#crooked banks

[strangelittlesammy]

Stupid fucking Tangerine. :(

They are a horrible bank. Absolutely. I am going to get Hermione to go with me and get a bank account at a reputable bank. Never mind Tangerine's horse shit. :( They froze my account so I need to wait til Monday now to get it back. You have no bloody clue how annoyed I am at this!! I could really curse them. I am fucking Wiccan you know! But I will let their bad business ethics curse themselves.

I am listening to Ghost and thinking of playing the Sims 4... not the single father file, that I should've saved for the Sims 2... but a sim after my own heart, and you shall see that sooner or later.

Um... so what's new??

[exorbitant-interest]

Are you taking or putting back?

[bet-on-me-13]

Bank Security Guard Danny AU

So, the People of Gotham are extremely desensitized to Rouge Attacks at this point. It got to the point that whenever a person gets a job at the Bank, they have a whole 1 Hour Training Video on how to deal with a Rouge Attack right.

So, when they hire a New Security Guard from a lesser known Security Company, they don't even bother showing him the Training Video. They assume that he'll either Die or Drop them within a Week.

Danny, for the record, did not know how bad the Rouge problem truly was. All he knew was that some random guy in a Ski Mask had just walked into the bank like he owned the place and started showing off a Gun telling everybody to get on the ground.

Danny did the sensible thing and Knocked him the Fuck Out.

Then, the same thing happened the very next day, but this time it was an entire group of people. Danny had them dealt with before the first person had gotten to the floor.

Then the same thing happened the Same Day!

By the end of the week he had become a Legend among the Citizens of Gotham. There was only a single Bank in all of Gotham that had avoided being robbed for a Whole Week, and it was all because of this one Security Guard who was freakishly good at his Job.

By the end of the Month, most criminals don't even bother trying that Bank anymore. It got worse when he got loaned out as Security for another Bank, and the same thing happened again.

Eventually, he ends up rotating shifts in Every Bank in Gotham, and it becomes a Game for the Criminals to see if the Bank they try to Rob is the one Danny is in that night. And they can't even reasonably predict his next location, since he always moves around at Random!

No matter what Bank he is in, he always manages to beat the Crooks trying to Rob the Bank.

Then it gets weird. Due to a scheduling Mix Up, Danny ends up being scheduled for 2 different Banks on the same day, each across the city from the other.

One Bank reports that Danny stopped a gang from Robbing them at 6:00 PM, which really confuses the other Bank because Danny did the same thing in their Bank at the same time. Security Footage proves it, Danny was somehow in 2 places at once.

They decide not to confront him about it, but they do test a theory. They intentionally hire him at multiple different Banks at the same time for a week. He shows up to work every time without fail.

By now they have basically confirmed that he must be a Meta, but they don't really care anyways. Now he can protect multiple Banks at once with his usual perfect Efficiency, and he'll be payed accordingly as well. The Banks get protected well, and he gets payed Extreme Overtime by the Banks, everybody wins!

Well...except for the Crime Bosses of Gotham.

Before this, it was a Game for them to try and beat Danny. They didn't really care since a single Uber Competent Security Guard was still perfectly fine for business, sure they would fail a Job once in a while if they ran into him, but he could only be in 1 place at a time. It wasn't a Huge Loss.

But now it was too much. They needed to take care of him.

Assassination Attempts didn't work. He was just as competent Off the job as he was On it, so they could never get to him.

They tried attacking his Bosses, but then they hired themselves to protect...themselves. It was hard to kill his Bosses when he was constantly Bodyguarding all of them at once.

Attempts to get to him through his Family were...let's not talk about that...

It continued on like this for a while.

...

Soooo...I don't know how to end this one.

Go ahead and put your own spin on this Prompt! The basic idea is that Danny is using his Duplication Power to get to every shift on Time, and he is really annoying the Local Crime Bosses.

What do you think?

[infernothechaosgod]

Its off hours they get to chill

(Also yeah pete is suppoust to be without his peg leg here, he just has a shrinker on👍)

[tomorrowusa]

December hasn't started off well for dodgy billionaires.

In Vietnam, billionaire crook Trương Mỹ Lan had a previous death sentence upheld for a massive bank fraud scheme. And First Bro Elon Musk learned that he is not entitled to a pay package now worth $101 billion.

[vanityangel]

SOLO SIKOA WWE MONEY IN THE BANK (JULY 6, 2024)

[quotelr]

When something is dirty you wash it. That's what my mum always said.Yet...When you have dirty money and you launder it, people jump up and down.I guess that's life.

