Claire Renoir had to transfer an account, and quick. Her husband was in big trouble with the reptilian mafia. It was on this day that she came in, panic-stricken, and ran up the escalators. She waited impatiently on the line for the next available teller when a ring was heard. She looked up, and yon light shone above booth number eleven. Hastily, she made her way to the double-digital booth.
On the other side of the regret-proof glass was a man in his twenties wearing a leather jacket over a white tee. A pair of cop shades hid his eyes from her so that he could see without being seen. He gave her a warm, laminated smile and said, "Hey, baby. My name's Roger Lougeckstien, and I'm your teller for the afternoon. Deposits, withdrawals, walks on the beach, I'll make your day or break your date, whichever you allude to."
"What?" Claire said in a series of befuddlements. "Look, I just need to transfer money to another account, and I need it done fast."
"No problemo, Palermo! Back at Fleet, I was known as the hot rod of transfers. Ok, I just need your name, account number, mother's maiden name, breast size…"
She quickly covered her chest. "Excuse me!?"
He leaned towards the glass. "Look, sweetheart, I don't write these things. We got a fifteen-year-old computer geek in the back who hand-loves himself to internet porn while he's, pardon the pun, single-handedly programming the entire computer system here. I feel sorry for the kid 'cause for every zit he's got on his face, at least a hundred girls turn him down. So what I'm saying is, I can't go against regulations, and the sooner you cooperate, the quicker your hubbie gets out of the dog house."
"How do you know about my husband?"
"I have a part-time job as a professional psychic/sniper. Now please…"
Claire took a big sigh. "Very well. My name's Claire Renoir, it's number 3719928-01501, my mother was Franceis DuLaundries, and I'm a 36 D."
He took a good look at her chest and raised his one eyebrow. "With all due respect, madam, you don't have the tiptitude to fill that size bra, even with the tissues you already have in there. You're more of a 26 B." A smirk came across his face. "Am I right?" Her face red with anger and embarrassment, Claire turned away and nodded hastily. "That's better. Ok, where's this going to? And how do you want it done? Over the computer? Coupled with roses? Or would you like its worth in diamonds smuggled over the Canadian border through one of our agents' intestines?"
"Diamonds, eh?" She pondered for a second before coming back down to earth. The ship's captain was not pleased. "No, sorry, I need it done over the computer now!"
"Ok then, just need some photo ID and the account number this baby's going to. You want to move all of it, right?"
"Yes, it's 6382951-22487." She took out her driver's license and handed it to Roger, who examined the plastic card carefully. "This looks nothing like you, ma'am," he said. "In fact, it looks like me." He smiled, removing a comb from his jacket pocket and giving his brown hair, petrified by chemicals, a quick one over. "By the way, that comb technique is called 'The Irrigation.' It's like in the old times, when ancient farmers needed to create ditches for water to run to their crops through, I do the same so that my hair gets fully aerated."
"Amazing, now could you stop looking at your reflection and look at my picture!?"
"Oh, right. Ok, then, we're all set." He started clicking on the keys, not even looking at the monitor which displayed an error message. "A little bit of this, a little Judas Iscariot, and we're done! There you go, Ms. 26B. Doesn't Barry know his breasts?"
"I thought you said your name was Roger."
"Next!" Another customer shoved her out of the way to do business. Infuriated, yet having accomplished her task, she stormed out.
The teller next to Roger, a black woman in her mid-twenties, scowled at him. "You know," she said, "the boss is gonna catch onto you one of these days. And I've already sent out the invitations for when the day comes!" He chuckled at her, giving her body a quick glance over. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the window, where a pregnant and frazzled Godzilla was standing on the other side of the plexiglass, signing the back of a check. She smiled at him. "Hey you, getting close to the date!"
"Yes," Godzilla replied, slipping the check under the teller's window, "it is to be soon."
"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" She took the check and began typing on the computer.
He sighed. "Girl."
"Hey, don't worry. Before you know it, you'll be holding your first child in your arms, and trust me, you'll feel wonderful about it."
"When the pain subsides, maybe."
"You'll get through the pain. We all do."
A tear rolled down Godzilla's face. "They have to butterfly-cut my penis to get the baby out."