Wendy shoots Wilber in a bank
Since it’s been ten years since I’ve completed eighth grade, I had to Google what “ateillration” meant. The first result I got back: did you mean “alliteration”? Sigh. Ok Google, we get it; you’re the only one who paid attention during spelling and graduated top of your class; no need to be snobby about it. The second result (after conceding my spelling ignorance) read: the occurrence of the same letter or sound at the beginning of adjacent or closely connected words.
If I counted correctly, the entry currently in first has 196 consecutive words starting with an “S”. My entry is going to have 197, because I’m going for the “W”.
***
It was early morning Wednesday on the corner of Washington and Wilder, inside the West Elms Bank when Wilber clocked into work. He’d withstanded 365 days without the machines seizing his job, damn ATMs, and today marked his one month anniversary. None of his other coworkers seemed to have remembered though. If it wasn’t for the wages, the year could be argued to have been a waste. He hated his job and wanted more.
The morning drug by slowly. He robotically moved money in and out of accounts, repeating the same pleasantries to each customer. Every day was identical to the last.
“Hello, how are you?”
“Please swipe your card.”
“So Wendy, my name is Wilber; how can I help you today?”
Wendy whispered, “We want one.”
Wilber wondered, “One what?”
Wendy wistfully waivered, “Wealth. Work. Warmth. Wonder.”
Wilber, wondering what Wendy willed, waited while watching Wendy waywardly wobble. Why was Wilber’s workstead weighed warily with weirdos? What wretchedness.
Wendy, whirling wildly, wined, “We want white wings. Watery whisky. Withdrawals.”
Worried with wayward watches Wilber whispered, “Women, withhold whatever worthless wickedness which walks within. Why would...”
Without warning, Wendy whipped one weapon, one webley wrist-revolver, windborne. Whaam! Whaam! Whaam!
Within winks, Wilber’s workmates wildly wrecked windows. Wally, Wilber’s right workmate, winced without one window, while Wesley, weary wimpy Wesley, willed one Westward window. Without wavering, Wilber watched worrisome witnesses warfully withdraw while Wendy waved webly wildly. Wails. Woe. What wretched Wednesday was Wilber welcomed with.
Wendy whined, “Whereabouts would we wet Wendy’s whiskers? What we want is worthwhile weight withdrawal.”
Wilber wanted one world where we were wholesome.Went went wrong? Well, whatever. Whatever. Wilber warned, “Walk warily Wendy! Walk warily.”
Wendy, with webly weighted, whirled wildly without weighing Wilber’s warning. Without warning, Wendy withloaded one warhead willy-nilly.
What! Woozy, Wilber watch one wound weep watery wine-colored waste. Wilber was wrought with wrath. What wicked wretched women. Wendy would wither!
Wilber went wacko. Whizzing warlike, Wilber walloped Wendy. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Wendy whiltered. Wilber, weak with wound, whiltered whital.
When Wilber woke… he was alone in a hospital. A nurse entered and explained his situation. After Wilber had violently knocked out Wendy, he’d collapsed from the bullet wound and loss of blood. Apparently Wendy, without money, home, or family to substitute the deficiency, was suffering from a serious mental condition. Her attempt to rob the bank was a cry for help…
The nurse droned on, giving more backstory to Wendy, but Wilber didn’t care. Whatever empathy someone deserves leaves the room when they shoot you in the shoulder. He’d almost wished he’d been shot in the head instead; his life was pretty miserable and he didn’t have much going for himself.
But then the nurse said something that gave him some hope. “Oh, and for your brave efforts, the mayor is presenting you an award.”
Wilber said, “An award? What type of award?”
“Well,” the nurse looked out the hospital window, the hospital on the corner of the Wall and 4th, and said, “Assuming we counted correctly…”