Fubar

by Ron Carpol

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” I told him about the Rolex place that repaired the watch.

  “I’ll call them. You got any insurance on it?”

  “Yeah. My father insures everything our family owns except losses from earthquakes and floods.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know anybody who can start an earthquake or flood?”

  _____

  “Anything illegal about having kiddy-porn?” I asked Nuppi on the phone as Vysell leafed through Chesterfield’s photos wide-eyed as he sped along to the tow yard.

  “Fuck yes! Just possessing it, it’s a federal offense, like robbing a bank or killing the President! Stay away from that shit!”

  13

  MORGUE MEAT

  I RUSHED AHEAD OF VYSELL DOWN A DUSTY ENTRANCEWAY lined with randomly-parked cars on either side that led to the tow yard’s brown job-shack.

  Seconds later I demanded my truck from the guy with blue-black skin behind the counter who was punching a computer keyboard.

  “Sorry. Can’t release it,” he said in a high-pitched, Mike Tyson voice after checking the computer. “You owe $1,374 in unpaid parking tickets. And you need a RELEASE FORM from the Parking Bureau showing the tickets are paid.”

  “Not because of my warrant?”

  This Kunta Kinte look-alike shook his bullet-shaped, shaved head and lit a cigarette, holding it between his teeth in the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”

  Was my rightful inheritance now coming down to not paying a few chickenshit parking tickets?

  I fished out a C-note and laid it on the counter, smugly ready to prove again that my father’s motto always worked.

  “I’ll be back with the RELEASE but right now I need my schoolwork out of my truck. Got to turn it in by five tonight or I’ll get an F in the class.”

  The whites of his dark eyes got bigger looking down at the money.

  “Sorry, mister,” he said in a voice that sounded more British with each word. “Can’t. Got to follow the rules. And you should too.” He picked up a photocopy of a printed map from a pile on the counter and handed it to me. “Parking Bureau is on Pico and you better hurry. They close at five. Us at seven.” He checked his watch. “It’s nearly 3:30 now.” As I scooped up the hundred, he added, “Something else. They take checks, we don’t.”

  _____

  The dashboard clock read 3:44 when Vysell’s front tires bounced against the curb in front of the gray Citibank Building where the Parking Bureau was located on the ground floor. A Washington Mutual Bank was across the street.

  I rushed out of the car, jaywalked across the street and some fucking motorcycle cop hiding between two parked cars revved his siren a little causing me to twist around and look at him. He coasted up to me at the curb.

  “You jaywalked,” he grumbled, pulling out his ticket book.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Well, hurry up and write it. I got to get to the bank.”

  Younger than me, he smiled and intentionally took three times as long to print the information from my drivers license on the ticket before he handed it to me for my signature. I scribbled the illegible words FUCK YOU and hurried to the bank.

  Then I almost choked, counting twenty-seven people ahead of me in line with only three teller windows open. Fuck that shit! I’d be here for an hour and never make the fucking deadline! The hands on the big wall clock over the door read 3:50. My stomach started acting up again, with piercing, stabbing pains that were shooting in every direction. I had to do something else to get cash. And goddamn fast!

  Trying not to look like a fleeing bank robber, I rushed as fast as possible out of there and spotted pay dirt on the next block: a purple neon sign that said MO’S CHECK CASHING and tore-ass over there.

  Probably designed by a blind architect, it was nothing but a gray, stone cinderblock fortress, with a silver crown of barbed wire covered by razor wire around the roof.

  I hurried inside. The black-faced clock stating OZZIE’S BAIL BONDS read 3:53. Time was close; but I still had a shot at making the deadline. I chewed six Rolaids at once, hoping they would relax my gurgling stomach. But instead, they made me retch and gag.

  One employee was behind each of the two open windows with the mostly immigrant crowd patiently standing in two lines in front of each window. I was the third person in my line.

  To speed things along while standing there, I wrote out my check to Mo’s for two thousand which should more than cover the tow, the tickets and Mo’s check cashing fee, whatever that was.

