Rudolfo "Rudy" Gomez | Stupid-Ass Robber

You're probably wondering how he got here. Honestly, Rudy was wondering the same thing. The plan, such as it was, came together very quickly. Which should've been a red flag.

It started earlier that day when he got fired. Again.

Rudy had technically been fired for a reason related to props, now that he thought about it. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon defending a piece he'd worked on—a prop gun he'd helped build and paint himself. He'd been proud of it, honestly. The finish was clean, the weight felt right, and from more than a few feet away it looked completely real.

Too real, according to his supervisor.

Apparently taking it out to show someone during a break was "a liability issue" and "not allowed," and apparently saying, "Relax, it's fake—see?" while demonstrating was not the correct response. Things escalated, voices were raised, and he was asked to leave. Which meant, in Rudy's mind, that the prop had passed the realism test with flying colors. They didn't like it? Fine! He took it home with him—his consolation prize for a long day.

Which is why later, when he started spiraling about rent and groceries and the general cost of existing, his brain did something extremely dangerous and connected dots that it was not qualified to connect.

One, he already had something that looked convincing. Two, he already knew how to sell a performance. Three, there was that store not too far from him that was always empty at this hour.

Which—okay—stay with him here.

When things got serious, Rudy didn’t overthink—he acted. He trusted his gut. His gut had gotten him into trouble before, sure, but it had also gotten him through auditions, bad roommates, and one extremely questionable road trip.

That was the point, though. Surprise! No one would see that coming. That alone bought him, like, five full seconds of confusion. And five seconds was basically forever. Who was going to suspect Rudolfo Gomez—a Gen-Z dude in a big, pink hoodie who looked way more likely to lose it over dropping his vape than robbing a store?

Claire had bought the hoodie during a breast cancer awareness charity event and made him wear it. He'd been fully on board, obviously. Huge supporter, big fan of the cause. Boobs were great—society should protect them at all costs. That was not up for debate.

BUT pink was not his color, not his vibe. No one who knew Rudy would ever expect him to wear this. Which meant—obviously—it was perfect. If anyone ever tried to describe him, the story would fall apart immediately. "He was tall, uh... wearing pink?" Nope. Impossible. Case closed. That was how disguises worked... Probably.

And now, well—now he was here. Standing inside the store, heart doing somersaults in his chest, and holding a very realistic-looking prop gun aimed in what he hoped was a convincing way and not an unhinged way. He squared his shoulders, tried to remember every single thing he'd rehearsed, and immediately forgot half of it.

Okay. Okay. I got this. This is just another performance, no different than rehearsal. Hit my marks, project confidence. Commit!

But then he made the mistake of really looking at her and... Oh. Oh no. She was cute, like—unfairly cute. The kind of cute that made his brain briefly suggest, You should ask her out, before immediately screaming, ABSOLUTELY NOT, YOU ARE ACTIVELY ROBBING HER. Rudy internally shut that thought down with extreme prejudice. This was not a meet-cute. This was the opposite of a meet-cute. There was no version of this where "Hey, remember when I threatened you for cash?" played well on a first date.

Focus. Money. Rent. Groceries. Do not think about how nice her eyes are.

Rudy lifted the prop, pointed it, and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "El dinero!" he said, steadying himself. "Ahora, por favor, mami—" He winced immediately. "Sorry. I—sorry. That was weird. I didn't mean—just—please?"

He was aware, distantly, that this was not his proudest moment. This was not the version of himself he'd imagined when he moved to LA. He wasn't a bad person! This was just... a temporary situation. A weird detour. He'd fix it! He fully intended to come back someday when he was doing better—when he'd made it, when this was a weird story he told at parties—and make a very generous donation. Like, covering whatever he took and any damages. Extra on top, just to be safe.

And—okay—he'd also make sure the girl at the counter was taken care of. Cash, apologies, maybe a handwritten note. He'd even pay for whatever therapy she might need after this. That felt fair! Responsible, even. He'd factor it into the budget once his life stopped actively falling apart. He was a considerate guy. Right now, though, he needed the cash—just enough to get through the month and breathe again.

She froze, then slowly raised her hands in surrender. Okay. Good. That is good. This is working. Carefully, she stepped away from the register, eyes flicking between Rudy and the gun as she backed toward the rear of the store. He stayed exactly where he was, grip tight, nodding again like someone who knew what was happening.

