Black smoke cloaked the blue sky. Whatever grey touched the scene, blood red mingled with the view. Body parts crowded in clusters, blasting strangers into brotherhood – forever together among the dead. Even the living wouldn’t leave the trenches intact. Among the bullet swarms and shells (mimicking thunder gods), the world seemed so different from what Cillian knew, and yet, he almost felt at home. He aimed; firing in the past echoed in the present – buckshot tearing into the scarecrow. Cillian’s grimace sent memories of the Great War scurrying to the back of his mind.
He lived in the now, over twelve years since the trenches. There he learned the world doesn’t give it takes. Home again, since ‘22 he resolved to take what he wanted, and his three brothers agreed. Flynn because of a philosophical anarchism, Sloane due to a lust for any thrill, and Kyle, the youngest, because he always followed his brothers’ lead.
After robbing banks, the Lynch brothers enjoyed disappearing into Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. Hid out in a bog forest, they spent afternoons chatting over moonshine. Fantasies fueled by firewater set the money spent before a single cent left their pockets. And after a few weeks in the woods, the boys came back to the world like a flash flood of cash.
They spilled green all over whatever town they drifted to. Every penny seemed suspicious, but especially in those early Great Depression days, no one minded ill got gains. Fruit of a poisonous tree, perhaps, however, leave that guilt aside until Sunday; then confess the sinful sum wondering why God begrudges the use of stolen cash to feed hungry kids. At least the Lynches made life feel worth living.
Those four boys caroused to beat the band. Once, at a roadhouse in Leonard, Michigan, they roped in the local preacher. He agreed to a sip of whiskey, for the sake of sociability; happy to see the locals smiling for the first time in too long.
A short while later, blind drunk on Canadian whiskey, smuggled in to ease the Prohibition drought, the preacher toasted the Lynch brothers proclaiming, “You buoys – boys – gentlemen – merry men! – you could’ve taught Aristippus a thing or two, but I bless you. For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in, so is glory unto Him the most high when we take pleasure.”
“That’ll do padre,” Kyle Lynch said. Patting the fellow on the back, he led the drunk sliver to a cup of coffee. Some considered it the right Christian thing to do, though perhaps not giving a preacher the blind staggers might’ve been better.
Still, cups raised, clunked, and drunk – the preacher’s words resonated with each Lynch brother in their own way. Cillian, especially, would never forget a part of the speech. Sometimes, in the swamp forest, firing his shotgun at the scarecrow, Cillian echoed the words, “For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in.”
Antlered entities harvesting in the killing fields… only he saw, or at least, felt sane admitting to seeing… what he never shared with his family.
Now, it must be said, the Lynch brothers, though legends, never achieved fame for their robbers. Unlike Dillinger, Sutton, or Bonnie and Clyde, the Lynches would’ve been a footnote in the history of bank robbery. Likely only to be remembered by local anecdotes, one day used as esoteric allusions in poetry and bluegrass, they made the mistake of robbing the wrong people. Sad old story, the grim aftermath of which permanently placed them among other myths.
#
“Everybody down!” Flynn fired into the ceiling.
Plaster showered down. Shaking it off, he aimed his shotgun at a nearby guard.
“I said down!” he roared, pumping a fresh round into the chamber.
The guard got the hint. Meanwhile, Kyle charged into the bank. Jackrabbit quick, he grabbed anyone standing and threw them to the floor. Cillian, the oldest Lynch, sauntered in last carrying a Browning automatic rifle. His brothers occupied with crowd control; he alone spotted a guard creeping out of a side room behind them. Cillian raised the BAR. Ten .30-06 cartridges ripped through the man in seconds. He fell dead before bits of his jaw, blown to the ceiling, hit the floor.
An old woman cried out as she fainted dead away. Flynn glanced back at his brother.
Cillian said, “It was necessary.”
The rest of the robbery went smoothly. The bloody corpse assured no heroics. Tellers handed over cash quickly, while the manager did the kindness of not resisting Flynn’s demands to open the safe.
Cash in sacks, the trio hurried outside to brother Sloane behind the wheel of a getaway car. They piled in.
Driving away at top speed, Sloane said, “Heard a lotta gunshots.”
“Had to be done,” Cillian replied. That closed the discussion.
