William Scott Scurlock, The Hollywood Bank Robber, and The End Of The Dream

Wednesday, November 27, 1996, the day before Thanksgiving; stormy weather-perfect. Seafirst National Bank, the Lake City Branch, Seattle, Washington; eighteen minutes till closing time. Everyone left inside is either waiting to go home, or so intent on their errands that they are unable to pay attention to anything outside their own head, once again-perfect. The Bank's automatic cameras click away at everyone entering, another shows the bored and impatient customers waiting to see a teller, and yet another scans the entire bank, and there is a fourth camera too-aimed at an island in the center of the lobby. Precision is the way, and each frame of each film tells exactly which camera, by it's number, the date, and the time to the second.

Camera 1-06 records the time at 5:42:13 p.m. the same instant that he walked in the door, he is utterly bizarre: hooded raincoat, baseball cap, his cheap trademark Converse shoes, jutting chin, long grey hair; and yet he moved like a gazelle. Those that see him are startled by his appearance, they know something is unnatural, but they struggle to politely think of what exactly it is-the tellers, however, know all too well. His stride is so confident that it's arrogant, his face is simply not normal.

Nobody saw his trademark pistol at first either, but the tellers already knew what it was going to look like. Surely the atmosphere changed, and uneasiness was transfering, or difusing throughout the area. There is another strange looking man, and this one is much, much larger-maybe his gloves should have told them something.

Nobody ever remembers exactly what such as these looked like later-their memories are clouded by the adrenaline rush.

"Step back, and stay away from the counter, this is a robbery."

but of course. . . . .

The black pistol has been pulled.

"I'm serious, if you are nervous please step out of the line and sit down!"

The first, and smaller man is in charge-he herds the sheep where he wishes them to go-though he's got a gun, he doesn't use it to threaten anyone. The threat is implied. The second, larger man is incredibly polite, women are addressed as "Ma'am." What is fascinating and strange is how unworried they are, the doors to the front are still unlocked even.

"Who is the Vault Teller?"

"I don't want any bait bills, or dye packs, got it?"

The large man is left in control of the loby, and after some time the smaller man reappears, having returned from the vault-though he appears old, he leaps over the counter with a huge duffle bag full of cash.

"Did you hear anything?" He is speaking into a walkie talkie.

And then, they were just gone! In less than fifteen minutes they carried away more money than most of us will make in our lifetimes! But this was the TWENTIETH bank robbery for William Scott Scurlock. The Seattle PD, the Puget Sound Violent Crimes Task Force, and the FBI were utterly frustrated, and clueless as to who the two were, and was there a third on the other end of the walkie talkie? Or was that some sort of diversion??? They knew nothing after TWENTY bank robberies in the area. They didn't know any more about who they were than who they weren't!

There wasn't much of anything about William Scott Scurlock that wasn't exceptional.  He maintained an amazing physical condition throughout his life, and never ceased striving to be above the norm, beyond the Pale, if you will.  He wasn't a greedy man, and neither was he violent; at least not until the very end, and he'd come to believe that it would never come to such an end.  It seems that his dreams had swept him away into a false reality, such false realities are even more common today than they were in the time before Scott's life ended, but few of today's dreamers are quite so successful with their dreaming.

Outside of Olympia, Washington, in Thurston County; William Scott Scurlock had created for himself a wonderful compound, base of operations; and a home for himself, and the men he'd had working with him. Scott's house, built by him alone, was a three story tree house, with plumbing, electricity, and a sixty foot NON railed stairway up. Maintaining balance with nature was one of Scott's goals in life, and failure to maintain balance on the way up the stairs could end one's life. It had almost ended his father's life, when once he'd come to visit.

But someone had seen his tree house, and thought it dangerous; and started a conversation with county officials to have it torn down, can you imagine?  He'd bought some property, spent a huge amount of time building his dream home all by himself, and the county had wanted to have it torn down because of some nosy neighbor.  Scott had hired a lawyer, and the county had backed away.  The only other incidents he'd ever had involving law enforcement were when he'd been a passenger in cars that someone else had been driving.  He'd refused to get out of a vehicle at the order of a cop once, because he was afraid that he'd be arrested for public intoxication.  A wise man never complies with the wishes of any police officer who doesn't have a warrant to back his commands.  There was another instance when someone had done donuts on someone's property; both cases, of course, were dismissed.  A wise man never admits guilt to any police officer for anything that he's not guilty of, police officers in America are forever implying guilt where there most often is none.

I wouldn't know, I do so poorly with the money that I do get; but bank robbery is a viable source of income for the brave, but only if they've prepared for it properly, and employee the correct bank robbery devices. You see, the majority of the individuals involved in bank robbery are addicts, or otherwise just plain nuts. They'd only got the itch, a pistol, and a ski mask; more often than not, they are caught. Bank robbery is harmless, profitable, and fun; if it's carried out in the proper way. You see, you lose nothing when a bank is robbed, the money there is insured, and if there is a more corrupt institution known to man, than modern banking, then I'm dying to hear just what that institution is. I rank mass media, a monopolized institution of Ashkenazi Jews, only slightly second to banking, which is monopolized by the same. Feel free to call me a racist, if that's your flavour, I know so many Ashkenazi Jews that are friends, and feel the same way about it, that such "you're a racist" notions become ridiculous. It's no fault of any race that different ethnic groups are responsible for the majority of different sectors of crime, crime and criminal behavior are always rooted in socio economic stratifications. "White people" like myself are the most warmongering, ethnocentric entities in the world, and they are mostly so very eager for it, and they will get what they deserve, in the end, somehow, and because our warmonger ways are based upon and backed by governments that are completely owned by corporations, business law has failed to evolve in such a way that ethics are valued on the same level, and thus, it's not a "criminal offence" to invade sovereign nations in order to set up a Rothschild bank, go figure.Take your racism and accusations somewhere where someone will be dumb enough, or ignorant enough to keep you entertained in that manner.