Anthony T. Hincks

[hatikarat]

Reminded about rachael corrie. Apparently her story is going viral because of some purported pancake day in her name. Not an actual holiday in israel but as far as i can tell, a cruel joke in 2013 by some settler militants and/or IDF soldiers. Imagine, even a white woman from the US gets linked with "palestinian militants" because she sympathized with palestinians. In 2003, she was called so many names, chief among it is "stupid". There was a claim that she was encouraged by her palestinian friends to lie down in front of the bulldozer while these friends run away. The victim blaming narrative is always used when it comes to palestinian suffering or suffering adjacent to palestinians. In rachael's case, it's her fault for putting herself in front of a bulldozer. Palestinians gets bombed? Their fault for not running away on short notice. Palestinians are starving? Their fault for not voting out a government elected in 2006 even though there hasn't been an election since.

[ode777]

I’ve cracked the code, Outer Banks is just Six of Crows if the crows were all dumb

[simptasia]

sometimes i see somebody say an actor is ugly and i can't help but wonder if that person has ever been on a bus

[tudorgirl]

2023 character wrapped

tagged by the beautiful and sweet @userbettycooper to share my top 9 characters of this year! Sorry it took so long

JJ Maybanks (Outer Banks)

Alex Claremont-Diaz (Red white and royal blue)

Nina Zenik (Six of crows, Crooked Kingdom)

Signa Farrow (Belladonna series)

Death (Belladonna series)

Jesper Fahey (Six of crows, Crooked Kingdom)

Blythe Hawthorne (Belladonna series)

Nick Nelson (Heartstopper)

Kaz Brekker (Six of crows, Crooked Kingdom)

This was so fun but really hard lol

tagging: @ageofrebellion @carolinarosedragon @shiftyprincess @the-maidofmischief @mrs-steve-harrington @dr-lizortecho

[your-lovely-ghost]

today was a good day. I ate 13 berrys off a tree at the bank and got 2 free quarters in the fountain! Met the prettiest bank teller in my entire life and barely contained my homosexuality. I told mom I’m a furry in the parking lot

[orteil42]

we are in dire need of some new media trend. we've done pirates, we've done cowboys; we've gone through two whole zombie revivals. aliens and space themes have basically been a constant since at least the 1950s, as have robots and evil AIs. we went pretty heavy on vampires for a while. we've also done dinosaurs, ninjas, musicals, wizards, sea creatures, ancient rome, ancient egypt, middle ages out the wazoo, entirely too much world war II, we're currently overdosing on our superhero phase, we've done monsters (misunderstood), monsters (radioactive), fake guy in the real world, real guy travels to fake world, caves & mining, vikings, what if you were really small, genre parody as a genre, sand, New York, time travel, something racist goes down in the jungle, neurodivergent detective, buddy cops, crooked cops, gangsters, bank heists in particular, kid has powers, revolt against the corporate world, portals, social insects, dragons, the British, global apocalypse, martial arts, roadtrip as self-discovery, Jesus, clones, clowns, babysitting goes wrong, demonic possession, ghosts of all kinds, talking animals, fucking with the stock market, restaurant ownership, dwarves, planes, and spies. where do we go from here. what's our next big thing

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 1 | masterlist

-

“I’m not looking for a babysitter that can only come by every now and then,” he says sternly and pauses for emphasis, brows furrowing to convey the seriousness of the situation. “I’ve got a busy schedule and his mom isn’t in the picture. I need a real commitment.”

You sit across from him wringing your hands under the kitchen table, wondering again what it is you’re doing here. Babysitting has never been your schtick; you’re somewhere in between too old to do it as a casual gig for extra cash and too young and inexperienced to be considered for a full-time position. 

Yet, it seems like that’s what he’s looking for, based on the information he’s told you and your general impression from having been in his house for less than twenty minutes. The house is a mess—toys strewn across the baby’s bedroom and the living room, dishes crusted with day old food sitting in the sink, the bookshelf in his study covered in a fine layer of dust that tells you that this man spends so little time in his own house that it’s become something of a requiem to single fatherhood. 

“So, a nanny?” you ask.

He hems and haws over that for a bit. “Bit too fancy for my tastes, but that’s more like it. It won’t just be watching the baby—I need someone who can help out around the house as well. ‘Used to run a tight ship before him, but cleaning’s not been my highest priority these days. Sure you’ve picked up on that.” He says the last part wryly, lips curling up into a crooked grin under his mustache. 

“Well…” You trail off while glancing at the mess in the living room out of the corner of your eye, toys and blocks scattered over the playmat. Your own smile is sheepish. 

“I work odd hours, so I’ll be gone a lot; you’ll probably have a few late nights here, but I pay well. Think that’s something you can handle?”

