Rick Sals has his red hair slightly tussled, today, but just enough to make it look like he did it on purpose. His tufts of eyebrows are sculpted above his eyes, giving him this gruff softness and usually make his emerald green eyes shine. He left some stubble dusting the bottom half of his face that often gives the shape of it this playful look that he often cannot live up to. He has on a suit and tie today, but when he’s out, it’s just a T-Shirt and jeans. He usually has on a V-neck that often hints at the red chest hair he has which gives him this touch of spice. A little bit of fire.

Today is very important for him. It’s the grand opening of this bank, this bank that’s directly across the street from where Hope Bank used to be. It got closed down about a year ago. It was known as the people’s bank. The most transparent one in place many of the town’s people said. And now, Westingfield Bank has opened. And not a lot of people like Westingfield.

It’s gotten quite the reputation what with the unfair working conditions overseas. Those branches were closed down and now it’s pretty much all American. As an attempt at good faith. Today mark’s the first US branch to open.

Rick is standing in front of the reporters from the local news that have come to record the event. With everyone dressed in their best attire. That was the memo. The very same memo Rick followed as well. He found it an honor when his boss told him he’d like Rick to be the face of the opening.

“Mr. Sals, any word on any more banks opening?” one of the reporters ask.

As the cameras go clicking off, causing flashes to blink in and out, he nods his head, smiles, and says, “We anticipate all to go well. This is the beginning of a new era for Westingfield. We have now taken the helm of being transparent.”
“How does your employer expect to gain the people’s trust again?” another reporter asks.

“We’re aware our brand hasn’t been tied to very savory activities in the past, but that is why we shut down those places of business and are opening anew. More trust, more faith, more value.”

“What about all of those people in the third-world nations that are out of a job, now? How are they going to get their livelihood back?”

“We actually enacted a severance package. Once we caught the news of what our cohorts were doing, we were, of course, appalled, and upon shutting down those branches, we invested into the very communities our partners, that are no longer with us, mind you, put those people through. We believe that everyone deserves a chance to a fresh start.”

He smiles again as he nods to the cameras.

“Really?” he hears a deep male voice say, booming in the background.

This is followed by some actual screams and some people running. Many of the reporters turn their cameras around and as the blinding white from the from the eruption of camera flashes subsides, Rick sees what everyone is looking at.

Men. Smiley-face masked men with guns. Five of them. All in front of the bank. Rick’s heart sinks as his eyes go wide. His blood flushes cold as the color in his skin drains. This isn’t good.

“Your bosses, the people that have paid you to be here today, they paid you to say that, too, Mr. Sals?”

The reporters back away as many of the people are looking onward, frozen in fear.

“We’re not here to hurt anyone,” one of the other gunmen say.

“We’re not here for your money! We’re just here to make a point!” another one of the gunmen say.

“And we need everyone’s cooperation. Including Mr. Sals, here. The reporters keep reporting. Keep the cameras going. We’re more concerned about how this event goes than what happens to us.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that.

The main gunman walks up to Rick. He’s dressed all in black and his smiley-face mask is bright yellow like the sun. It’s strapped from the back of his head and completely covers his face. He’s built like a linebacker. He points the gun to Rick.

Rick’s heart jumps. He reacts by putting his hands up.

“You can keep your hands to your sides.”

Rick does as he’s told

“I have some yes or no questions for you, Mrs. Sals. I already know the answer, so answer wrong, and well, things could get very messy for you”

Rick really doesn’t like the sound of that, either.

“First one is simple enough. You got a bonus for being here today. True?”

Rick nods his head.

“Good. Next question, were you made aware that not all the branches in those third-world nations were actually closed?”

The answer to that question is yes. He could be honest. But that could mean his job. If he’s not, it could mean his life. He takes a gamble and his nerves nearly jump out of his skin when he says, “Um, n-no, sir.”

Silence. The gunmen looks at him. Rick doesn’t close his eyes, he just keeps looking forward . He does whatever he can to not make himself look guilty. No darting eyes or sweats or anything of the like.

“Really? Okay, well, did you also know that that some of the very people here were not only hired from Hope bank, but are getting paid far less? That they were pretty much told they had to deal with less than a living wage while you, Mrs. Sals, you are getting paid at least 90% more than anyone here?”

There’s no way he’s going to say yes to that.

“No, no, I didn’t,” Mr. Sals said, shaking his head. If the gunman makes threats, he’ll just start saying yes and later, say he was forced to under duress.

Again, silence. The gunman tilts his head. As he moves the gun in just a little close, he says, “You are . . . lying.”

Rick doesn’t say anything. He just tries to stay calm but is shaking. There’s some sweat coming down from his red hair.

“And, there’s a price to pay for that, Mr. Sals.”

“All right, yes, I knew!” Rick just blurts out. He’ll be able to explain this away. It’ll be fine.

