Three Little Pigs

by Andrew Davie

          “Did it say Ice Cube’s a pimp?” Asked Floyd who smirked.

          Angela stared at him. It wasn’t a look of anger or confusion, but one of pity. Floyd was sitting in a chair in front of the mirror which served as the makeup station before showtime. Except for the head, he was already wearing his costume of the pig who’d built his house out of bricks. When they’d been giving the costumes each had been tagged simply Pig 1, 2, and 3. However, Floyd had suggested they embrace the story. He had been an actor at one point and said it would help with his motivation if he could be the final pig from the story. Neither Delaney nor Byron cared, so they agreed. 

          Floyd’s blonde hair was disheveled since he hadn’t showered that morning, and he continued to bear a wry smile on his face, which those who knew him either grew to love or hate. It wasn’t difficult to figure out where Angela stood on the matter. 

          “No, it didn’t.” She said, dryly. 

          She hadn’t known Floyd was referring to the song “A Good Day,” by Ice Cube, who claims in the song that Ice Cube’s role as a procurer was the message depicted on the side of the Goodyear Blimp. It didn’t matter to Floyd whether anyone ever got any of his references, and it had gotten him into trouble more than once. 

          The door to the trailer opened, Byron walked in, threw his backpack on the floor, and retrieved his costume from the wardrobe rack. 

          “Sorry, fellas,” he said “Physics is killing me.”

          “No worries,” Floyd said and drank some more coffee. “Just don’t let Heather catch you again.” 

          Someone knocked on the door. 

          “Come in,” Delaney said. 

The door opened. 

          “You guys almost ready?” 

          Constantine stood in the doorway in his full big bad wolf outfit with the head already in place. Technically, an employee could get written up if they were visible outside out of costume, but Constantine never had to worry about that. 

          “We’ll be there in ten,” Delaney said. 

          “See you there.” 

          Constantine shut the door. Floyd had once compared the three of them to the lead characters from the film MASH; alcoholic surgeons during the Korean War who frequently broke the rules to stay sane during a crazy time. Floyd suggested Constantine would be the equivalent of Robert Duvall’s character, Major Frank Burns, a religious zealot who had no sense of humor. While Constantine wasn’t a religious zealot by any stretch, he did take his job at the park very seriously. He was the only one of the four of them who worked there without an ulterior motive. He truly enjoyed bringing smiles to the faces of children. When Constantine wasn’t working at the park, or as a plumber, he was a volunteer sheriff’s deputy. 

         
                                                          ***

          They only had to do five shows a day, but they also had to walk around the park and mingle with the guests for at least an hour. Constantine would never do less than two hours. Now, Floyd and Delaney sat in their street clothes at a picnic table near their trailer.        

          Both Floyd and Delaney had large sodas which Floyd had spiked with mini bottles of rum he’d pilfered from one of the minibar supply carts. Floyd would occasionally get shifts working as a bellhop at one of the park resorts. No matter how many times Delaney said the hotel probably had surveillance going, Floyd would suggest it was just a fringe benefit, and if they saw fit to garnish his wages, so be it. Byron went home after the final show ended. He’d be up all night again wrestling with physics concepts that were just out of his grasp. 

          “You know,” Floyd began, then stopped speaking and watched the golf cart pass their table. Behind the wheel was one of the park security guards making his weekly deposit. Next to him, on the passenger seat of the golf cart, was a strong box. 

          “How much you think he’s got in there?” Floyd said after the guard had left their immediate vicinity. 

          “I don’t know,” Delaney said. “A few grand?” 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Floyd said. “I watched Heat the other night,” Floyd added. 

          “No,” Delaney replied. 

          “You don’t even know what—”

          “Fine; what were you going to say?” Floyd paused.

          “How difficult would it be?” Floyd finally said. 

          “Look,” Delaney began “let’s just forget it.”

          “You think Fred Sanford is going to do something?” Floyd asked and pointed in the direction the guard had gone. 

          “We’re not robbing the park!” Delaney said through gritted teeth. Neither man spoke for a moment. 

          “How much of your paycheck goes to your ex-wife?” Floyd said. His tone had softened but the words still had bite. Delaney took another drink and slid the cup in front of Floyd. 

          “Hit me again,” Delaney said. He watched Floyd dump in another mini bottle. Delaney took the drink back, took a healthy slug, and spoke. 

          “Too much.” 

          “OK, so let’s change that,” Floyd said. He sat up straighter in his chair recognizing he had begun to hook Delaney. 

          “No one gets hurt,” Delaney said. 

          “No one gets hurt. We won’t even have loaded weapons.” Both men killed their drinks. 

          “Let me come up with a plan tonight,” Floyd said, “And we’ll both tell Byron tomorrow after his project is finished.” 

          “Sounds good.”

