My Wilde Ride

“I say! This strikes me a terrible idea.”

Oscar Wilde ignores me as he smashes out the driver's side window with his elbow. He swiftly unlocks the door and climbs in, and I see his head duck quickly underneath the steering column. With a screwdriver in hand, he pries off the casing around the ignition and pulls out a couple of wires. He touches their stripped ends together several times in quick succession. The throaty roar of a V-8 engine turning over greets our ears. Sigmund Freud claps excitedly and gets in on the passenger side. I look around to see if our actions have attracted any attention. I then realize I can't see a damn thing through these fucking Kanye West sunglasses.

I ain't no broke nigga'

"If a pussy doesn't get in the car right now, then I'm going to have to cut him," Oscar Wilde says as he turns to look at me through the broken window, "Sigmund, would you kindly pass the hooch?" Sigmund Freud hands him the bottle of absinthe that we had been nursing for the past half-hour. Goddammit, this is really happening. I crawl into the backseat. I barely have enough time to buckle my seat belt before Oscar slams the car into gear and launches it out into the street. We pull up at a red light and Oscar whistles at a woman walking by.

"Do you see the ass on that one? I would dearly love to show her the Importance of Riding My 8 Inches of Earnest." Sigmund and I exchange a knowing look. Oscar knocks the bottle of absinthe back, and I see his Adams apple going up and down as he quaffs the last of it. As the light turns green, he throws it out of the window where it smashes against the asphalt, spreading thousands of glass fragments across the street.

"Ach, Oscar! Zat vas ze last of ze booze! " Sigmund cried out. "Mein studies have shown zat ze vaste of booze can be directly correlated to vanting to engage in carnal acts vit your mutter." I roll my eyes. Everything always comes down to having sex with mothers or latent homosexuality with Freud. Every time he starts in on this, I can see myself punching him in the throat. I feel his larynx crushing as my knuckles are driven into it. A smile slowly creeps across my face. Almost as if he could see what I was thinking, Oscar's arm darts out and his fist connects with the side of Sigmund's face. His glasses go flying. Sigmund collapses into tears and cowers against the side of the door, trying to put as much distance between Oscar and himself. The sound of Oscar's voice pulls me away from staring at the miserable, sobbing Austrian in the front seat. I look up and see Oscar looking at me in the rear view mirror.

"I think we need some music," he says calmly.

"Have you heard the newest gramophone recording from that Negro artist, Half-Dollar?" I say in a wavering voice. Oscar has reached his violent-drunk stage. I open my bag and dump the contents across the back seat. There are several plastic discs mixed with the lithographs of Bavarian erotica. I hand one of the discs to Oscar and he inserts it into a slot on the dashboard. The sounds of an angry, black man fill the car.

"He does so love those bitches and hoes," I say.

"Indeed." replies Oscar, "I think we need some more to drink." Oscar slows down and pulls the car into the parking lot of a convenience store. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out several woolen objects. He throws one over his shoulder into the back seat and another at Sigmund who is still cowering.

"Put these on, gents." He pulls one of the objects over his head and I see that it is a ski-mask.

"Aloysius, if you would kindly put on your mask. As should you, Sigmund." I reluctantly pull the mask over my head, and Sigmund does the same.

"Here is the plan, gentlemen. Aloysius, if you would be so kind as to get the drinks. Sigmund, I require you to get the snacks. I will deal with payment. Let's be about it, then." Oscar opens his door and as he heads towards the store he pulls a gun from his waistband. Sigmund follows and I bring up the rear. As we enter, Oscar breaks towards the right and covers the cashier. Sigmund heads into the first aisle and begins stuffing bags of Skittles and Hershey's bars into the pocket of his waistcoat. I continue to the back of the store where the floor-to-ceiling glass doors display the racks of drinks. Quickly scanning the rows of beverages, I see my target. I pull open the door and the inside of the glass door fogs over as ice crystals form. I hastily grab two 40-oz bottles and stick them in my pockets. I grab another two bottles. I hold them in my hands and turn for the door. Halfway to the front of the store, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Before I can turn to see what it is, two loud cracks echo through the interior.

"Let's move!" Oscar calmly announces. As I dash out of the door, I see the cashier slumped on the floor, two red holes amidst a spreading field of crimson in the middle of his chest. I throw myself into the backseat. Oscar walks calmly out of the store and fires another two shots into the air.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta'

"What in the bloody hell happened in there!" I yell as Oscar as he gets behind the wheel. I see Sigmund running out of the door with several cans of Pringles in his arms.

"Please don't shout. It makes me dreadfully nervous. The cashier was reaching for an alarm."

"Was it necessary to shoot the poor bastard?" The passenger door slams as Sigmund gets in the car. He dumps his load of chips on the floor by his feet.

"SCHNELL! MACHT SCHNELL! Ve have to get oot of here!" Sigmund screams. Oscar puts the car into gear and sends the car careening out of the parking lot. Before I can get settled, the rear window shatters. Sigmund screams. I glance quickly back and see another car pulling onto the street. I see a man behind the wheel and another sticking a gun out of the passenger window. I duck as the man fires and buries a bullet into the trunk of our vehicle. Oscar looks into rear-view mirror and accelerates.

"Damn, it looks as if Baudelaire has found me," he says.

To be continued...


Dr. Seignor Overwrought XXIII Jr. said...

That's... pretty funny.

Johnny Despair, Esq. said...

Man, everyone was all, "Nah, man, don't let in that geezer. He'll just reminisce about how cheap milk was and like offer us hard candy." I straightened 'em out, though. Old people are friggin' hardcore.

Mr. Jack Happy said...

Oscar Wilde was a Godless heathen, and Sigmund Freud burns heartily in the flames of Hell.

What,what? Can I get a witness? What, what?