Unfortunately, it didn’t cool the heat. Though they’d shot a few guards over the years, those few survived. Consequently, the Lynch brothers found themselves less than welcome in some parts. Small towns forgave a degree of bloodshed and robbery, especially if it kept the 20s roaring, but death never got a pass. No one cares for a coldblooded Robin Hood.
So, the brothers retreated directly to the Lower Peninsula. Plans to live off whatever they could shoot – deer and turkey – sounded realistic. However, the first few days, they couldn’t catch a damn thing.
Sitting on a fallen tree, Kyle rolled a cigarette. Not far off he could hear Cillian blasting away at the scarecrow. The straw inuksuk marked their hideout. Kyle often noted, though never said aloud, that Cillian used their father’s clothes to dress the scarecrow. He blasted it until only rags remained then pulled a fresh shirt out of a battered trunk.
Seated next to Kyle, brother Sloane remarked, “I’m not enjoying this.”
“Me neither.” Kyle said.
Nearby, packing a pipe, Flynn said, “Don’t worry. Things’ll be back to normal before you know.”
Lighting his cigarette, Kyle nodded, “Plus we won’t have to work for a while. You see how much we got this time?”
Sloane frowned, “More than we should’ve.”
“You’re worried too,” Flynn said.
Sloane nodded. Kyle glanced from one to the other.
He said, “I don’t see the problem.”
“A bank in that small a town with that much money…” Sloane trailed off, hoping his little brother might put it together.
Having little faith in the boy, Flynn finished the thought, “Mob bank most likely.”
“So what?” Kyle said.
#
Winter came early that year. It prompted the Lynches to leave their hideaway sooner than usual. Cillian asked Sloane to take the backroads, and they avoided places they knew for the most part. Looking out the passenger window, Cillian stroked his greying beard wondering if it meant frost the same as he saw on the trees. He could feel the cold creeping into him. Sometimes he prayed the rosary, just like Mama taught, hoping to keep devilishness at bay; hope in faith like a drop of water on a hot stove.
The current plan involved heading West. Fifty grand would last a long time anywhere. Unfortunately, spending anything in Michigan would attract eyes. Flynn suggested California seemed far enough away. They could join the caravans floating West, chasing hope.
Then they stopped at a diner outside Kalamazoo. Despite the late hour, the place looked full of people.
Cillian said, “Just get sandwiches. I don’t want to be here too long.”
Kyle groaned, “This car is freezing. I wanna get soup.”
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” Sloane said. Catching Cillian’s glare, he added, “I need to be awake to drive.”
“Flynn can drive.”
Flynn said, “No problem, but we still gotta stop long enough for me to take a shit.”
Cillian sighed, “Fine. Everyone do what you want, but we leave in an hour.”
The brothers exited the car. The years of locals treating them kindly resulted in the Lynch boys failing to adopt any measures of preventing their recognition. In other words, although quite distinct in appearance, particularly Cillian Lynch’s long greying beard, the brothers never thought to change their look. And following Cillian’s lead, none of them ever wore masks. As such, four long haired mountain men idled into a Kalamazoo diner, attracting every eye in the joint as well as the street on their way in.
Stuffed into a booth, the brothers failed to notice a young man in a three-piece suit slip over to a payphone. He whispered into it then retreated outside. Enjoying hot chicken soup, none of the Lynches observed the young suit loitering outside. Laughing, joking with one another, they failed to spy three Cadillac Sedans parking out front.
A blonde bombshell at the counter kept casting glances at Kyle. Encouraged by Sloane, Kyle went over to the counter to flirt.
Cillian tapped his wristwatch.
Sloane shrugged, “Come on, he’s gotta learn sometime. Nineteen, he barely knows how to say hello.”
Flynn smirked, “When ladies glance over Kyle shies into silence.”
Cillian chuckled, “Especially when they’re so perfect words are afraid, leaving them indescribable.”
“What kind of women did you see in France?” Sloane asked, his face contorting in instant regret. He felt Flynn’s foot kick his shin under the table.
Cillian said wistfully, “Never boast about dead beauties,” echoing a fellow he knew in France.
A bell jingled as the front door opened. Cillian glanced towards the sound. He saw Kyle leaning on the counter, the bombshell smiling – lips ruby red; several men in fedoras and trench coats entered the diner. Cillian knew wolves when he saw them.
