The Great-ish Escape
By Ryan James Black
My getaway car was a 1972 bruise brown El Camino with an asthmatic engine and brakes like my fourth ex-wife; loose and untrustworthy. It was bound to break down eventually, but did it have to break down at the Policeman’s picnic? Smack in the middle of the potato sack race? I sat there in that hunk of steaming dead metal, sweating, strangling the duct-taped steering wheel. Refracted sunshine from aviator sunglasses lit me up like laser beams. Crew cuts and moustaches bristled at me through the spiderweb cracked windshield. I opened the door and stepped out, casually, whistling a catchy tune to try and detract from my handcuffs, shackles and burnt orange, prisoner's jump suit. It didn’t work. A red faced, tree stump of a man in black socks and sandals stormed towards me. He looked like he wanted to say something, badly, but his mouth was so full of potato salad that gobs were oozing out onto his pus-colored golf shirt. Tree stump reached out for me with a hand still glistening with corn on the cob butter.
I punched him in the neck. Or at least, the place his neck would have been if he hadn’t been a tree stump. He popped like a zit, spraying warm potato salad into my face; potato salad and, judging by the taste and consistency, about half a tin's worth of chewing tobacco. Disgusted, I flung myself backwards, inadvertently reverse somersaulting over the dented hood of my car. I landed stuntman style on the other side, quite pleased with myself, and came face to shiny collar with an eight foot tall dog in a police uniform.
“Inspector Ruffington,” I read his cartoon badge, blinking away potato salad tears. “The crime fighting dog.” From inside the mascot wafted hotdog stench and the ragged sound of labored breathing. “Uh, nice to meet you?”
The first foamy, three fingered fist hit me just above the right ear. Fireworks exploded in my head. A shrill telephone rang, although I didn’t see one, and nobody moved to answer it. The second jab popped me in the collarbone. Hard. Mike Tyson punch out hard. I hit the ground like a sack of wet laundry. Two clown shoe kicks to the ribs later, I found the sense to roll to safety under the car. Unfortunately, turns out safety was a gasoline-soggy fire ant hill. Screaming, I scrambled back out into the sunshine, ants the size of silver dollars biting me absolutely everywhere, but seeming to focus especially on my nether regions.
Across the meadow, little boys cheered and little girls screamed. Forgotten barbeques popped and sizzled. Glass broke like cracking ice, but only after Inspector Ruffington yanked me to my feet and smashed my head a few times against the El Camino passenger side window. I bit my tongue. Hot copper filled my mouth and spilled down my chin. A tooth went with it, plopping into the dust, a broken, wine stained Chicklet.
One head butt too many, the window finally smashed in, shattering sharp sparkly diamonds into my hair. Before Inspector Ruffington could battering ram me against something else, I squiggled out of his grip and dove back into the car. I kicked the passenger side door lock “ka-chunk” with my government issued slipper, followed by the drivers side one “ka-chunk” just in time to stop a trio of veiny vikings in head to toe Under Armor from tearing it off the hinges.
The El Camino rocked like an antacid in a food poisoned gut under the pounding hands of swarming picnickers. They blotted out the sun. On one side, Inspector Ruffington snatched at me through the non-existent window with his blood stained Mickey Mouse hands, on the other, the door groaned like haunted house shutters as a faceless, screaming somebody worked on prying it open. I felt a convoy of ants creeping between my butt cheeks and crushed them with a self imposed wedgie. The movement made me cringe. One of my ribs felt funny, pokey, like I had a forgotten clothes hanger stuck in my jumpsuit. I coughed up something black. It looked a bit like a jelly fish, but I couldn’t trust my eyes. The right one was swollen shut. The left one was milky; dirty water in a dirtier glass.
I struggled into the drivers seat. Between my pained groans and the clank of my shackles, I sounded like a ghost straight out of Dickens. Placing my ant-bit hand on the key, I began to chant, plead, pray to the god of escaped convicts to be merciful.
“Please start, please start, please start, please start,”
I turned the key.
The El Camino sputtered and died. I pumped the gas, slamming my head on the steering wheel, inadvertently splitting my lip and jarring loose another tooth.
“Pease art, pease art, pease art, pease art,”
I turned the key.
Hallelujah! Like a waking lion, the El Camino roared.
Black smoke chugged out the custom duel exhaust like twin locomotives. Everyone jumped back as I threw her into gear and mashed the gas, even Inspector Ruffington, who tumbled away a mass of gore streaked, mangy fur; but not before losing his oversized police hat on the passenger seat. Laughing hysterically, I put it on. I was about to yell “SO LONG, SUCKERS!” when I crashed into the tree and everything turned black.
I woke up in solitary confinement. All previous privileges suspended.
This statement was my lawyers idea. She figures this, plus written apologies to everyone involved, might only keep me in the lab a few extra years. Or at least until the crack in my ship's fusion core is repaired.
I did mention I’m from Proxima Centauri, didn’t I?
Anyhow, I suppose being back at Area 51 isn’t all bad.
I get out of solitary in a few hours, the Zanadalarian chick in the cell next door has been flashing me three sets of bedroom eyes all week, and rumor has it tonight is breakfast for dinner night in the cafeteria.
