didn’t have enough money to take her out to eat at Golden Corral. So we ended up with enough cash left over to fill up on gas, buy some smokes and, most importantly, ammo.

Back at my double wide we decided to get ready for the robbery. First we got dressed in our bank robber outfits.

I thought we looked pretty damn sharp for amateur crooks on a discount chain budget.

“If we’re gonna rob a bank we might as well be lookin’ good for the security cameras and witnesses,” Chandler said.

Rader had an idea.

“I’m gonna do a modeling exhibition in front of one of the security cameras,” he said, “and then turn around and drop my drawers and moon those bastards.”

Chandler suggested we come up with a name for our robbery gang “in case the media we talk to, if it all goes wrong, wants a good headline for their morning papers.”

I thought about it a bit then said, “Since we’re wearing Dallas Cowboys wool caps we ought to call ourselves ‘Doomsday’ after the Cowboys’ great defenses of the ’70s.”


After loading the guns we put extra magazines and shotgun shells in our pants pockets in case our bank robbery turned into a shootout like the one in Los Angeles.

Before heading out for the job we sat back and relaxed by smoking crack and pot and drinking beer. Once high we were ready to do the most stupid thing we’ve ever done.

As we were leaving the trailer park Henderson saw us. He looked at our matching outfits, with the Cowboys wool caps already on our heads (but not pulled down to cover our faces yet), and said, “What the fuck? You clowns look like you’re up to no good.”

I told him, “We’re actually on our way to get you your rent money right now.”

“You expect me to believe that bullshit? Remember, 5 p.m. is the deadline. You owe me two month’s rent. Or you’re out of here.”

He watched as we got into the Exxon Valdez. I started the engine and gunned it out of there. I tore through the gravel drive. Dust and little rocks started flying out all over the place. In my rearview mirror I could see Henderson choking on the dust. He ran after us and threw up his middle finger and shouted something that none of us could hear. So I read his lips.



Chandler was in the champagne room getting a sultry, sexy lap dance from a completely naked young female with huge tits and a small waist. She was pushing her tits into Chandler’s face. She allowed him to lick and suck on her nipples after he gave her more cash.

Rader was in a deep, meaningful conversation with another girl wearing only a g-string. He kept his hand firmly on her sweet, tight ass. It’s like he never wanted to let go of it. I assumed that was costing him a pretty penny.

I was at a stage telling ‘Christie’ how fucking hot she was and how much it would cost for me to fuck her. That’s when I noticed some commotion going on near the entrance. I had a bad feeling it was the cops, as I heard tires coming to screeching halts out front.

They must’ve gotten a description of my car and found it out in the parking lot, I thought, as I gave ‘Jennifer’ a $50 bill for taking off her clothes in front of me and shaking her fine booty all around my face, giving me a real up close and personal view.

Then all hell broke loose.

Even though there were only four or five of them, it seemed like an entire platoon of heavily armed Army Rangers blasted into the place. Girls jumped off the stages and ran screaming towards a back entrance. Customers hit the floor, with most of them grabbing a stripper on the way down. The cops were shouting for everyone to get down and stay down.

I just stood there with my hands up.

Rader and Chandler joined me.

“We never could do anything right,” I said.

“Yeah, remember that night we were all gonna fuck Josie Banes out in that so-called ‘secluded spot’ near Benbrook Lake and Highway 377?” Rader asked. “That was a disaster but this definitely tops them all.”

Chandler said he was glad he’d be getting three squares a day and a bunk to sleep on.

“It beats living in the fucking woods,” he said. “I’ll also have toilet paper to wipe my ass with. I had to use leaves and bark out in the forest, just like they do on SURVIVOR.”

The cops grabbed us and put the handcuffs on. They led us outside. There were TV trucks from all of the local stations, Channel 8, Channel 11, NBC 5 and FOX 4. Cop cars filled up the rest of New Orleans Nights’ parking lot. The Exxon Valdez was already being towed off to the city’s car pound on Northside Drive. The backpacks with all that money in them were in the front seat of one of the police cruisers. Our handguns and the shotgun were laid out on top of the cop car’s hood.

A cop asked us what in the fuck were we thinking.

“You bozos didn’t have any escape plans did you? You didn’t even ditch your car. That’s the first thing real bank robbers do.”

“We just wanted to get drunk and look at naked women,” I said.

Rader chimed in, “What’d you think we’d do with the money? Start a new life? Settle down? Have kids? Join the mainstream? HA! HA!”

“We never once tried to act like professionals,” Chandler quipped. “Steve Buscemi would kill us if he knew that.”

They put each of us inside a different cop car and took us downtown to our new digs.

The cop driving me to jail said the party was over for us.

“So what?” I said. “There’ll always be another one.”

I was thinking Steve McQueen and THE GREAT ESCAPE.

Robert W. Howington is a Charles Bukowski junkie and a lover of black and white gangster movies. He lives alone with a cat, Oscar, and works a full-time dead end job. His only hobbies are smoking cigarettes, writing and photography. Check him out on Facebook at this link:

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