One of the wolves stopped next to Kyle. He pulled a submachine gun out from under his trench coat. The wolf bit – machinegun spitting teeth. Kyle shuddered, a perplexed look on his face. He collapsed into a lifeless heap.
Cillian roared. He launched out of the booth like a furious bear. His massive paw pulled a .45 out of his coat. He began firing in a blind rage. His first shots hit a customer at the counter. His others tore through the throat of the wolf who shot Kyle.
The rest of the pack opened fire. They filled the air with lethal lead rain. Bullets shredded one side of the diner along with a waitress and several customers. Flynn managed to reply with a few rounds from a revolver before the hail filled him full of holes. Sloane kept low, somehow slipping safely under the table. Several rounds hit Cillian. He fell down but kept firing until the gun went click.
Sloane hurried out from under the table. Unarmed, he went straight for Cillian. Grabbing his big brother, Sloane hoisted the giant bear up, and more dragging than carrying, pulled him into the kitchen. A backdoor stood open, left ajar when the cook fled the gunfire.
Cillian struggled to reload. Sloane did it for him.
“I got a feeling we’re fucked,” Sloane said.
Cillian grunted in reply. Sloane handed him the .45. Cillian shook his head, pressed the gun into his brother’s hand.
He said, “You can make it. Out the back.”
Sloane said, “Not without you.”
“Don’t be stupid your whole life.” Cillian glared, “Go!”
He shoved his brother, almost throwing the younger sibling towards the door. Sloane backpedaled, going towards the exit, but not taking his eyes off Cillian. The big bear nodded. Nothing needed to be said; they knew enough to know the unspoken.
Sloane stepped out the backdoor. A storm of bullets shoved him back inside. He fired a shot into the floor then fell onto his back.
Cillian bellowed. The kitchen door swung open. Cillian snatched a sizzling skillet off the grill. The gunman entering the kitchen got a face full of hot bacon grease. Cillian silenced his screams with one dreadful blow of the heavy skillet. He dropped the pan, grabbing the gunman. When the other wolves opened fire, Cillian used him as a human shield.
Darkness crept in at the edge of his vision. He didn’t remember snatching a submachine gun off the floor. However, he recalled snarling like an animal as he fired. The wolves that didn’t die scattered. Cillian heard sirens approaching. Shambling into the diner, he stepped by Flynn, saw Kyle’s bloody body, and welcomed the void enveloping him.
He lived in the now, over twelve years since the trenches. There he learned the world doesn’t give it takes. Home again, since ‘22 he resolved to take what he wanted, and his three brothers agreed. Flynn because of a philosophical anarchism, Sloane due to a lust for any thrill, and Kyle, the youngest, because he always followed his brothers’ lead.
After robbing banks, the Lynch brothers enjoyed disappearing into Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. Hid out in a bog forest, they spent afternoons chatting over moonshine. Fantasies fueled by firewater set the money spent before a single cent left their pockets. And after a few weeks in the woods, the boys came back to the world like a flash flood of cash.
They spilled green all over whatever town they drifted to. Every penny seemed suspicious, but especially in those early Great Depression days, no one minded ill got gains. Fruit of a poisonous tree, perhaps, however, leave that guilt aside until Sunday; then confess the sinful sum wondering why God begrudges the use of stolen cash to feed hungry kids. At least the Lynches made life feel worth living.
Those four boys caroused to beat the band. Once, at a roadhouse in Leonard, Michigan, they roped in the local preacher. He agreed to a sip of whiskey, for the sake of sociability; happy to see the locals smiling for the first time in too long.
A short while later, blind drunk on Canadian whiskey, smuggled in to ease the Prohibition drought, the preacher toasted the Lynch brothers proclaiming, “You buoys – boys – gentlemen – merry men! – you could’ve taught Aristippus a thing or two, but I bless you. For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in, so is glory unto Him the most high when we take pleasure.”
“That’ll do padre,” Kyle Lynch said. Patting the fellow on the back, he led the drunk sliver to a cup of coffee. Some considered it the right Christian thing to do, though perhaps not giving a preacher the blind staggers might’ve been better.
Still, cups raised, clunked, and drunk – the preacher’s words resonated with each Lynch brother in their own way. Cillian, especially, would never forget a part of the speech. Sometimes, in the swamp forest, firing his shotgun at the scarecrow, Cillian echoed the words, “For we make a god of what we take the most pleasure in.”