The gunman tilts his head again, and chuckles. He can’t see past these masks, but if he didn’t know any better, he’s thinking that some of these masked men are smirking at him.

“You’re a fucking coward, Mrs. Sals. And today, we’re going to teach you a little lesson in what it’s like being stripped of some of your power.” The gunman shakes his head. “Kick over your shoes and socks please. Now.”

Rick quickly removes his shoes. Fumbling with the laces, but eventually gets them untied. He almost rips them off his feet, then his socks and tosses them.

“Good. Now, you see this gun in my hand, Mr. Sals?”

Rick quickly nods his head.

“Look at it.”

He narrows his eyes and looks down the barrel of it. How the gunman holds it with such precision and ease. Completely still. As if it’s a predator stalking its prey.

“What do you think would happen to your head if I pull this trigger?” the gunman asks.

“Um, well…”

“HUH!?”

“It would pr-probably explode,” he answers, looking around him and to the reporters that are still filming this.

“It would leave a pretty bad hole wouldn’t it?”

Rick nods his head.

“Wouldn’t . . . .it?”

“Ye-yes. Yes, it would.”

“Good. Keep that in mind. I want you to picture exactly what would happen if the bullet in this chamber goes off and goes right through that head of yours. Your blood, brains, pieces of your scalp and even skull embedded into the carpet. How horrible that would be on live TV. Are you picturing it?”

“Yes, yes, sir.”

“Good,” the gunman says, calmly.

Rick’s heart is clawing out of his chest. Rattling against his rib cage as if it’s an Attica prisoner running a metal coffee cup back and forth against the bones like bars. He’s still shaking. Of course, he’s shaking. His breathing is catapulted out of his mouth. Flaring through his nostrils. The sweat now dripping from his red eyebrows. Falling down his softly chiseled face. His suit clinging to his tightly defined physique as his skin pounds underneath the throbbing fear pulsating in his nerves.

“Because, Mr. Sals,” the gunman stops as Rick can practically smell the metal of the chamber, “I’m not going to kill you. That’s not what here to do, today. But make no mistake, there are a thousand ways to hurt you with this and even permanently injure you and I need you to keep that in mind when I say I have the gun. My . . . cohorts . . . have guns. And we’re not afraid to use them. On you. So, you will do what I say. Got it?”

Rick nods his head.

“Good. Now, the company paid a lot for you to be here today. I mean, how much is that suit? Huh?”

“Um,” Rick wants to hold off on the answer.

“Remember, I need you to answer, honestly.”

“Six thousand dollars,” Rick says.

The gunman whistles as a way to say, Holy shit. “Must be a nice suit. You are literally dressed in the injustices of the very company you work for. You realize that, right?”

Rick nods his head, again.

“Good. So, know this. My partners have this place held pretty solid. Cops are coming, of course. But we’re gonna be here a while.”

The gunman laughs as if a light bulb went off above his head. He moves his head up and down as if he’s giving Rick this scanning look while moving the gun the same way.

Rick isn’t sure what he’s going to say. He just wants to get outta here.

“In fact, we’ll let you go.”

Rick’s heart lifts up out of his chest. He’s never felt so relieved.

“Just after you do something . . . for us. For the people. As a sign of comradely. As a symbol that you are aware that everything down to the attire you chose for today is thanks to the people that you and your company are oppressing”

“O-okay,” Rick says.

The gunman inhales before he speaks and tilts his head again. “Take off all your clothes.”

Rick can’t believe what he just heard. He shakes his head. “Um, wh-what?” He laughs a little nervously. He looks to the reporters with all of those cameras facing him. To the other bank employees looking onward. His heart starts beating faster.

“I will say this once more, and if you don’t comply, I’m going for the knee. Take . . . off . . . all .. . . of . . . your . . . clothing.”

Rick’s hands move up a little and then stops and then move up more to the buttons on his blazer. As his shaking hands can barely hold onto the buttons that slide through the fabric of his blazer, opening it up further. “What do you think this is going to prove?” he asks as he opens the blazer up and slides it off his arms.

While he takes off the first article of clothing, the gunman says, “Throw it over to any of my men.”

Rick tosses it through the air and one of the gunmen catches it.

“Anything to take one of you fuckers down is a good day.”

“This really worth going to jail for? A juvenile prank?” Rick asks as his still shaking hand starts untying his tie He loosens it, un-knots it, sliding it through each twist of fabric, making it looser around his neck until he can slide it through his collar and tosses it to the same gunman.

“Oh, Mr. Sals. This is just the beginning.”

The gunman says that knowingly. Although, he doesn’t know what this maniac is hinting at.

“No one told you to stop, Mr. Sals,” the gunman says, motioning to his shirt.

