The crapocalypse, Alex Turner Cohen

The Crapocalypse

When Alex Turner-Cohenthinks of one object that sums up the bizarre year of 2020, she thinks of toilet paper. So she wrote a little something to make sure we never forget this shameful chapter in Aussie history.

“HANDS UP, MOTHERFUCKERS!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. A manic grin spread across my face as I realised -

I was reliving my favourite Hollywood movie.

Around the bank, people were frozen in fear. I loaded my shotgun for dramatic effect and heard the satisfying click. “I said, hands up motherfuckers!” This time they complied. Everyone did the maths quickly in their heads and realised a show of heroics wasn’t worth a bullet in the brain. “Right, we’ve got five minutes until the cops are all over us,”

Johnny beside me whispered. “Silent alarm’s definitely been triggered.” Johnny prowled the floor space, checking customers and bank clerks were staying with their hands in the air, bums on the ground. It was like a game of “heads down, thumbs up” as a kid, I mused. While Johnny guarded them, it was up to me to get what we came here for. I swaggered towards the customer service desk.

Most of the bank tellers were cowering and someone was actually sobbing, but a petite woman was the one that stood out to me.

Perfectly at ease, she was dressed differently to the others, not in uniform. She was the manager, had to be. Which meant she had all the access codes. “We have $50,000 on hand,” the woman told me calmly as I approached.

Her nametag read Karen. Yes, she definitely seemed like a Karen.

She had a black bobbed haircut. It would have looked bad on most people but somehow she pulled it off. She was unnervingly calm. It was off-putting. I supposed that ever since the pandemic, people were resorting to increasingly extreme measures — like robbing banks — to make ends meet. She was getting used to seeing the ugly side of human nature. Well, I was here for a slightly different reason. “We’ve got another $70,000 in cash out the back,” she went on. “If you just give me a minute, I can get it open for you.” “No thanks, sweetheart,” I replied cheerily. “You can keep your cash. I’m here for a specialist item.” I leaned in closer. “We want your toilet paper stash, luv.”

Pictures: Lisseth Portillo

Karen looked agog. “How did you…?” The lads and I had caught wind of an elaborate scheme by high-up bankers — to hoard toilet paper as panic buying peeked. They planned to sell them on at extortionate prices to a desperate public. This was the bank branch they used to store the valuable goods. But she made no move to open the

vault.

“Are you deaf, lady? Give us your three-ply.” “Three minutes to go,” Johnny shouted to me helpfully. I cocked the gun and held it to Karen’s head. “I want your TP!” My voice still had a manic tremor to it. She looked up at me. “No.” “Excuse me?” “You can’t have it. It’s too valuable.” “More valuable than your life?” “Maybe.” Now, I was pleased to hear, her voice shook. But I was shaking too. With trembling hands, I pushed the barrel of the gun so hard into her temple that it left a mark. My head was sweating through the wool of the balaclava. “Open the vault now. Or else.” She made no move to obey. Was she really willing to sacrifice her life over something as simple as ass wipes? I held the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. It would be so easy just to squeeze a little harder. I licked my lips nervously. I’d never killed anyone before.

How much is a human life worth? I wondered. Is it worth the same as a few dozen packs of toilet paper?

As the police sirens drew closer, it was a question we were both asking ourselves.