My New Wheels Have a First Name

           “No fucking way,” were the only words I could squeeze out as I stood in awe of the prize I had won, the prize that now sat in my front lawn. It was shiny and glistened in the morning sun, a gleam that was only rivaled by the one in my eye. It was glorious and it was mine for a day: The Wienermobile.

            Oscar Meyer had this contest. Write what you would do with the Wienermobile for a day, and the winner would get a chance to live out that dream, if you can call it that. I had entered the contest as a joke, writing paragraph after paragraph about how I would use the vehicle for charity and to delight children with joy and frivolity. And then somehow, someway, by what can only be the work of the devil, I had won. I had the won the actual goddamn Wienermobile for a day. But I didn’t intend to amuse children with it. No, I was going to use it for what I had always dreamed of.

            I was going to rob a bank.

            The Oscar Meyer representative handed me the keys and I assured him that I had driven several large, oversized vehicles shaped like food before. I let my deluded perception of reality sink in, then turned back towards my house. I needed to change. My robe and cowboy boots weren’t going to suit what I had in mind.

            As I dug through piles of clothes searching for my lucky jeans, I called the only person who could help me pull this off: Ellie Ironside. She picks up on the fifth ring.

            “Ellie. We got a job.”

            “Dammit J, I got shit planned.”

            I found my jeans and slipped them on. “It can wait El, I got the ride.”

            What? You got it?”

            “Yeah.” I heard her phone drop and her door slam as she ran to her car. El could be kind of excitable.

            Hanging up my phone, I snapped the buckle on my utility belt and checked all the pockets before grabbing my tank top. The words “YOU CAN’T STOP ME” adorned my chest. Intimidation is important in the larceny business.

            Ellie arrived and we climbed in the Wienermobile, focused on what we were about to do. Pistols, grenades, smoke bombs, and throwing stars lined the inside of my jacket and a knife strapped against my leg rubbed the inside of my boot. I wore a sheathed sword on my back. I didn’t cover my face except for a dark pair of sunglasses over my eyes.

            This wasn’t about money. This was about showmanship.

            We roared into the bank parking lot at 10am, and I zipped into a handicap spot. I figure if I’m going to break the law, I might as well go all out.

            “Keep ‘er running,” I told El. “This shouldn’t take but five minutes.”

            I strolled into the bank with a confident stride and dramatic music started blaring in my head. I swung the doors open and pulled out my berretta with my left hand. I fired a shot into the air and in the same second, knocked the gun out of the guard’s hand with a throwing star before unsheathing my sword and cutting off a man’s ponytail. It looked terrible.

            As I returned the sword to its place, I shot the button for the silent alarm. A woman screamed. Typical. I pulled out a flour sack I had painted a giant dollar sign on and handed it to the man behind the counter.

            “Fill it,” I ordered him.

            As he did, I took a moment to ask everyone how they were doing and if they needed anything. As usual, no one answered. Meanwhile the man returned with my sack of cash. I threw down a handful of smoke bombs and headed for the door shouting, “HAHAHA THE PERFECT CRIME!”

            El threw the rope ladder out of the Wienermobile and I grabbed it, beginning my ascent to the driver’s seat. It’s seriously like a thirty foot climb. I fastened my seatbelt.

            “How’d it go?” El asked.

            I paused. “It was more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

            I shifted the giant hot dog into gear and looked for a hiding spot. My plan wasn’t over yet. I managed to squeeze into an alley and pushed a button I could only assume was the cloaking device. Why the Wienermobile has a cloaking device I’ll probably never know. I still maintain that those Oscar Meyer people are up to something.

            Securely hidden away, we waited for the moment to make our next move. Meanwhile the police had arrived on the scene. And news crews. Tons of them. Video cameras everywhere. El and I watched the live coverage on the giant TV in the Wiener until we saw our opportunity. A news lady interviewed an older woman still frantic from the crime.

            “Did you see what they were driving?” she asked.

            “Yes,” she replied. “It was the Wienermobile!”

            At those words we squealed from our hiding spot and zoomed past the cadre of news vans, firing a roman candle out the window and laughing maniacally. I slowed around a corner, taking care not to roll the Dog, as I had come to call it. Sirens blaring, a group of police cars gave chase. I stared ahead with a grin to see just how perfect everything was working out. The bridge across the harbor had just begun to rise as a boat neared to pass under it. I pressed on the gas, my foot replaced with raw determination. My speed increased as I raced towards the break in the bridge. We soared over it as I let out a shout of joy and adrenaline. I glanced in the rearview mirror only to find the Wienermobile didn’t have a back window. Behind me the cops screeched to a halt and got out of their cars, shaking their fists. It was the single greatest moment of my life.

 

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