Johnny's Conscience

This story takes place in the year 2041, a time where there is much chaos and less order. With the rise of technology, the need for people at the workplace has fallen. Many have become homeless and people are dying on the streets due to starvation. The middle-class folk are barely making it and to have extra money, they have to live in the worst broken-down houses in the ghettos. To make it in the world, you have to be born into a rich family or you have to turn to a life of crime. Since money is hard to come by, many have become depressed, and that alone is a goldmine for the underworld crime organizations, as people turn to the that they sell.
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My name's Johnny Beacher and I'm in a very shady business. Today, I received orders: Some pals and I are to hijack a truck, which is on its way to the bank. I've been told it holds about five hundred grand. I leave to pick up my pals, Kyle and Wade. I drive up to my hangout, a local strip club run by my boss. The most beautiful women work here; I swear it's paradise.

"Wade, Kyle," I yelled.

"Hey, hey, how's it going?" responded Wade.

"We'll get going after we finish our drinks," added Kyle. "Hey, bartender, get my friend here, a drink."

I sat down and look around at the magnificent club. The scantily-clad women sway their hips ever-so-graciously on the stage. If I want to get laid, I just have to come here. These women sure love their jobs since they participate in extracurricular activities. Of course they're paid for it, though.

"Here you go, sir," the bartender says while handing me my alcoholic beverage. The dim red lights sparkle off of my glass. I take a sniff, smelling the sweet aroma of my bourbon. I tip the glass back, letting the liquid slide to the back of my throat; the burning sensation is a sensation like no other.

"C'mon! Let's go now," Wade blurts incoherently, getting up slowly. I can tell that he had too much to drink, as he's wobbly and disoriented. Now, Wade is a big fellow, he stands at 6'3 and is a rather-large man carrying a rather large gut. Kyle is the total opposite, as he's very short and skinny. I've known these two all my life; we grew up in the same neighborhood. They're like brothers to me.

We leave the bar and hop into my ride. We had been told where the truck would be and when. Our plan is to follow it until the driver makes a pit stop. We will take the money, with if it's needed, but usually people compromise with us easily. Anyways, we drive, following the directions we had been given. We find the truck and follow it, waiting for the driver to take a break. I love driving in the night, feeling the cool wind blow through my hair, the atmosphere is perfect, just so relaxing. Finally, the driver stops at a gas station, and so did we.

Gas stations are different nowadays, they don't have people serving you anymore, all you have to do is slip in a bill and it sends a certain amount of gas out. Bills have barcodes that let the machine read what type of bill it is. You can't steal from them either because it has an alarm with a pressure detector that would go off, automatically calling the cops if you try to bust it open.

"Time to take care of business," exclaims Wade, looking as pumped up as ever. We park our car right next to the truck so the transfer of goods will be quick and easy.

As the driver pumps his gas, Kyle holds out his cold, metal piece, pointing it straight at the driver's head. "Open the fucking truck," he demands.

The driver immediately puts his hands up stating that he wanted no trouble.

"Then give us the fucking money,” Kyle demands once again. The driver went into the front of his truck to pick up the keys. Kyle takes out a cigarette and begins to light it. Surprisingly, the driver steps out with what looks to be a gun in his hand. Kyle is too busy with his cigarette and Wade hasn't notice. I pull out my piece. I better think fast...actually, you should; you're my conscience.