  At 3:58, still holding the check, I was in front of Window #1.

  A razor-thin, walnut-skinned guy with cornrows and a big smile like Chris Rock said, “Hi. What can I do for you?”

  I slipped the check, my drivers license and a Visa Card into the curved, silver tray under the thick, bulletproof glass.

  Before I could say a word, some fucker who stunk of liquor grabbed me from behind in a headlock and slammed the barrel of a gun against my lips! Blood spurt out immediately!

  “Suck it!” he ordered in a surprisingly clear voice.

  I was shocked he had no accent like most criminals. Terrified, I opened my mouth slowly before he rammed the gun barrel between my barely-open lips with the front sight slicing the roof of my mouth. I started spitting out more blood. Then I literally shit in my pants!

  Something must’ve happened to my ears since my hearing clicked on and off like it was controlled by a switch. People screamed! People ran! And my asshole kept spurting out shit that oozed down both pant legs and over the tops of my Pumas onto the gray linoleum floor!

  “You stink like shit!” the psycho behind me growled, forcefully shoving my back toward the bulletproof glass with the shaking gun still in my mouth! All sounds stopped again. Ringing silence pierced my ears and the stench from the load clinging to my legs and shoes smelled even stronger. Suddenly my hearing temporarily returned, just in time to know I was going die there!

  “Money! Or he dies!” the robber screamed at the Chris Rock guy whose eyes got as big as saucers.

  “Can’t,” he stammered, motionless. “Not without the boss’ OK.”

  With my left hand, I pulled the shaking gun out of my mouth and with my right hand, I slammed my open palm against the glass. “Give him the fucking money or he’ll kill me!”

  “Sorry. Can’t.”

  “Get the fucking boss then!” I cried out hysterically, knowing that otherwise the robber would kill me, either intentionally or accidentally.

  “Mohammed’s not here. But his wife is.”

  I was frantic. “Get her over here!”

  I could tell the robber’s pulse rate quickly increased by the rapid speed of his breathing on the back of my neck. Then his breath turned to a hiss before it almost hummed. The guy was freaking out on something.

  Seconds later some cube-shaped character totally draped in black except for exposed, black pig-eyes slowly waddled up to the window.

  “Give him the money,” I demanded, pointing behind me to the robber with my closed right fist with an extended thumb, “or he’ll kill me!” I looked like an umpire calling a base runner out.

  Darth Vader didn’t say a fucking word.

  “She don’t speak English,” the loyal employee answered.

  “I got a bomb under my coat!” the quick-thinking robber blurted out. “The bulletproof glass won’t protect nobody! “We’re all going to die together!”

  The Ayatollah’s follower suddenly remembered her British college education. “OK.”

  She muttered something to the Chris Rock guy who slowly began pushing dollar bills under the glass towards us.

  “Twenties, fifties, hundreds!” the robber thundered. “Now!” Then he started sniffing some more before his short gasps turned into gagging. “You stink!” he snarled at me again. “Stay against the glass! Away from me!”

  My ass felt like a broken faucet that wouldn’t shut off. As I twisted around, my right hand bounced against my cell phone
in the holder on my belt. I felt for what I prayed was the speed-dial button and fumbled around for number three, punching it, hoping like hell Vysell could hear what was going on and call the cops.

  The Chris Rock guy at my window was now pushing out five dollar bills but Mo’s wife still only slid out ones and doing it as slow as possible. So far the robber probably pocketed less than a hundred bucks.

  “Big bills and faster,” he yelled. “Or we’re all going to die together!”

  The Chris Rock guy finally became a believer. He hurriedly pushed a bunch of twenties, fifties and hundreds under the glass like they were typhoid-infested. But not the thing hiding inside about a thousand yards of black drapery. She kept sliding out those dollar bills into the tray under the window like she was in slow motion.

  “Hurry up you stupid-fucking-Arab-cunt-ass-bitch!” I screamed. “Give the guy all the money or he’ll kill everybody!”