Antlered entities harvesting in the killing fields… only he saw, or at least, felt sane admitting to seeing… what he never shared with his family.
Now, it must be said, the Lynch brothers, though legends, never achieved fame for their robbers. Unlike Dillinger, Sutton, or Bonnie and Clyde, the Lynches would’ve been a footnote in the history of bank robbery. Likely only to be remembered by local anecdotes, one day used as esoteric allusions in poetry and bluegrass, they made the mistake of robbing the wrong people. Sad old story, the grim aftermath of which permanently placed them among other myths.
#
“Everybody down!” Flynn fired into the ceiling.
Plaster showered down. Shaking it off, he aimed his shotgun at a nearby guard.
“I said down!” he roared, pumping a fresh round into the chamber.
The guard got the hint. Meanwhile, Kyle charged into the bank. Jackrabbit quick, he grabbed anyone standing and threw them to the floor. Cillian, the oldest Lynch, sauntered in last carrying a Browning automatic rifle. His brothers occupied with crowd control; he alone spotted a guard creeping out of a side room behind them. Cillian raised the BAR. Ten .30-06 cartridges ripped through the man in seconds. He fell dead before bits of his jaw, blown to the ceiling, hit the floor.
An old woman cried out as she fainted dead away. Flynn glanced back at his brother.
Cillian said, “It was necessary.”
The rest of the robbery went smoothly. The bloody corpse assured no heroics. Tellers handed over cash quickly, while the manager did the kindness of not resisting Flynn’s demands to open the safe.
Cash in sacks, the trio hurried outside to brother Sloane behind the wheel of a getaway car. They piled in.
Driving away at top speed, Sloane said, “Heard a lotta gunshots.”
“Had to be done,” Cillian replied. That closed the discussion.
Unfortunately, it didn’t cool the heat. Though they’d shot a few guards over the years, those few survived. Consequently, the Lynch brothers found themselves less than welcome in some parts. Small towns forgave a degree of bloodshed and robbery, especially if it kept the 20s roaring, but death never got a pass. No one cares for a coldblooded Robin Hood.
So, the brothers retreated directly to the Lower Peninsula. Plans to live off whatever they could shoot – deer and turkey – sounded realistic. However, the first few days, they couldn’t catch a damn thing.
Sitting on a fallen tree, Kyle rolled a cigarette. Not far off he could hear Cillian blasting away at the scarecrow. The straw inuksuk marked their hideout. Kyle often noted, though never said aloud, that Cillian used their father’s clothes to dress the scarecrow. He blasted it until only rags remained then pulled a fresh shirt out of a battered trunk.
Seated next to Kyle, brother Sloane remarked, “I’m not enjoying this.”
“Me neither.” Kyle said.
Nearby, packing a pipe, Flynn said, “Don’t worry. Things’ll be back to normal before you know.”
Lighting his cigarette, Kyle nodded, “Plus we won’t have to work for a while. You see how much we got this time?”
Sloane frowned, “More than we should’ve.”
“You’re worried too,” Flynn said.
Sloane nodded. Kyle glanced from one to the other.
He said, “I don’t see the problem.”
“A bank in that small a town with that much money…” Sloane trailed off, hoping his little brother might put it together.
Having little faith in the boy, Flynn finished the thought, “Mob bank most likely.”
“So what?” Kyle said.
#
Winter came early that year. It prompted the Lynches to leave their hideaway sooner than usual. Cillian asked Sloane to take the backroads, and they avoided places they knew for the most part. Looking out the passenger window, Cillian stroked his greying beard wondering if it meant frost the same as he saw on the trees. He could feel the cold creeping into him. Sometimes he prayed the rosary, just like Mama taught, hoping to keep devilishness at bay; hope in faith like a drop of water on a hot stove.
The current plan involved heading West. Fifty grand would last a long time anywhere. Unfortunately, spending anything in Michigan would attract eyes. Flynn suggested California seemed far enough away. They could join the caravans floating West, chasing hope.
Then they stopped at a diner outside Kalamazoo. Despite the late hour, the place looked full of people.
Cillian said, “Just get sandwiches. I don’t want to be here too long.”
Kyle groaned, “This car is freezing. I wanna get soup.”