A polite refusal sits on the tip of your tongue until you swallow it back, suddenly conscious again of the dwindling funds in your bank account. It’s not that you don’t think you could handle the job. You’ve babysat before (only preteens, you correct yourself internally, but surely there are some transferable skills there). And, eclipsing all of your arguments in favour of walking out the door right now, is the very salient and pressing need for an actual income. 

“You’re military, you said?” you croak out instead.

He nods, hums. “Bit of a glorified desk job these days. They don’t put the old timers out in the field. Still, keeps me busy.”

You frown at that. “You’re not that old.”

That gets him to cock an eyebrow. “Love, I’m over twice your age, easy. I’m plenty old for a first time father on top of that; should’ve already been an old hand at this, but I’ve been married to the job for too long.”

You don’t ask if the baby was an accident or how it came to be that he chose to raise the baby on his own rather than try to work something out with the mother or give him up altogether. It seems uncouth. Rude. It’s none of your business and, more to the point, hardly relevant to the job. It’s just your own insatiable need to pry and know every little detail raising its head to sniff the air. 

“Well, I think—” You chew on your words and then backtrack. “—I can handle the job. I live nearby, so I can be here whenever you need me. If you need references, I can—”

“No need,” he cuts you off, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m a good judge of character. If you wanna help put the baby to bed, we can talk salary and I’ll go over my schedule this week with you.”

The chair scrapes against the tile floor when he stands up, pushing it out from under him. Standing, he towers over you, a big, fit man despite his protests to the contrary. Hardly out of his prime. You’d put him at forty-five at the latest, and still a work horse of a man at that; broad like a draft horse, like he flips tires and runs marathons for fun. When you push out your chair and stand as well, you’re still forced to look up at him. 

“Sure can, Mister…—?” You realize with a slight start that you only remember his first name, though it hardly feels appropriate to call him by that given the fact that he’s about to become your boss. Already is your boss. 

“Price. But John works just fine,” he corrects, his smile warm, almost paternalistic. 

You ignore the flash of heat up your spine and the way your belly constricts when he reaches across the table to shake your hand. His big, calloused palm dwarfs yours, fingers easily overlapping. You might as well be shaking a mitt. 

“Well, thanks for the job, John,” you say with a smile of your own, ignoring the way yours strains at the end, anxiety already gnawing a hole through the lining of your stomach that your stomach acid will now most certainly leak through. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

His words seem like a bellwether for something that you can’t yet articulate or even anticipate. Regardless, they make you swallow reflexively when you start salivating out of nowhere. You should probably quit on the spot actually, just out of principle alone, but again you remember the gut-churning sensation of checking your bank balance in the middle of the grocery store the other day before putting half of the contents of your cart back onto the shelf beside you. 

You follow him into the playroom instead, where a fuzzy headed infant gasps up at his daddy, blinking big lovestruck eyes up at him. Your own heart feels like a melted caramel in your chest when John picks his son up, eyes crinkling with affection. The baby is so tiny in his arms.

Any thought of being a good person evaporates from your mind. As if you ever had a chance. 

You don’t know how he found you. Through a friend of a friend of a friend’s dad’s coworker, maybe. Word of mouth. Watercooler conversation and a heaping cup of gossip.

“Did you hear the Captain’s looking for a babysitter?”

“For what? To bang?”

“No, dipshit. He knocked some broad up and she left him with the baby.”

“No kidding. The Captain?”

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say that?”

“Price, you mean? Captain Price?”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf? Yeah—Price.”

“Christ. Godspeed to him. A baby. Goddamn.”

“Give it a rest, it happens all the time. That’s why you always wrap it up. Anyway, you know of anyone that’d be up for it?”

And then somehow, your name gets mentioned. Much to your relief. Job opportunities don’t knock on your door all that often, and when John finally gets around to telling you your hourly rate, you almost burst into hysterical giggles in front of him. It’s more than you expected. More than you deserve, if you’re being honest. You’re retroactively grateful that he didn’t ask you to name your rate because you wouldn’t have dared propose something anywhere close to what he offers.

It’s a straightforward gig. John doesn’t work the typical nine-to-five, so you show up at the times he made you write down on that first day in his living room after your interview and you leave whenever he comes home. The first week is fairly true to the schedule he laid out for you. He’s only late by around half an hour one evening, but that was another condition that he made you well aware of prior to giving you the job. 

You know better than to put up a fuss. You’re already learning on the job as it is; with your anxiety at a ten at all times, you appreciate the extra half hour to keep googling baby-specific information. What to do during tummy time. The benefits of baby massage. How to change a diaper. You’re learning all sorts of things these days.

