Perry found out a hundred grand
of the mob’s money was lonesome in some backwater storage unit outside of town.
His plan was simple: roll up on Christmas day when nobody was around, take the
cash, and bounce. Perry said it’d be like taking a present from a toddler, and
I hoped so, but as I’d learned the hard way on multiple occasions, “the best
laid plans of rats and dogs usually go awry.”
Perry punched in the code, and
the electric gate opened. Mike drove the car down the rows until we located the
unit we wanted. I busted the lock, and opened the rollup door. There it was, a
hundred grand, stacked and sealed in plastic like a toddler’s present.
As the last of the money was
stuffed in a bag, the first bullet hit Mike between the eyes.
Mike’s mortal shell flopped onto
the blacktop. I wished I could have done more than just leave him twitching on
asphalt, but there’s not much you can do when somebody gets JFKed.
Perry and the cash dove into the
backseat as I ducked behind the dash, and mashed the gas. Lesson learned: the
mob don’t get Christmas off.
As we approached the exit, the
gunfire intensified. I rammed the car through the gate, and popped onto the
highway. The windshield was fried, and one of the front tires was flat, but we
I pulled into the ditch when the
car would go no further. Perry grabbed the moneybag, and we crossed a field
into thick woods.
We broke into a boarded-up
cabin. I found a can of beans, and offered Perry half. He said there was no way
he was eating cold beans for Christmas. I polished them off by my
After a nervous night, we left
the cabin, and made our way through the wilderness. Thorns and brambles grabbed
at our suits as we traversed deeper and deeper into the forest, until we
happened upon an old logging road.
Around a dirt bend, we found a
truck. The door was unlocked, and the keys were in the ignition, so we
commandeered the vehicle, and set out for civilization. The empty gun rack
above the back seat led us to believe some backwater hick must have pulled over
to go hunting.
Perry opened the bag, and
counted the money. A tape stuck out of an old cassette deck, and I pushed it
in. “Lasagna” by Weird Al Yankovic played.
We looked at each other with
awkward expressions for a moment, and then we both started singing along to the
“La Bamba” parody.
It was the first time during
this harrowing Christmas Day nightmare that I felt a modicum of respect for
Too bad for him, the plan gone
awry was righting itself, and he’d be dead within the hour.
Morgan Boyd lives in Santa Cruz, California with his wife, cat
and carnivorous plant collection. He has been published online at Flash
Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle, Yellow
Mama, Fried Chicken and Coffee,