If Dhakota had a meth baggie for every fuck-brained scheme she came up with, she wouldn’t need to commit armed robberies. However, the rock isn’t going to shoot up itself, so she decides to roll a couple of restaurants that probably aren’t cashed up as it is a fucking Monday afternoon. Not one to let logic get in her way, she grabs her lucky knife and jumps in a vehicle registered in her own name. Move over Oceans 11, there is a new mastermind in town.
She hoons to her first target and charges in fiercer than Lisa Scafiddi
at BHP’s secret santa swap. She serenades the petrified staff with the
song of the scumbag, “empty the farkin till ya doggg cuntttts”. She
waves her trusty knife around like it was Hey Dad’s dick during a tour
of the Neverland ranch. She fumbles the cash into her Everlast hoody and
bolts out the door.
The minimal amount of cash she stole from the first restaurant has her afternoon looking disappointingly shardless. So, she forms the genius idea to drive to Leederville and replicate her tried and tested crime model. She careens down Oxford Street and picks her next target: an Italian eatery. Clearly, Dhakota is a few packets of Sudafed short of a cook-up and figures a restaurant brimming with staff and customers will be easy pickings.
“Give us all the fucking money of ill stick yas all ya mutts!” She should’ve spent less time being a desperate crackhead and more time surveying her area, as she is about to feel the heavy body slam of justice. In a scene resembling The Bourne Cuntpremacy, a number of brave staff tackle, disarm and pin her to the ground. The poor souls struggle with her meth-breath and B.O as she performs a verbally obtuse Opera of deadshit threats and frothing obscenities.
When unconvincing threats don't work, Dhakota tries the oldest trick in the book. She throws out an open offer of a gobby that would make Kalamunda Wet & Wild seem as dry as overcooked chicken. It is a tempting offer: allow an armed robber back on the streets and contract a beautiful rainbow of STDs and assorted goodies that come with intravenous fuckery. Accordingly, her offer is declined and she is hauled away by the boys in blue.
Dhakota has a serious case of the Mondays: impending prison time, national embarrassment and worst of all, she's almost definitely going to cop a parking fine! Ouch.
Fuel to Leederville: $7, lucky knife: $12.50, realising you’re too dumb to rob a restaurant: priceless.
The minimal amount of cash she stole from the first restaurant has her afternoon looking disappointingly shardless. So, she forms the genius idea to drive to Leederville and replicate her tried and tested crime model. She careens down Oxford Street and picks her next target: an Italian eatery. Clearly, Dhakota is a few packets of Sudafed short of a cook-up and figures a restaurant brimming with staff and customers will be easy pickings.
“Give us all the fucking money of ill stick yas all ya mutts!” She should’ve spent less time being a desperate crackhead and more time surveying her area, as she is about to feel the heavy body slam of justice. In a scene resembling The Bourne Cuntpremacy, a number of brave staff tackle, disarm and pin her to the ground. The poor souls struggle with her meth-breath and B.O as she performs a verbally obtuse Opera of deadshit threats and frothing obscenities.
When unconvincing threats don't work, Dhakota tries the oldest trick in the book. She throws out an open offer of a gobby that would make Kalamunda Wet & Wild seem as dry as overcooked chicken. It is a tempting offer: allow an armed robber back on the streets and contract a beautiful rainbow of STDs and assorted goodies that come with intravenous fuckery. Accordingly, her offer is declined and she is hauled away by the boys in blue.
Dhakota has a serious case of the Mondays: impending prison time, national embarrassment and worst of all, she's almost definitely going to cop a parking fine! Ouch.
Fuel to Leederville: $7, lucky knife: $12.50, realising you’re too dumb to rob a restaurant: priceless.