To your credit, he could’ve done worse. The day after John hires you, you sign up for an intensive babysitting course over the weekend and read the online manual front to back. Your CPR certificate is still valid, but you book a refresher course as well just to be on the safe side. It’s a bit unbearable to watch the funds drain out of your account before you’ve even had a chance to earn your first paycheck, but it’s worth it for the burgeoning confidence that you bring on your first day.

Babies are fun to be around, you realize, much to your own delight. Babysitting—or rather, nannying, but John still introduces you to the neighbours as his babysitter, plus nannying requires a host of additional accreditations that you simply just do not have—might not have been a job that you ever expected yourself to like, but you find yourself kind of morose at the end of each day when you have to say goodbye to baby, and even going so far as to turn in early when you get home so you’ll be ready bright and early the next morning.

Babies also smell better than anything you’ve ever smelt in your life. You could huff the top of this little guy’s head morning, noon, and night. Milky and clean; it barely takes a few days to become addicted to the smell of his little head. When he’s cradled in your arms, you can’t help but press your nose to the top of his head and take a deep inhale, eyes fluttering shut. It’s some good shit. 

You keep a journal filled with notes to relay to John when he comes home at the end of the night and keep your phone close to you during babytime to film any important moments that John might’ve otherwise missed. 

“He started babbling today,” you tell John the second he walks through the door, the video already pulled up on your phone. You haven’t felt this excited in ages. “Look.” 

He’s still in his fatigues and everything, but he humours you and takes the baby when you pass him over, cooing and tickling his belly until the baby squeals and babbles again for him. 

“See?” you gush, mooning over him. You don’t have the presence of mind to be self-conscious in the moment. 

“Yeah,” John remarks, lifting his son up to blow a raspberry into his belly and grinning at his ensuing peals of laughter. “Ain’t that something.”

If the smile in his voice has anything to do with you, you don’t pick up on it.

On top of everything, John turns out to be a really good boss. Despite his gruff, intimidating exterior, he’s remarkably kind and patient with you. He doesn’t nag you for missing a spot when cleaning the bathroom. He doesn’t scold you the day your car breaks down and you’re forced to take the nearest bus to his place, tacking on an extra twenty minutes to your commute, even though that means that he’s invariably late for work. When you accidentally use scouring powder on the inside of his Le Creuset Dutch oven and scratch off the enamel, he gently talks you out of a sobbing fit, seemingly unbothered by the state of his scratched up crockery.

He shrugs when you bring it up. “It’s got a lifetime warranty anyway. I’ll bring it into the shop over the weekend. No use getting upset about it.”

Unflappable. That’s the word for it. It’s like as long as he’s able to come home to the baby and you in one piece, nothing else matters, and that sense of calm permeates the whole house; for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you have to walk on eggshells around someone. 

Your only qualm—and it’s hardly even a qualm, to be honest, more of just an observation—is that John is more of a physical person than you are. 

When he wants to move you, he does—two big hands clamped around your waist and only a fraction of his strength to move you away from the stove so he can take over cooking while you check on the baby, your mouth hanging open, aghast. Fuming at his nerve. The gall of him to manhandle you. 

You don’t hold it against him though. You haven’t spent much time around groups of men, but you’ve seen military movies before and it seems like the status quo for men to grab and push each other around. If anything, he’s gentle with you. 

It’s just that—and again, John’s the first adult man you’ve spent any one-on-one time with, what with it just being the two of you and the baby in his house, so your frame of reference is microscopic—you’re not completely sure whether it’s appropriate for your boss to be so touchy. 

You don’t mean to insinuate that he’s being inappropriate. It’s just that—and again you have to catch yourself before you go making assertions about people because John is honestly such a nice man and he’s done nothing but treat you fairly and made you feel safe and welcome, but…—sometimes he insists on you staying over for dinner after he comes home from work and doesn’t take no for an answer.

You’re never in any rush to leave. There’s not exactly anything waiting for you in your dingy little apartment. So when he asks you to stay, you have no good reason to refuse. It’s nice to get a free meal as well. With the way John gives you unfettered access to the fridge and pantry, you hardly need to buy groceries at all these days. You feel a little guilty about that, but you know what it’s like to go hungry.

Maybe that’s why you stay for supper the first time he asks a couple weeks into you working for him. You’re subconsciously mortified that you’ll eat his food when he’s not gone but not when he offers it to you.

At least dinner feels like something you’ve been given rather than just taking, taking, taking. 

Not to mention you’ve developed something of a rapport. There’s always something to talk about with John: the baby, his work, a show you watched on TV after putting the baby down for a nap, the new big Tesco four blocks from your place, his late teens before joining the military (“back when you weren’t even a thought in your mum’s head,” he jokes, cutting into his steak and something in your brain pops and fritzes out like the static between radio stations). 