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” Sloane said. Catching Cillian’s glare, he added, “I need to be awake to drive.”
“Flynn can drive.”
Flynn said, “No problem, but we still gotta stop long enough for me to take a shit.”
Cillian sighed, “Fine. Everyone do what you want, but we leave in an hour.”
The brothers exited the car. The years of locals treating them kindly resulted in the Lynch boys failing to adopt any measures of preventing their recognition. In other words, although quite distinct in appearance, particularly Cillian Lynch’s long greying beard, the brothers never thought to change their look. And following Cillian’s lead, none of them ever wore masks. As such, four long haired mountain men idled into a Kalamazoo diner, attracting every eye in the joint as well as the street on their way in.
Stuffed into a booth, the brothers failed to notice a young man in a three-piece suit slip over to a payphone. He whispered into it then retreated outside. Enjoying hot chicken soup, none of the Lynches observed the young suit loitering outside. Laughing, joking with one another, they failed to spy three Cadillac Sedans parking out front.
A blonde bombshell at the counter kept casting glances at Kyle. Encouraged by Sloane, Kyle went over to the counter to flirt.
Cillian tapped his wristwatch.
Sloane shrugged, “Come on, he’s gotta learn sometime. Nineteen, he barely knows how to say hello.”
Flynn smirked, “When ladies glance over Kyle shies into silence.”
Cillian chuckled, “Especially when they’re so perfect words are afraid, leaving them indescribable.”
“What kind of women did you see in France?” Sloane asked, his face contorting in instant regret. He felt Flynn’s foot kick his shin under the table.
Cillian said wistfully, “Never boast about dead beauties,” echoing a fellow he knew in France.
A bell jingled as the front door opened. Cillian glanced towards the sound. He saw Kyle leaning on the counter, the bombshell smiling – lips ruby red; several men in fedoras and trench coats entered the diner. Cillian knew wolves when he saw them.
One of the wolves stopped next to Kyle. He pulled a submachine gun out from under his trench coat. The wolf bit – machinegun spitting teeth. Kyle shuddered, a perplexed look on his face. He collapsed into a lifeless heap.
Cillian roared. He launched out of the booth like a furious bear. His massive paw pulled a .45 out of his coat. He began firing in a blind rage. His first shots hit a customer at the counter. His others tore through the throat of the wolf who shot Kyle.
The rest of the pack opened fire. They filled the air with lethal lead rain. Bullets shredded one side of the diner along with a waitress and several customers. Flynn managed to reply with a few rounds from a revolver before the hail filled him full of holes. Sloane kept low, somehow slipping safely under the table. Several rounds hit Cillian. He fell down but kept firing until the gun went click.
Sloane hurried out from under the table. Unarmed, he went straight for Cillian. Grabbing his big brother, Sloane hoisted the giant bear up, and more dragging than carrying, pulled him into the kitchen. A backdoor stood open, left ajar when the cook fled the gunfire.
Cillian struggled to reload. Sloane did it for him.
“I got a feeling we’re fucked,” Sloane said.
Cillian grunted in reply. Sloane handed him the .45. Cillian shook his head, pressed the gun into his brother’s hand.
He said, “You can make it. Out the back.”
Sloane said, “Not without you.”
“Don’t be stupid your whole life.” Cillian glared, “Go!”
He shoved his brother, almost throwing the younger sibling towards the door. Sloane backpedaled, going towards the exit, but not taking his eyes off Cillian. The big bear nodded. Nothing needed to be said; they knew enough to know the unspoken.
Sloane stepped out the backdoor. A storm of bullets shoved him back inside. He fired a shot into the floor then fell onto his back.
Cillian bellowed. The kitchen door swung open. Cillian snatched a sizzling skillet off the grill. The gunman entering the kitchen got a face full of hot bacon grease. Cillian silenced his screams with one dreadful blow of the heavy skillet. He dropped the pan, grabbing the gunman. When the other wolves opened fire, Cillian used him as a human shield.
Darkness crept in at the edge of his vision. He didn’t remember snatching a submachine gun off the floor. However, he recalled snarling like an animal as he fired. The wolves that didn’t die scattered. Cillian heard sirens approaching. Shambling into the diner, he stepped by Flynn, saw Kyle’s bloody body, and welcomed the void enveloping him.
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