I was pretty goddamn disoriented waking up on the floor in a magenta, camouflage sleeping bag. Thrashing about like a meth-head caught in cellophane, I managed to free myself from gullet of the stomach of that polyester devil! I was even more confused when I realized I was wearing red-lensed sunglasses and a grass hula skirt.
“Morning sunshine,” Chuck said from atop the bed next to me.
“Jesus in Cambridge! What happened last night?”
“Same as usual.”
“Faith and begorrah… did we get attacked by Spanish pygmy witchdoctors?” Air raid sirens blasting in my head, I crawled towards the bathroom.
“It’s a possibility,” Chuck replied. At this point, I’d made it to the bathroom and had slung my torso into the tub. I struggled to turn the nozzle, but really appreciated the cold water pouring over my head.
“Hey Strat,” Chuck said as he poured a stiff, makeshift Mai Tai into a plastic cup. “Come check out the news: there’s some report about last night!”
“Isn’t that something,” I replied, staggering from the bathroom. I went straight to the miniature desk, filled a plastic cup with ice, then mixed vodka and Red Bull. “Turn up the volume.” We listened with disinterest as a local San Francisco news anchor relayed the previous night’s endeavor in San Jose.
“At least they made us sound good.” I chugged my cocktail and crumpled the plastic cup.
“Looks like things are about to get weird.” Chuck began gulping down his cocktail.
It took every ounce of wit and nonsense for me and Charles to escape the maelstrom in northern California. By the time we watched the news, the San Jose police department had issued an all-points bulletin for our arrest. Unfortunately for those totalitarian bastards, they didn’t know the sort of degeneracy they were facing.
After a quick breakfast at a nearby diner we managed to, under Charles’ guidance, locate the closest thrift store. We walked out in moth-eaten suites, paid for with Chuck’s credit card… which was surprisingly still worked. While Chuck was wearing a blue and white seersucker suit, I was some ridiculous green Madras getup. Used car salesmen, 1950’s pimps, and Freddy Mercury would have been shamed by our appearance.
We had several hours to kill, so we made our way to North Beach. By some demented twist of fate, we found a local Tiki bar that was open and ready for action. Needless to say, we gave them a run for their money in their rum supply.
Around 1pm, it was time to make our move. Traversing Powel Street, we headed into the sketchy parking structure where we’d stashed the ‘Serpico’ the night before.
“This cannot end well,” I said as I popped the boat into gear.
“Have faith,” Chuck said, fiddling with the radio. He settled on an oldies rock station. “These goddamn militaristic, Gestapo swine won’t see this coming! Besides, the ‘Serpico’ is one of theirs: no way they’ll find us in time! Let’s rock.”
As we reached street level, the radio crackled and a new song came into clarity:
“Come on people now, smile on your brother, try and love one another right now…”
“Good God,” I mumbled. “These filthy, hippy nutbags haven’t let go, have they?”
It was smooth sailing for a majority of the ride. Cruising south on the 101, I maneuvered the ‘Serpico’ through the incomprehensible driving patterns of Californians. Of course, though… the easy times couldn’t last. Just one mile from San Francisco International, things went sound faster than coke-addicted co-eds during spring break.
“Uh oh,” Chuck said, looking over his shoulder. This caused him to spill half of his strawberry daiquiri on the upholstery.
“What is it,” I asked, tapping the ash of a cigar on the driver’s side floor. “Did the Scientologists finally catch up with us?”
“No… nothing that bad. But there’s a cop car coming up fast with his lights on.”
“Goddamn civil disobedience. When will people learn to obey the basic laws of society?”
“Tell me about it. And the worst part is I don’t think this guy got the message. He seems to be coming for us.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said, biting down on the cigar. “What did we ever do to society?”
“I’m pretty sure we’ve done a bang-up job protecting society,” Chuck said with a shrug. “But, I think we are speeding.”
“Really? I’m only going 102, and I’m making sure to dodge all the slower cars in front of us.”
“Some people just don’t understand decency,” replied Chuck, shaking his head in utter disappointment.
“I suppose he wants us to pull over,” I said, eyeing the side view mirror.
“Don’t forget we need to return the car.”
“That’s true,” I said. Just then, I noticed the exit for Rental Car Return. “Shit, I almost forgot: we need to fill the gas tank.”
“Oh man, they charge a ton if you don’t take care of that.”
“Noted.” I quickly checked my side mirrors again then yanked the wheel all the way to the right. The ‘Serpico’s’ wheels screeched as the elongated chassis lurched, strained by the G-force. We swerved over a set of plastic pylons onto the nearby exit ramp. We came to a gliding halt before turning right, away from the rental return.
“Oh man,” Chuck said, looking back towards the highway. “That cop car just plowed into a minivan!”
“Belligerent pugilists! Always harassing the innocent. He probably just hit some demented Swedish tourist, too!”
“They’ll probably go home with a bad impression of America now.” Chuck lowered his head. “Such a shame.”
The ‘Serpico’ skidded to a halt at a nearby 76 gas station. As we pulled up, an obese man in an ill-fitting suit screamed and gave us the finger.
“Watch the Benz you fucks!”
“Hey now,” I said through the open window. “We’re all honest, hard-working pilgrims here!”
“Fuck yourself, you queers!” And with that, he stormed off… leaving the catch lever on the pump to fill his tank.
“That was uncalled for!”
“What can you expect,” Chuck said. “He’s lacking in basic social skills. Turn the car around.”
Chuck abruptly jumped out of the car, slamming the door shut in the process, and then jogged towards the Mercedes. I’d learned long ago not to argue with my associate, so I put the ‘Serpico’ in gear and backed up to the pump.
Chuck took control of the fat guy’s pump. After ceasing pumping, he quickly deposited the hose into our Crown Victoria’s gas tank. Soon enough after, the pump stopped: apparently the ‘Serpico’ had taken its fill of the fossil fuels and was rearing to go. Chuck returned the nozzle into the Mercedes and jumped back into the Crown Vic. I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal and the ‘Serpico’ darted out of the gas station like a PCP-addicted buffalo!
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