Scott Scurlock's greatest contribution to the lexicon of bank robbery tactics was the use of theatrical makeup, and this completely disguised his face, while at the same time not causing the immediate visible stir cause by an idiot wearing a ski mask. You also never see theatrical makeup in movies about bank robbery, as that's just too good a tip to give the potential robber. William Scott Scurlock had an arrangement to where theatrical make up was bought, ordered, and shipped to a friend of his who'd nary a clue as to what it was being used for. This is the path to wisdom, should there be any, in organized crime. Logically, this should lead us in a natural manner of discourse to the drop car.

What, you ask, is a drop car? A drop car is a $500.00 automobile that you buy with cash under a false name, you then take the drop car to a mechanic of great repute, and have it certified as bank robbery get away worthy. You never transfer the title of the car into your name, as that is just stupid, and defeats the purpose of a drop car altogether, are you getting the picture yet?

After you've successfully robbed a bank, you just drop the drop car, but before you do so, you vacuum it thoroughly several times, to make sure that no hair, friction ridges, or fibers stuck to the bottom of shoes, are left inside the car Use Surgical gloves, and bleach for the dash, steering wheel, doors, etc; inside and out, with paper towels, and then you ought to burn those, and bury the ashes. . Not only are you needful of the purpose of removing DNA evidence, you also must remove any other traces of materials that could link you via habit or location. Learn the workings of a Gas Chromatograph / Mass Spectrometer, and be wise, my friends, be wise.

The next bank that you rob, you'll have a new drop car, rinse, and repeat.

William Scott Scurlock began his bank robbery adventures alone, and though he'd have never been so "successful" had he kept going it alone, perhaps he'd still be alive if he had. Nobody actually knows how many banks Scott robbed, but he is widely deemed the most successful bank robber in the history of the United States of America. Do you know why he was so successful? Well, besides having constantly reinvested in the process, and being ultra secretive about the whole thing; he literally gave most of the money away. Scott Scurlock surely had a lifestyle to maintain, but he'd also, so far as is known, GIVEN most of his stolen money away to environmental causes. That's right, the man was a Robin Hood of sorts.

Now, one shouldn't believe that Scott Scurlock was a saint by any means. Saints are rare, or, most likely, non existent in today's materialistic world of lies. Scott, however, was an oddball, and an exceptional case of a man. He'd such a love of travel that he'd managed to visit anywhere he'd wanted to go, he was not some idiot ghetto fool who wanted to be known for his "bling,' or any other such materialistic thing. He'd built his own three story house, the world's largest tree house; do ghetto materialism thugs do that? No, they do not.

Scott and his two unfortunate helpers, Mark and Steven, had been dispatched to Vegas time and again with their stash, in order to launder the takings.  Money laundering is the art of cleaning dirty money, or money with traces to a source that one wants to avoid; and so the gambling.  Also, spending stolen U.S. dollars in far away places works well too, usually.

But Scott hadn't always been involved in bank robbery, he had always been involved in travel, and the company of many beautiful women; and so he'd, for a time, been involved in P2P meth production, and, this is rather amazing, had been cooking dope at Evergreen State University, after hours.  He'd convinced the janitorial staff that he was a professor.  But the legends are that never has all of Scott's stolen money been accounted for, the total is unknown, even.  It is well known, however, that he'd often buried stashes of drugs and money on his property.  Can you imagine the holes in the ground just outside of Olympia, Washington?  I can.

The Death Of William Scott Scurlock

It was over, everything went wrong after leaving the building, and the final realization of how his ego, or rather, his megalomania had taken over, was hitting home uncomfortably. He thought of big kind Mark, and of Steve, and all of Steve and Mark's personal tragedies-he had presumed to be helping them, but the truth was that he was just exploiting their weaknesses and misfortunes. Truly he should have just continued alone and been happy with what he was doing, for only the most extreme of risk takers could have compared to him.

Steve and Mark were either severely wounded or dead by now, and if they lived they would be spending a very long time, or more likely, the rest of their lives in Prison. They would break, and so now he could not go home. His home was a fortress of sorts, but if he could even get to it he would not be able to defend it.

How much money he had stolen over time he never knew and nobody ever would. The question was always, "Where do you get all of that?" or even to the very, very few who knew, "What did you do with all of it?"

Surely, he thought of his radical preacher Father, and his Mother. He thought of his siblings, and a lot about Kevin, and how they had once been close, but because of what he was doing, and the direction he had taken since he moved to Washington State-they no longer would be. Kevin will hate him for what he didn't even know had happened to his brother, Steve.

He thought of the women, so many, many women; his tumultuous marriage, and the girl he was supposed to be meeting right now, hell, he owed her thirty grand; but that was small change to him. Surely the stash this time was the biggest ever, and even more certainly it was all in the hands of the police now. Fuck, they almost had him the time the dye packs exploded orange all over the green.

He thought of the AR 15, the fucking thing didn't fire, inexplicably, it jammed; maybe he just wasn't meant to be a murderer, but they may have very well killed Mark and Steve, he would never find out. Was it then that he first thought of the pistol? Who knows?

The recreational vehicle was cold, so surely he just willed his body, so finely tuned, to be warmer. He couldn't move, really, because it would make noise, and the Puget Sound Violent Crimes Task Force was as an unseen army swarming about the area right this minute. . . . . . When the knocking came, and the hand was on the door he realized that he would not be a murderer, and so he hid under a table, and there he stayed; later, when the task force came, the shot that they thought was the beginning of what was to be the second gun battle ended the dream forever.

Rest In Peace.