  The robber quickly scooped up the cash from the Chris Rock guy as fast as it slid out the window until the bills stopped coming.

  “No more cash,” the Chris Rock guy said. “You got everything.”

  The robber shoved me toward the other window. “Get over there!” he ordered, his voice now sounded like his cheeks were full of sand.

  A brown, semi-liquid trail of shit followed my path. Cautiously, I looked around. Nobody else was in the place.

  For the first time I got a good look at the robber. He was a sweaty, dark-haired white guy, wearing a Mighty Ducks jersey. Red, blotchy sores covered most of his cheeks. He pointed his gun at me again.

  “You’re my hostage. Move, and you’re dead.”

  I was hyperventilating when my eyes looked up at the clock. It was almost a 4:15. I was nearly out of time! I could never pay the parking tickets, never get my truck at the tow yard, and never get back to school to hand in my ghost-written Econ term paper before 5:00. FUCK! Being at this robbery cost me five million dollars!

  Looking out the front window, I spotted two cop cars suddenly stop in front of the place. Four uniformed officers holding shotguns quickly took cover behind them.

  The slimy bastard with the gun started shaking again, looking over at me. I glanced at the Chris Rock guy and his employer’s wonderful wife, who each had a ringside seat to the robbery, safe from behind bulletproof glass. They were muttering something to each other and nodding.

  I knew right then, I had to make a run for it or get killed for sure by either the cops or the robber. I gasped for breath a few times and then I ran, leaving another light trail of shit dripping from my shoes and pant legs along the floor!

  As soon as I got to the front door, a uniformed cop with dark skin and pink discoloration on his hands appeared from the side of the door. He pulled the door open and yanked me outside by my right arm away from the possible line-of-fire.

  “Over there,” he said, deeply sniffing the air and pointing to the wall. “Keep that stink away from us.”

  I couldn’t believe it! I made it outside alive! This was the first time I ever felt grateful to see the police until some little beaner cop with a Zapata mustache grabbed my sore right arm before handcuffing my hands behind my back!

  I was flabbergasted. “What the fuck is this?” I yelled indignantly. “I got robbed! The robber’s still inside!”

  “Keep that shit smell away from me and keep walking,” the cop ordered, lightly pushing me in the back.

  We walked away from the building and down the street for about half a block before turning the corner and stopping at the side of a parked black and white police car.

  “Don’t get in,” he ordered. “You’re not stinking up my car. Just stay here with me. If you try to escape I’ll shoot you.”

  “Stafford!” Vysell’s voice frantically called out from the back seat. “What the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

  I flinched and looked inside and saw that he was sitting there alone, also handcuffed.

  “I don’t know. The cops are crazy.” I paused for a few seconds before I remembered the Econ papers in my truck. Then I remembered the cellophane kiddy-porn envelope still stuffed inside my T-shirt! “What time is it?” I screamed at the low-rider cop.

  “Nearly 4:25.”

  _____

  A short, fat cop with sergeant stripes and a hanging gut approached me a few minutes later. With his face pinched like he was sucking a lemon, he froze when my stink became obvious. He backed away a little. “Got some questions for you. Now—”

  “I was a goddamn customer!” I yelled, interrupting this pig who’d never host a Jenny Craig commercial. “Ask the Chris Rock guy!”

  “Chris Rock in there?” the dumb cop with tobacco-stained teeth asked.

  “No. The guy who works there looks like him. I handed him my check and ID when the fucking robber grabbed me.”

  “Bullshit,” the puffy-cheeked idiot answered. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Go ask him!”

  The fat bastard told the little Mexican to watch us and walked away. Seconds later, what sounded like gunshots rang out.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Vysell asked nervously through the open window.

  “Some asshole tried to rob the place and threatened to kill me and everybody else in there.”

  “Why’d they think I was involved?”

  “Cause you were the getaway driver, parked outside with the engine running.”

