The Smelly Side of Fuel Crisis.

So, I’d busted open a animal trafficking ring that supplied underground fight clubs with less-than-willing contestants; I’d tracked down a kid who was a hit-and-run witness and persuaded his crazy hunchbacked biddy of a mother that we weren’t just trying to get custody away from her, didn’t want custody, and even if we did asking him to be a witness would be the least practical way to get it; and determined that the report of a hideous six-faced mutant was in fact a false alarm, which wasn’t exactly difficult.

Full day, you say? Yeah, so say I. But I guess somebody doesn’t agree.

Slylock Colorist? If you’re reading this, PLEASE STOP GIVING REEKY RAT PINK HAIR!

Tlank tlank tlank!

Knocking on an aluminum door just doesn’t have the same feel to it.

Oh, I am like so glad to see you man, I got the munchies somethin- huh?

“Expecting someone else?”

You don’t look like the pizza guy. He looks genuinely confused.

“That’d be cause I’m not.”

But I swear I seen you before, man.

“Really. Imagine that.”

You can almost see the memories percolating up through his instant-noodle-scented brain, and then his eyes go wide and he tries to slam the door in my face. Luckily my foot is both in the doorway and considerably sturdier than his door.

Aw man I didn’t do nuthin man you gotta believe that!

“So I see you’re still wearing your hair pink. How’s the exotic film business treating you?”

Shuttup! You don’t know nuthin pig!

“That doesn’t happen to mean that the market for pornography starring thin, drugged-out, pink-haired, filthy trailer trash is particularly profitable?”

Why you always gotta be comin down on me, man?

“Does that mean you’re broke enough to go stealing gas?”

He suddenly stops trying to mold the edge of the door into the shape of my foot. Don’t go there man I’m serious.

“Don’t go where?”

Dude, you’re putting me into some deep shit here.

“You mean, don’t go over to this barrel here?”

I have no gas man you gotta believe me!

“So, you’re saying that this barrel doesn’t contain any gas.”

Uh, yeah.

“The one that smells like gas.”


“And sounds full.”


“And is pretty heavy.”

“And has ‘GASS’ spray-painted on it in block capitols.”

Alright! It was my dealer, he knew I couldn’t like pay him, but he was all like dude, that’s cool, but gas is pricey? So maybe if you could set me up with some I’ll getting you the stuff, or something? So yeah, man.

“Is this the penguin with the steroids? Or some else with something else?”

Dunno. I like can’t remember.

I can feel a headache starting, and it’s only gonna get worse the longer I have to keep listening to him. Do I have to take him in? Would anyone know if I let this slide? Would anyone care, if they did know?

Course, I still gotta get out of here.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna happen now. Max and I are gonna fill up the car’s tank, and then we’re gonna leave. And you never saw us.”

What’re you doing here again?

“Exactly.” I go to lift the drum onto the skateboard Max just happened to have, but he starts shouting again.

Dude, that’s mine! You’re like brutalizing the populace man!

And there’s the headache. “Shut up. Now.” I snarl, “You stole all this!”

Whoa, man. How’d you see through me? I was sure I thought of everything.

“…you’re joking, right?”

He blinks at me.

“Please, please, please, just say you’re joking. Even if it’s a lie.”


This is about the time the headache starts strip mining my brain. “Next time you go to siphon gas, don’t do it from a police car.”

At least I got to top off the tank for free.

The Final Word.


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