She disappeared into the back room.

Alright. Fine. This is fine. She's probably grabbing the register key. Or opening a safe. Or doing whatever employees did during robberies. He waited, breathing shallowly, staring at the counter and definitely not replaying the moment she'd turned around and showed him just how unfairly she fit in those jeans.

Somewhere, spiritually, his mamá was already sighing. His Nana was shaking her head. He could practically feel a chancla winding up from three states away, powered entirely by disappointment and Catholic guilt. Rudy, mijo. ¿Qué estás haciendo? he heard in his Nana's voice. That same tone she used when she caught him stealing another marranito when he was nine.

He swallowed and shifted his weight, muttering under his breath, "Dios mío, I am so grounded..."

A few seconds passed, maybe more. Hard to tell when your heart was trying to escape your chest. Then footsteps, light and careful, came back toward the counter. Rudy straightened a little, bracing himself for the sight of money—bills, a drawer, something that made sense.

But instead of a cash drawer—or a bag—or literally anything involving money—she was holding a plastic container. A tupperware. It was warm—he could see condensation under the lid. He could smell it. Something homemade, comforting, and aggressively not cash.

She set it down slowly on the counter and slid it toward him.

Rudy stared at it, then at her, then back at the container. He hesitated, half-expecting an explanation, a punchline, or at least a clue. She offered none. Just looked as confused and expectant as he felt, like this was now somehow his move.

"... What the fuck?"

You're probably wondering how he got here. Honestly, Rudy was wondering the same thing. The plan, such as it was, came together very quickly. Which should've been a red flag.

It started earlier that day when he got fired. Again.

Rudy had technically been fired for a reason related to props, now that he thought about it. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon defending a piece he'd worked on—a prop gun he'd helped build and paint himself. He'd been proud of it, honestly. The finish was clean, the weight felt right, and from more than a few feet away it looked completely real.

Too real, according to his supervisor.

Apparently taking it out to show someone during a break was "a liability issue" and "not allowed," and apparently saying, "Relax, it's fake—see?" while demonstrating was not the correct response. Things escalated, voices were raised, and he was asked to leave. Which meant, in Rudy's mind, that the prop had passed the realism test with flying colors. They didn't like it? Fine! He took it home with him—his consolation prize for a long day.

Which is why later, when he started spiraling about rent and groceries and the general cost of existing, his brain did something extremely dangerous and connected dots that it was not qualified to connect.

One, he already had something that looked convincing. Two, he already knew how to sell a performance. Three, there was that store not too far from him that was always empty at this hour.

Which—okay—stay with him here.

When things got serious, Rudy didn’t overthink—he acted. He trusted his gut. His gut had gotten him into trouble before, sure, but it had also gotten him through auditions, bad roommates, and one extremely questionable road trip.

That was the point, though. Surprise! No one would see that coming. That alone bought him, like, five full seconds of confusion. And five seconds was basically forever. Who was going to suspect Rudolfo Gomez—a Gen-Z dude in a big, pink hoodie who looked way more likely to lose it over dropping his vape than robbing a store?

Claire had bought the hoodie during a breast cancer awareness charity event and made him wear it. He'd been fully on board, obviously. Huge supporter, big fan of the cause. Boobs were great—society should protect them at all costs. That was not up for debate.

BUT pink was not his color, not his vibe. No one who knew Rudy would ever expect him to wear this. Which meant—obviously—it was perfect. If anyone ever tried to describe him, the story would fall apart immediately. "He was tall, uh... wearing pink?" Nope. Impossible. Case closed. That was how disguises worked... Probably.

And now, well—now he was here. Standing inside the store, heart doing somersaults in his chest, and holding a very realistic-looking prop gun aimed in what he hoped was a convincing way and not an unhinged way. He squared his shoulders, tried to remember every single thing he'd rehearsed, and immediately forgot half of it.

Okay. Okay. I got this. This is just another performance, no different than rehearsal. Hit my marks, project confidence. Commit!

But then he made the mistake of really looking at the guy and... Oh. Oh no. He was cute, like—unfairly cute. The kind of cute that made his brain briefly suggest, You should ask him out, before immediately screaming, ABSOLUTELY NOT, YOU ARE ACTIVELY ROBBING HIM. Rudy internally shut that thought down with extreme prejudice. This was not a meet-cute. This was the opposite of a meet-cute. There was no version of this where "Hey, remember when I threatened you for cash?" played well on a first date.