  “I heard the robbery on the cell phone and called the cops. Then I drove here to get you, hoping you’d get out of there.” He sneezed a couple of times and shook his head, accurately aiming the dripping snot onto the car seat. “Why do they think you’re involved?”

  “Cause I yelled at the employees to give the robber the fucking money. Otherwise he’d kill me.”

  _____

  About five minutes later the sergeant with the saddle bag gut and flabby jowls walked back smiling. “Let them go,” he told the pint-size taco. “Here’s your ID back,” the beefy cop added, handing it to me. “But we’re keeping the check for evidence that you weren’t involved. Stay here. We’ll take your statements in a little while.”

  Seconds later Vysell and I were standing on the sidewalk, each rubbing our sore wrists.

  My stench immediately hit him. When his eyes got to my pant legs he started laughing. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, sniffing the air with revulsion on his face.

  “Couldn’t find a toilet fast enough,” was my lame explanation.

  “What time is it?” I asked Vysell.

  “Almost 4:35.”

  “Got to pay the parking tickets by five.”

  “You’re not going in my car.”

  I quickly scribbled out a check and handed it to him. “Will you go back and pay the tickets? I’ll take a cab to the tow yard and meet you there. Got to find an ATM to get some cash first.”

  He smiled a little, like he was relieved that I didn’t press him for a ride. “Sure.”

  “What about the robber?” I asked the cops. “I think I heard gunshots.”

  Both of Porky Pig’s relatives smiled before the three-striper answered with a laugh. “Morgue meat.”

  _____

  “Too bad you’re late with the term paper,” the old bitch cackled in a clickety-clack voice like her false teeth were loose. “But unless it’s here by five you’re getting an F.”

  “I’m dropping it off anyway.”

  “Good. I’ll use it to start the logs in my fireplace.”

  “But that’s not fair,” I whined, knowing it always worked on my mother. “My truck got towed and the Econ term paper was in it. I was cashing a check for the tow yard money and walked into a robbery. The cops killed the robber.”

  “Yeah?” My wonderful afternoon suddenly seemed to get her attention. “Any news trucks at the scene?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Who cares why? Just give me your home address, phone number, and what kind of car you drive.”

  As soon as I did, she
hung up on me.

  _____

  “Why’d you help the robber?” a prissy-looking blond guy in a blue blazer asked into a microphone that he jammed against my sore lips as soon as I opened my truck door in front of my apartment house.

  I blocked my eyes for a second with the USMC cap when the other asshole who held the video camera aimed a powerful spotlight in my face.

  “You’re crazy. I was a customer.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Hell no. I’m used to tough situations.” I waved the cap by the bill. “Got a family of Marines.”

  “What’d the robber say?”

  “I don’t know. Just robber shit.”

  “See him get shot?”

  “Yeah. The cops fragged him with grenades. How’d you find me?”

  “Anonymous caller. We’re the station that offers up to a thousand dollars for a good news tip.”

  _____

  “You plagiarizing motherfucker!” I screamed at Ali Reza after my twenty-minute shower finally ran out of hot water. “I’m paying you for original work! Not copies off the Internet!”

  His voice quivered. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it now. It’s finals week here. I have to study. You’ll have to do it yourself.”

  I ignored his pitiful excuse. “Can’t! Got Hell Week starting this Monday night! It’s more important than your goddamn finals! Hang on.”

  I quickly hooked up my tape recorder to the phone.

  “You there?” I asked after about ten seconds of silence.

  His voice suddenly had an edge. “Nobody I tell can believe that I’ve done all your school work for the entire semester.”

  “So what? You’re being paid, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t feel good about it. It’s more than cheating. I’m helping you defraud your school.”

  “Don’t you cheat at Dartmouth?”

  “Yeah, a little. But not like that. Not total plagiarism.”

  “Listen to this,” I said after rewinding the tape. I played it and heard him gasp at his admission of cheating. “Listen you fucking Arab! You want the president of Dartmouth to hear this?”

  His voice stuttered as he finally spoke. “W-w-what’s the title again?”