...jumping out into the bank proper to follow along as he sweatily chunks a padlock into place. With that, he snatches up his weapons cache and lumbers down the grand staircase to the lobby below, where he bellows, "This is not a robbery!" as he points his -- whoa, dude. That's, like, some kind of semiautomatic, isn't it? "You amateur!" Raoul shrieks, momentarily drawing his attention away from his handiwork to scold me. "My husband Jack Bauer would instantly identify that as an ArmaLite AR-180B semiautomatic rifle with a chrome moly barrel featuring an integral muzzle brake and ArmaLite's exclusive adjustable front sight base! Remember: It's Not Your Father's AR!" Really, Raoul? Because if your husband Jack Bauer did that, he would be a LYING LIAR WHO LIES. The hand-grip muzzle-thingy is totally different. "Oh, how should I know!? I was just trying to make conversation! Do I look like one of those backwoods gun freaks to you?!" Well, you are knitting bulging eyeballs into a sweater you're fashioning for your fictional torture-happy television husband, so you tell me. "Just one! Just one bulging eyeball! Do you not watch the show?!" Okay, Raoul, whatever. No time to be arguing about this, because Fat Ronald's decided to punctuate his statement by peppering the lobby's ceiling with a couple of rounds, leading directly to a massive collective freak-out in the bank. As fluttery tellers with heart-shaped derrieres scream with fright, Fat Ronald howls, "Everybody! On the floor! NOW!" The camera spins in on his face right before the poor, delusional fat man drops straight down into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!