The first few suppers are sporadic and never long enough to make you feel like you’ve overstayed your welcome. In all honesty, they’re the few bright spots in an otherwise dull life. Outside of your job and the infrequent dinners, you’re estranged from your family and you’ve only got a few close friends in town that you see maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. Some Friday nights, the yoga studio near your flat has a five pound community class that you pop in for, but those are infrequent too. 

Then there’s the odd night where he shoos you into the living room to put on a movie while he cleans up after dinner. You stare absentmindedly at his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves and then jump when you find him staring at you expectantly over his shoulder.

“Go put something on,” John tells you, a warning look in his eye. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry,” you whisper before slipping off into the living room.

You can’t relax on the couch while you wait. You flinch when he finally joins you, sitting down on the other side of the couch suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming; he’s light on his feet for such a big man. 

The buddy cop comedy you picked barely distracts you from the fact that your boss is sitting on the other side of the couch. You spend the whole two hour run time so nervous that you’re afraid you’ll buzz right out of your skin. 

For absolutely no reason, of course, because all John does is make light conversation with you throughout the movie. Conversation that you respond to in curt, choked whispers. When he walks you to the door after the movie, all you can focus on is how utterly embarrassed you are for being so weird.

Your dreams that night come frantic and heady. Humid under the blanket. The phantom feeling of a body heavier than yours weighing down one side of the couch and you sliding towards it gradually, unable to even cling onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling into his lap. 

Then hands on your belly, cupping and holding. Thick fingers with hairy knuckles. A warm, tobacco smell wafting under your nose, sweet like tonka bean and smoke. Nothing you can do to keep them from travelling down your stomach and thighs and spreading your legs wide, big hands curving around your inner thighs until—

You wake up panting, fingers pressed against your clit in your sleep. It takes nothing to bring yourself over the edge, dark blue eyes swimming on the precipice of your conscious mind. 

“Sleep well?” John asks you the next morning when you show up on his doorstep, handing you the baby before you’ve even said so much as a word. You hold the baby to your chest like a makeshift shield. Anything to put some distance between you and the man who has now taken to starring in your dreams. 

“Not bad,” you squeak. 

You flinch when he guides you in with a hand on your back and shuts the door behind you. Your cunt pulses when his fingers press firm against the small of your back, hand bigger than you remembered from your dream.

As if you were ever going to end up anywhere but here.

[natalieironside]

So I used to be a pizza deliver driver, and that was pretty great for me; it made me feel like a video game character doing Quests. And when you started your shift as a driver, you got a wad of 15 singles for making change which was deducted from your tips at the end of the night. And this was back in the very early 20teens so $15 American just so happened to also be the price of half a tank of gas and a pack of Marlboro reds, so it was often also a sort of interest-free loan.

Now, a trope in pornography which was once so common that I myself have never actually seen a genuine portrayal of it but only seen it parodied runs thusly: A brave hero is delivering a pizza to some beautiful person who, upon receipt of the pizza, says, "Unfortunately I don't have any money; could I perhaps cover the cost of the pizza with sexual favors?" And always the hero agrees to this Faustian bargain which I'm sure must seem quite reasonable to you uninitiated civilians.

But, see, I'm making minimum wage. I have no savings. And I already spent my bank on half a tank of gas and a pack of Marlboro reds. So I'm $15 in the hole, and do you know what happens when you don't cash out at the end of the night? The manager calls the cops, and the cops come to your house. Mr. Domino is gonna get his $15 back by hook or by crook. I seen it happen. So if I accept the beautiful person's modest proposal, I'm mortgaging future tips against the $15 *and* the price of the pizza--which can get up there, depending on the order--and if I don't fix those books by the end of my shift, that could get to be a real pain in my ass.

Just doesn't make sense, y'know, from like a business perspective. Maybe it'd be worth a gamble. Maybe if it was like a beautiful woman who was a service top and also a werewolf, maybe you roll the dice and hope for the hard 6. But you gotta be risk-aware, is all I'm sayin.

[genieroze]

(via "Bend Over America" Graphic T-Shirt for Sale by genieroze)

Creating a tee with the impactful message "Bankster Bailout Bend Over America" in text art resembling the American flag will catch attention. To enhance the symbolism, an illustration of an eagle's head will reinforce the idea of vigilance and freedom. Behind the text, a depiction of the Statue of Liberty bent over with an American flag overlay will emphasize the sentiment of banks taking advantage, drawing a visual parallel to the notion of manipulation. This tee aims to spark conversations about economic integrity and government accountability.