You must grow up sometime sadly. At age 22 you put down the beers long enough to work forty hours a week as the manager of the west branch of your father's bank. Other then fucking three of the hottest chicks who work here, you hate your job. Then one day two armed robbers get in. Your security guard goes for his gun and bullets fly. You are caught between the eyes in the cross fire. You go down like a rubber biscuit.