This isn't a Stick-Up, It's a Freak Out

After looking over my current bank statement I began thinking about the exciting possibility of robbing a bank. It seemed only natural I thought to go directly to the source. But I wanted to steer clear of the boring and predictable armed robbery route so I decided to try something that was crazy, but not so crazy that a jury of my peers would send me to the gas chamber of secrets...
After weighing several options... such as; a reverse pyramid scheme, something involving a hot air balloon and or gyrocopter, asking nicely while gradually increasing in desperation, and a plan to turn every employee into an accomplice by blackmailing them with photos I would doctor on MS Paint...I finally decided on constructing an elaborate heist based on a good old-fashioned, P-Funk freak out. Activities that are normally mundane such as following yellow brick roads and touring candy factories are often turned into freak fests when they're combined with certain "elements", and by elements I mean drugs...and the exploitation of those suffering from their effects by subjecting them to jarring contrasts of happy and surreal. So, why not wield that power in a way that's beneficial to me.
Here's the plan, as read by the formerly deceased Vincent Price:

The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom

Yes. I just copied that from Thriller. Anyway, cowering in anticipation and be-wonderment the bank denizens will gasp and clutch their children as the glass doors dramatically open; revealing I (sporting a cane and top hat) and four or five midgets emerging from the purple haze. Tip-toeing at first, sneaking through the shroud of smoke to the sound of rattling change and printed receipts. Stepping in time with my gun-wielding Munchkins, and Oompas and Ewoks until the famous bass line of Pink Floyd's Money starts in.
Thump, bum-ba-dum...
In perfect synchronous terror we skip and prance two by two among the bystanders with money bags outstretched. Without a word the helpless and awestruck victims drop their valuables inside while the ghoulish parade continues before their eyes. Midgets appear from drawers and handbags and suddenly the room is flooded with bizarre creatures from all rings of hell. Here the come jesters, 1, 2, 3...Plasticine porters with looking glass ties...crystal blue persuasion...incense and peppermints...fire walk with me! The walls begin to melt...goo-goo-ga-choo.
Meanwhile I begin to recite Wonka's wonderous boat ride speech.
"I'm high on the drugs!" screams an elderly woman as she throws herself out the nearest window.
And still, not a single word of protest or ultimatum given, because even the bravest of men do not want their linens soiled by the greasy hands of a gnome. The security guard stands poised inches away from the alarm but is frozen, and may never recover, and may never testify. For he knows that:

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men.

It's that simple! And then off I scamper with a briefcase full of loot to catch the next flight to Ooomp-Loompa Land.