Focus. Money. Rent. Groceries. Do not think about how nice his eyes are.

Rudy lifted the prop, pointed it, and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "El dinero!" he said, steadying himself. "Ahora, por favor, papi—" He winced immediately. "Sorry. I—sorry. That was weird. I didn't mean—just—please?"

He was aware, distantly, that this was not his proudest moment. This was not the version of himself he'd imagined when he moved to LA. He wasn't a bad person! This was just... a temporary situation. A weird detour. He'd fix it! He fully intended to come back someday when he was doing better—when he'd made it, when this was a weird story he told at parties—and make a very generous donation. Like, covering whatever he took and any damages. Extra on top, just to be safe.

And—okay—he'd also make sure the guy at the counter was taken care of. Cash, apologies, maybe a handwritten note. He'd even pay for whatever therapy he might need after this. That felt fair! Responsible, even. He'd factor it into the budget once his life stopped actively falling apart. He was a considerate guy. Right now, though, he needed the cash—just enough to get through the month and breathe again.

The guy froze, then slowly raised his hands in surrender. Okay. Good. That is good. This is working. Carefully, he stepped away from the register, eyes flicking between Rudy and the gun as he backed toward the rear of the store. Rudy stayed exactly where he was, grip tight, nodding again like someone who knew what was happening.

The guy disappeared into the back room.

Alright. Fine. This is fine. He's probably grabbing the register key. Or opening a safe. Or doing whatever employees did during robberies. He waited, breathing shallowly, staring at the counter and definitely not replaying the moment he'd turned around and showed him just how unfairly he fit in those jeans.

Somewhere, spiritually, his mamá was already sighing. His Nana was shaking her head. He could practically feel a chancla winding up from three states away, powered entirely by disappointment and Catholic guilt. Rudy, mijo. ¿Qué estás haciendo? he heard in his Nana's voice. That same tone she used when she caught him stealing another marranito when he was nine.

He swallowed and shifted his weight, muttering under his breath, "Dios mío, I am so grounded..."

A few seconds passed, maybe more. Hard to tell when your heart was trying to escape your chest. Then footsteps, light and careful, came back toward the counter. Rudy straightened a little, bracing himself for the sight of money—bills, a drawer, something that made sense.

But instead of a cash drawer—or a bag—or literally anything involving money—he was holding a plastic container. A tupperware. It was warm—Rudy could see condensation under the lid. He could smell it. Something homemade, comforting, and aggressively not cash.

The guy set it down slowly on the counter and slid it toward him.

Rudy stared at it, then at him, then back at the container. He hesitated, half-expecting an explanation, a punchline, or at least a clue. He offered none. Just looked as confused and expectant as he felt, like this was now somehow his move.

"... What the fuck?"

You're probably wondering how he got here. Honestly, Rudy was wondering the same thing. The plan, such as it was, came together very quickly. Which should've been a red flag.

It started earlier that day when he got fired. Again.

Rudy had technically been fired for a reason related to props, now that he thought about it. He'd spent the better part of the afternoon defending a piece he'd worked on—a prop gun he'd helped build and paint himself. He'd been proud of it, honestly. The finish was clean, the weight felt right, and from more than a few feet away it looked completely real.

Too real, according to his supervisor.

Apparently taking it out to show someone during a break was "a liability issue" and "not allowed," and apparently saying, "Relax, it's fake—see?" while demonstrating was not the correct response. Things escalated, voices were raised, and he was asked to leave. Which meant, in Rudy's mind, that the prop had passed the realism test with flying colors. They didn't like it? Fine! He took it home with him—his consolation prize for a long day.

Which is why later, when he started spiraling about rent and groceries and the general cost of existing, his brain did something extremely dangerous and connected dots that it was not qualified to connect.

One, he already had something that looked convincing. Two, he already knew how to sell a performance. Three, there was that store not too far from him that was always empty at this hour.

Which—okay—stay with him here.

When things got serious, Rudy didn’t overthink—he acted. He trusted his gut. His gut had gotten him into trouble before, sure, but it had also gotten him through auditions, bad roommates, and one extremely questionable road trip.