                                                          ***

          It took some convincing for Byron to agree, but like Delaney when Byron had been reminded about student loans he was game. Floyd said a few things were going for them. The first was the typical guards weren’t ex-commando special forces looking to recreate their glory days. Odds were they were counting down the minutes until they could retire on a pension. Not to mention, it was theme park cash they were transporting, not legal tender. The brass would know it was an inside job, but Floyd argued they wouldn’t be able to prove anything unless one of them was caught. He’d be able to get some replica guns from a special effects friend. On the day in question, they would finish their final shift, leave the park, return and knock over the golf cart when it went to make the deposit. Floyd said it would take him about a week to put everything together. 

          They all agreed the following Friday would be the day. The days leading up to it flew by. Except for a few conversations about how they would launder the money, no one brought it up. Both Delaney and Byron already knew how they would spend their portions. Floyd seemed to be genuinely excited just to participate. 

          When Byron asked him why he was so gung ho on committing the heist, Floyd responded with “The action is the juice.” He said it was from the film Heat, but the significance had been lost on both Delaney and Byron. 

                                                          ***

          The morning of the caper there were no surprises. Angela hadn’t stopped by since Floyd had asked about the message on the side of the blimp, but as usual, Constantine was at the door fifteen minutes before showtime. The guys indulged him as they usually did then waited until a minute before showtime before arriving on set. The performances went off without a hitch. In between shows, the three of them made sure to circulate through the park for their mandatory hour, while Constantine almost set another record. At the end of the final performance, the three of them returned to the trailer to drop off their costumes. 

          Floyd had already parked one of the laundry trucks from the resort in the parking lot nearby for their getaway. In the trailer, Floyd gave them their replica pistols. Even up close, they looked legitimate. Delaney checked the clip to make sure it was empty. 

          “Relax,” Floyd said. “I didn’t even load it with blanks. We don’t need it.”

           The three of them wore bandanas over their noses and mouths with the hoods of their sweatshirts pulled up high. Floyd waited until the coast was clear before they exited the trailer. The park was always eerie at this time of day. All of the rides had been shut down, all of the patrons and most of the staff had gone home. The occasional conversation would carry from the parking lot; people saying their goodbyes, but otherwise, there was nothing. All three men dealt with last-second jitters. However, Floyd had instructed them to think about how no one would get hurt, the money could easily be laundered through the park, and they wouldn’t have to worry anymore about alimony or tuition. In another moment, they saw the golf cart approach. The guard behind the wheel was middle-aged, with white hair and a walrus-style mustache. Once, Floyd had remarked the guy looked like Wilford Brimley. This time, Delaney had gotten the reference, but Byron hadn’t. 

          Floyd walked to the center of the road with his hand up, and Wilford slowed down. 

          “Hep you with somethin'?” Wilford said. 

          “Sorry,” Floyd said and pulled the weapon. He held it sideways at first showing the profile, so Wilford could get a good look at it. Delaney and Byron scrambled from their spots and joined Floyd. 

          “What—” Wilford managed then slumped forward onto the horn. 

          The sound reverberated around the now empty park, and Wilford shot back into his seat. 

          “Jesus Christ!” He yelled. 

          “We need to call an ambulance!” Delaney said. 

          “Why?” Floyd said. 

          “Wilford’s having a heart attack!” Delaney spat out angrily. Wilford looked at Delaney with a furrowed brow. 

          “What’s your name?” Floyd said. 

          “Jesse,” replied Wilford. 

          “Jesse, are you having a heart attack?” 

          “No. I get dizzy spells sometimes.”

          “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can we move it?” Floyd said to Delaney. 

          Part two of the plan was to leave the guard by the side of the road, take the golf cart back to the entrance where they’d stashed a dolly, and move the safe back into the truck. They’d have all night to go to work on it following instructions from schematics Floyd had found on the internet. 

          Byron went to take Wilford/Jesse by the elbow and lead him from the cart when he was hit in the chest with a projectile; a rolled-up t-shirt. Both Floyd and Delaney looked down the stretch of road to see Constantine about fifty feet away, sprinting toward them, and holding a t-shirt gun. He still wore the lower half of his Big Bad Wolf costume, but the upper half was missing. 

          “Forget this,” Delaney said and started to run.

          Constantine stopped, aimed the t-shirt gun, and fired again. The rolled-up shirt hit Delaney square in the back and knocked him to the ground. Constantine was only a few feet away now, and Floyd turned the weapon around so he held the barrel. When Constantine got within range, Floyd swung the piece like a hammer, but Constantine easily dodged it. He swung the t-shirt gun and hit Floyd in the chin. Floyd’s head snapped back and his legs gave way. He could taste the copper of blood flowing from his split lip. 

          Constantine stood over him and put a foot on his chest. Floyd slid his bandana down. 

          “Figures,” Constantine said after he saw who it was. Constantine jutted with his chin toward one of the other fallen bodies. 

          “That’d be Byron?”

          “And Delaney,” Floyd said. Constantine suddenly had a pained look on his face similar to a parent when they’re not mad; just disappointed. A siren grew louder in the distance. 

          “I’d stay down if I were you,” Constantine called out to the other two who had begun to stir. Constantine took his foot off of Floyd’s chest. 

          “How you?” Floyd managed before a coughing fit. 

          “I trained with the SEAL’s back in ’93,” Constantine said.