- - -
By Ryan James Black
My getaway car was a 1972 bruise brown El Camino with an asthmatic engine and brakes like my fourth ex-wife; loose and untrustworthy. It was bound to break down eventually, but did it have to break down at the Policeman’s picnic? Smack in the middle of the potato sack race? I sat there in that hunk of steaming dead metal, sweating, strangling the duct-taped steering wheel. Refracted sunshine from aviator sunglasses lit me up like laser beams. Crew cuts and moustaches bristled at me through the spiderweb cracked windshield. I opened the door and stepped out, casually, whistling a catchy tune to try and detract from my handcuffs, shackles and burnt orange, prisoner's jump suit. It didn’t work. A red faced, tree stump of a man in black socks and sandals stormed towards me. He looked like he wanted to say something, badly, but his mouth was so full of potato salad that gobs were oozing out onto his pus-colored golf shirt. Tree stump reached out for me with a hand still glistening with corn on the cob butter.
I punched him in the neck. Or at least, the place his neck would have been if he hadn’t been a tree stump. He popped like a zit, spraying warm potato salad into my face; potato salad and, judging by the taste and consistency, about half a tin's worth of chewing tobacco. Disgusted, I flung myself backwards, inadvertently reverse somersaulting over the dented hood of my car. I landed stuntman style on the other side, quite pleased with myself, and came face to shiny collar with an eight foot tall dog in a police uniform.
“Inspector Ruffington,” I read his cartoon badge, blinking away potato salad tears. “The crime fighting dog.” From inside the mascot wafted hotdog stench and the ragged sound of labored breathing. “Uh, nice to meet you?”
The first foamy, three fingered fist hit me just above the right ear. Fireworks exploded in my head. A shrill telephone rang, although I didn’t see one, and nobody moved to answer it. The second jab popped me in the collarbone. Hard. Mike Tyson punch out hard. I hit the ground like a sack of wet laundry. Two clown shoe kicks to the ribs later, I found the sense to roll to safety under the car. Unfortunately, turns out safety was a gasoline-soggy fire ant hill. Screaming, I scrambled back out into the sunshine, ants the size of silver dollars biting me absolutely everywhere, but seeming to focus especially on my nether regions.
Across the meadow, little boys cheered and little girls screamed. Forgotten barbeques popped and sizzled. Glass broke like cracking ice, but only after Inspector Ruffington yanked me to my feet and smashed my head a few times against the El Camino passenger side window. I bit my tongue. Hot copper filled my mouth and spilled down my chin. A tooth went with it, plopping into the dust, a broken, wine stained Chicklet.
One head butt too many, the window finally smashed in, shattering sharp sparkly diamonds into my hair. Before Inspector Ruffington could battering ram me against something else, I squiggled out of his grip and dove back into the car. I kicked the passenger side door lock “ka-chunk” with my government issued slipper, followed by the drivers side one “ka-chunk” just in time to stop a trio of veiny vikings in head to toe Under Armor from tearing it off the hinges.
The El Camino rocked like an antacid in a food poisoned gut under the pounding hands of swarming picnickers. They blotted out the sun. On one side, Inspector Ruffington snatched at me through the non-existent window with his blood stained Mickey Mouse hands, on the other, the door groaned like haunted house shutters as a faceless, screaming somebody worked on prying it open. I felt a convoy of ants creeping between my butt cheeks and crushed them with a self imposed wedgie. The movement made me cringe. One of my ribs felt funny, pokey, like I had a forgotten clothes hanger stuck in my jumpsuit. I coughed up something black. It looked a bit like a jelly fish, but I couldn’t trust my eyes. The right one was swollen shut. The left one was milky; dirty water in a dirtier glass.
I struggled into the drivers seat. Between my pained groans and the clank of my shackles, I sounded like a ghost straight out of Dickens. Placing my ant-bit hand on the key, I began to chant, plead, pray to the god of escaped convicts to be merciful.
“Please start, please start, please start, please start,”
I turned the key.
The El Camino sputtered and died. I pumped the gas, slamming my head on the steering wheel, inadvertently splitting my lip and jarring loose another tooth.
“Pease art, pease art, pease art, pease art,”
I turned the key.
Hallelujah! Like a waking lion, the El Camino roared.
Black smoke chugged out the custom duel exhaust like twin locomotives. Everyone jumped back as I threw her into gear and mashed the gas, even Inspector Ruffington, who tumbled away a mass of gore streaked, mangy fur; but not before losing his oversized police hat on the passenger seat. Laughing hysterically, I put it on. I was about to yell “SO LONG, SUCKERS!” when I crashed into the tree and everything turned black.
I woke up in solitary confinement. All previous privileges suspended.
This statement was my lawyers idea. She figures this, plus written apologies to everyone involved, might only keep me in the lab a few extra years. Or at least until the crack in my ship's fusion core is repaired.
I did mention I’m from Proxima Centauri, didn’t I?
Anyhow, I suppose being back at Area 51 isn’t all bad.
I get out of solitary in a few hours, the Zanadalarian chick in the cell next door has been flashing me three sets of bedroom eyes all week, and rumor has it tonight is breakfast for dinner night in the cafeteria.
- - -
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