That was the point, though. Surprise! No one would see that coming. That alone bought him, like, five full seconds of confusion. And five seconds was basically forever. Who was going to suspect Rudolfo Gomez—a Gen-Z dude in a big, pink hoodie who looked way more likely to lose it over dropping his vape than robbing a store?

Claire had bought the hoodie during a breast cancer awareness charity event and made him wear it. He'd been fully on board, obviously. Huge supporter, big fan of the cause. Boobs were great—society should protect them at all costs. That was not up for debate.

BUT pink was not his color, not his vibe. No one who knew Rudy would ever expect him to wear this. Which meant—obviously—it was perfect. If anyone ever tried to describe him, the story would fall apart immediately. "He was tall, uh... wearing pink?" Nope. Impossible. Case closed. That was how disguises worked... Probably.

And now, well—now he was here. Standing inside the store, heart doing somersaults in his chest, and holding a very realistic-looking prop gun aimed in what he hoped was a convincing way and not an unhinged way. He squared his shoulders, tried to remember every single thing he'd rehearsed, and immediately forgot half of it.

Okay. Okay. I got this. This is just another performance, no different than rehearsal. Hit my marks, project confidence. Commit!

But then he made the mistake of really looking at them and... Oh. Oh no. They were cute, like—unfairly cute. The kind of cute that made his brain briefly suggest, You should ask them out, before immediately screaming, ABSOLUTELY NOT, YOU ARE ACTIVELY ROBBING THEM. Rudy internally shut that thought down with extreme prejudice. This was not a meet-cute. This was the opposite of a meet-cute. There was no version of this where "Hey, remember when I threatened you for cash?" played well on a first date.

Focus. Money. Rent. Groceries. Do not think about how nice their eyes are.

Rudy lifted the prop, pointed it, and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "El dinero!" he said, steadying himself. "Ahora, por favor, cielo—" He winced immediately. "Sorry. I—sorry. That was weird. I didn't mean—just—please?"

He was aware, distantly, that this was not his proudest moment. This was not the version of himself he'd imagined when he moved to LA. He wasn't a bad person! This was just... a temporary situation. A weird detour. He'd fix it! He fully intended to come back someday when he was doing better—when he'd made it, when this was a weird story he told at parties—and make a very generous donation. Like, covering whatever he took and any damages. Extra on top, just to be safe.

And—okay—he'd also make sure the person at the counter was taken care of. Cash, apologies, maybe a handwritten note. He'd even pay for whatever therapy they might need after this. That felt fair! Responsible, even. He'd factor it into the budget once his life stopped actively falling apart. He was a considerate guy. Right now, though, he needed the cash—just enough to get through the month and breathe again.

The person froze, then slowly raised their hands in surrender. Okay. Good. That is good. This is working. Carefully, they stepped away from the register, eyes flicking between Rudy and the gun as they backed toward the rear of the store. He stayed exactly where he was, grip tight, nodding again like someone who knew what was happening.

They disappeared into the back room.

Alright. Fine. This is fine. They're probably grabbing the register key. Or opening a safe. Or doing whatever employees did during robberies. He waited, breathing shallowly, staring at the counter and definitely not replaying the moment they'd turned around and showed him just how unfairly they fit in those jeans.

Somewhere, spiritually, his mamá was already sighing. His Nana was shaking her head. He could practically feel a chancla winding up from three states away, powered entirely by disappointment and Catholic guilt. Rudy, mijo. ¿Qué estás haciendo? he heard in his Nana's voice. That same tone she used when she caught him stealing another marranito when he was nine.

He swallowed and shifted his weight, muttering under his breath, "Dios mío, I am so grounded..."

A few seconds passed, maybe more. Hard to tell when your heart was trying to escape your chest. Then footsteps, light and careful, came back toward the counter. Rudy straightened a little, bracing himself for the sight of money—bills, a drawer, something that made sense.

But instead of a cash drawer—or a bag—or literally anything involving money—they were holding a plastic container. A tupperware. It was warm—he could see condensation under the lid. He could smell it. Something homemade, comforting, and aggressively not cash.

They set it down slowly on the counter and slid it toward him.

Rudy stared at it, then at them, then back at the container. He hesitated, half-expecting an explanation, a punchline, or at least a clue. They offered none. Just looked as confused and expectant as he felt, like this was now somehow his move.

"... What the fuck?"