Imagine, if you will, a visitor enters the Pyramid of Geezer Retirement Community, heels clicking on the linoleum. The staff is notified and look with some disapproval as the visitor is shown to the room of one of their guests, Mr. Adontes.
This visitor slouches in the chair, legs wide, and slips his hand into the waistband of his skirt. “Ahhh,” I said, kicking off my shoes, “Feels good to get out of those damn heels. You know they were invented by a legless cobbler who hated women, don’t you Mr. Adontes?”
Mr. Adontes, a wrinkly man in his 80s, looked me over from blonde hair bun to the hose on my legs, “Call me Joe. Nice disguise.”
“Thanks,” I said, adjusting the thick black-framed sunglasses on my face, “I’ve always been good at incognito. So, have you thought more about what you’d like to do?”
“I don’t care. I just want some excitement here. I’m 85 and my kids don’t visit. I don’t know anything about my grandkids now. If it kills me, it kills me. I’d rather go out swinging,” he said, putting his fists up at the end like a boxer.
I grinned, “I had an idea ready if that was the case. The Make a Deathwish Foundation prides itself on improvisational ability. The car’s waiting outside. Not my normal one, a disposable one. If anyone asks, I’m kidnapping you.”
He got up and grabbed his cane, “Alright, but I hope you put on some underwear first. I’m not going to die in a car with a transvestite whose balls are showing.”
It was 45 minutes later when we pulled up to the bank. I was once again dressed normally, complete with my trench coat. To the rest of the world, I was just a man helping his elderly grandfather into the bank. Inside the bank, I had to go get some water while Joe stood in the short line.
He passed a note to the teller, who gave the security guards a look. She hit the silent alarm as she began to fill a bag with cash in an attempt to comply in the short term. I let the guards get more bunched up before pulling the double barrel AK from beneath my coat. I hear the designer got dead drunk when he came up with the schematics. Then again, that was probably true of every AK-model gun designer and most users.
“Back off, fellas. Grandpa’s got a brand new bag. Full of cash,” I told them. Joe nodded and smiled as he grabbed the bag, making a very slow run for the door. I met him at the door and took the bag from him, dumping the gun into his hands, “Here, hold this, I should count-“ The gun dropped to the floor and began to fire wildly. The tellers, guards, and civilians all dropped to the ground as it mostly fired into the air.
I grabbed Joe and ran for it. “Why’d you do that?” he asked.
“Needed to cover our escape. Don’t worry, it’s on autopilot,” I said as I dropped him off in the Crown Victoria with a flame paint job. I slid into the driver’s seat and gunned it as a cop car sped to the bank just behind me.
They followed as I accelerated, Joe fumbling for his seatbelt beside me. I held back just enough for us to get more police after us. I also lit up a joint in my mouth, gave it a couple puffs, then passed it over to Joe, “Anyone asks, it’s for glaucoma.”
Just when I went to escalate our little chase, I got stuck behind a little old lady, with a semi in the lane to our right. “Joe, drop your pants.” Old guy was fast on the draw. I grabbed one of my homemade grenades out of the cup holder and rolled the passenger window down before swerving into oncoming traffic. When granny looked over, she saw Joe’s wrinkly old ass staring back at her. Then he sat down and she got a grenade tossed in her window by yours truly. When it exploded, it was with brown smoke and the smell of methane and sulfur. Granny hit the curb with a screwed up look on her face.
Joe shot the old bird the bird.
I stayed in the oncoming lanes, holding my hand out the window to flip off every driver passing on my side. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, motherfuck you, you’re cool, fuck you…”
On the passenger side, Joe was getting in on the act, waving his cane at the people and calling them maniacs, at least until we were beside this one convertible momentarily. He turned and smiled at the pretty blonde driving and I could make out something to the extent of “Hey pretty mama, want to be the last thing I see before I die?”
As we hit the cathedral roundabout, with its big, stupid modern art of fries all slumping around in the middle the sidewalk island, I turned to Joe, “You hungry?”
“Yeah, a little,” he said, buckling his belt. I swerved off the side in the wrong direction and knocked a hot dog stand with the car, snatching a dog out of it. I held it out for Joe.
“You got any mustard?” I skidded around, a cop car missing me on either side, and made for the stand again. The owner had just picked it up when I snatched the mustard squeezy out of his hand. He ran after me but I shot some into his face, then handed it over to Joe.
I took a turn off the roundabout and swerved to face the roundabout again.
“Joe, how do you feel about abstract art?”
“I’m not a fan.”
“I generally take it case by case. It’s almost time for us to part ways, but let’s end this with a bang.”
I put the pedal to the metal and aimed right for the French fry art. A trio of police cars barred the road at the roundabout. “You see the little round button, Joe?”
“Uh huh,” he said, looking at the stick with the red button on the end between us.
“Push the little red button.”
He did, causing the trunk to burst off and revealing a pair of oversized versions of my rockets welded to the rear of the car, with a sack of dynamite strung up between them. I turned on the hydraulics and we had liftoff. I saw Joe grip the dashboard, yelling like an excited kid. I was almost disappointed to punch the center of the steering wheel, which blew the top off and then shot us both out and away from the other on separate ejection seats.
Joe had wanted an exciting day where he might die. At 85, it’s not like they can lock him up. I don’t think he was altogether disappointed though as the explosion lifted us both up and away from each other. He shot me a thumbs up, the money bag held in his lap, laughing.
His kids are going to be so pissed when they find out where their inheritance money went.
Imagine, if you will, later that night at a strip club called Tit & Tat. I sit down at my table and begin to munch on some food that only arrived while I was up at the stage. Three large men approach, each with varying fat-to-muscle ratios. The head one, a black guy with closely shaved hair, folds his arms and tells me, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We’re here to escort you out.”
“I know I got a bit rowdy up there, but I didn’t think it was that bad,” I said between picking the spicy meat off my snack.
“Sir, the stage is not a dance floor for you to join the women.”
“Momentary lapse in judgment.”
“We say you enter the bathroom and then leave it dressed in assless chaps and a g-string.”
“How do you guys dress for a club?”
“Not in the women’s restroom, for one thing.”
“Oh come on, I just got my buffalo wings, guys. At least let me get something to pick the bones out of my teeth.”
“Sir, those are cheese fries.”
“…You know, in that case, I feel like going anyway. First, I would like to meet your chef and hit him on the head with a pan.”
So it was that three spoilsports carried me to the door and dumped me out on the parking lot. I stood up and faced down the bouncers, who covered the entrance well. Fists the size of small hams be damned, I just realized I’d left my baby oil in there!
“Ahem,” came a voice from the side. There stood a man in a black leather surgeon’s outfit. Good Doctor.
“One moment, business meeting,” I said, and turned to jog over to the Doctor. Behind me, the bouncers bugged out and ran inside. The door’s lock clicked soon after.
“What’s up, Doc?” I asked Good Doctor.
“I would normally shudder to think such a thing was possible, Psycho, but I need your help.”