Rereading Ryan’s Rules for my Messier, came across this interstellar delight
They crossed off gas stations and altered a couple of their ten rules for success and happiness, finding it was all right to be polite, but you still had to scare the guy enough so he’d know better than to try and be a hero.
It was all right, too, to dress well, look presentable. But they realized they’d better not become typecast or pretty soon the police would be writing a book on the two dudes who always wore business suits and said please and thank you. So they wore jackets sometimes, and raincoats. Stick had a pair of coveralls he liked he’d bought at J. C. Penney. They were comfortable and no one seemed to bother looking at him. Frank liked his pale-tan safari jacket with the epaulets. Very sharp, big in California. He liked the way the Python rested in the deep side pocket and didn’t show.
Usually, after a job, they kept the guns locked in the glove compartment of the T-bird. Stick thought they should put them away somewhere, hidden. But Frank said it was better to have them handy; they saw a place they liked, they were ready. Keep them in the apartment, some inquisitive broad could be snooping around and find them. Ho ho, what’re these two business types doing with loaded firearms? Stick wasn’t convinced, but he couldn’t think of a better place to keep them.
Speaking of rules, Stick said maybe there was one more they should add.
Number Eleven.
Never try and hold up an Armenian.
So Amy don’t go poking around in the webmaster’s drawers