He unbuttons his sleeves, then pops the top button on his collar. It springs open to either end. And as he moves his hands down, undoing more buttons, his white T-shirt underneath is revealed, clinging against his slim build. The V-neck dips down, revealing some of that red chest hair peaking through. He untucks his shirt from his pants and undoes the last button. He then removes it as if he’s surrendering a white flag. The lean muscle is seen shaping the length of his arms extending from the short sleeves of his V-neck. He tosses this shirt to the same gunman.

He can’t believe he’s doing this. He hopes that this is it. Because standing around in his underwear is humiliating enough. He thinks of this as he unbuckles his belt. The clanging of it can be heard over the dead silence. He slides it out of the buckle and then pulls straight through the loops of his pants and Rick can feel the warmth of the friction caused by the belt moving against the fabric of his pants. The slight tugging of his waist and then the release as the belt drops out of the last loop. He tosses it to the same gunman.

He then pries open the button of his slacks, which slides through. He waits for a second before reaching for the head of his zipper. And as he pulls it down, he starts and stops a few times. All the while, that sound. The very sound of a zipper being undone. Air is now being breathed open into his underwear. Which are a pair of briefs that his undershirt is tucked into. He holds either side of his pants, now completely open. Rick shakes his head. “C’mon man.”

“If you don’t continue, Mr. Sals, I will blow out your knees. Do you know how painful that would be?”

Rick rolls his eyes as he slides his pants down. He bends down. Now completely showing his underwear and how it clings against his ass. Which is firm and rounded. When he gets back up and throws the pants to one of the gunmen, the shape of his briefs can be seen clinging perfectly to the shape of his rear end. Which shows how he dedicates himself to squats and all that jogging. Then there’s the front. Where is penis is clearly seen packaged in the front, bulging out.

Rick holds himself, trying to cover how the outline of his nipples are poking through.

The gunman motions his hands up, obviously referring to his undershirt.

Rick sighs. But then reaches into the bottom of his undershirt, curving his fingers into the fabric and pulls up. The red hair on his chest is evenly displayed. It’s not thick, but it’s just enough to give further definition.

He tosses the undershirt to the gunman and continues to hold himself, now standing in his underwear. The hair on his chest and stomach is a thin layer, but all moves in one direction. Angling downward as if it’s a field of red-tinted grass crop dusted over his chest. A thin stream of hair goes down his toned stomach and reaches into the top of his underwear.

“Now, Mr. Sals,” the gunman says, still pointing the gun at him, “I did say all. . . of your clothes.”

His eyes widen as his heart sinks. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. Reporters are still standing on both sides of him. Patrons and employees are still looking forward. He’s about to be completely naked in front of everyone.

“C’mon man.”

“Do you know how it feels to live life with one of your knees being permanently out of commission?” the gunman asks, pointing that gun at him. Still and confident.

Rick shakes his head.

“Would you like to?”

Rick cautiously lifts his hands up. He lays his fingers on the band of his underwear. He starts digging into the waistband, feeling his nails scratching against his skin. He slowly pulls down. Revealing the shape of his firm butt cheeks. His red pubic hair springs up and out of his underwear as he immediately covers himself. With one hand, he steps each leg out of his underwear and tosses it to the gunman, now holding all of his clothes.

Rick stands back up and holds his dick with both hands.

“Those clothes you just took off have a little something extra in them, you know that, right?”

Rick appears confused as he narrows his eyebrows in together.

“Drugs. At least, that’s what the police will find.”

Rick’s heart sinks again.

“Now, you’ll be able to go outside, just need you to do one more thing.”

Rick doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Each person working here, each and every living human being that was working and some that still are working in those national branches go out every day, degraded, and humiliating themselves for you and your company.”

Rick breathes in more deeply as he continues to look forward.

“Now, answer me this, Mr. Sals. A person that has profited from all of that, that has benefited from such extreme debasing of human rights and the humiliation of your fellow kind,” he points the gun down to his hands, “Do you think that kind of person should be given the right to cover himself?”

He widens eyes as they nearly pop out of his skull.

He moves the gun to either side, knowing what this person is indicating. He wants Rick to take his hands off of his dick and show it everyone. This fucking pervert.

“I will shoot your hands,” the gunman says.

Rick looks down and take one had off his dick. The shaft is peaking through his fingers. The shape of his testicles is showing through in the curves of his one remaining hand. The one thing left that is standing between him and complete and utter humiliation.

Then, closes his eyes hard as he lifts his other hand off his penis.

It’s uncircumcised and is quite hung. Swaying, freely now, from the patch of red pubic hair that merges with the trail of hair going up his stomach and then up his chest. All is shown now. His balls now moving slightly as they swing back and forth with the delicate pendulum-like movements of his dick.

“You’re free to go. Keep your hands off your penis or one of my men will still shoot you.”

He swallows hard as he walks past the gunman and the past the reporters and the other patrons and all those people outside. His dick swaying with the movement of his legs. How the back of his legs bounce, firmly, and then ripple into roundness of his ass cheeks. He walks outside the bank, showing everything to everyone.