More on this later… (Part 11)


“Hey Scott, check it out. I’m that Beatle. You know…
George Jefferson.” The wretched sound of sitar

music fills the air as George Turgidson strums
poorly and sings in a bad English accent,

“I play my sitar. My sitar, it is weep-
-ing. While my sitar gently weeps.” Scott scoffs and

throws a wrench at him. “That’s not how the song goes,
dumbass!” he shouts, standing and walking to his

older brother, snatching the instrument from
his hands and playing the melody. “It goes

like this, see? ‘I play my guitar. My guitar
it is weeping. While my guitar gently weeps.’

Do you see the difference between the two?
A sitar is not a guitar, no matter–”

“Guys!” yells a woman. “Can we focus, please? We
have a lot of shit to do and not a lot

of time to do it. Drop the sitar and get
moving before someone catches us in here.

Apocalypse or not, we’re stealing. Someone
see us taking their stuff, they won’t be happy.”

“Sorry, C.C.,” the giants say, hanging their
massive heads in shame. “I feel like we’re in the

Army,” Scott mutters under his breath. C.C.
hears him and turns on the heel of her combat

boot. “You are,” she says. “You’re in my Army. Get
to work or I’ll beat your asses like Patton.”

“I don’t like C.C. anymore. She’s mean now,”
George whispers. “Ever since we robbed that asshole’s

house she’s been pissy,” Scott replies. “I think it’s
because she saw a picture of them on his

desk.” George nods and scratches his chin. “I wish she’d
have let me destroy his stupid typewriter …

or set fire to his drugs—“ Drugs are bad,” Scott
interrupts, “but C.C. still has a thing for

him, I guess. We didn’t take too much from him…”
“Stop talking about Stu and find some weapons!”

C.C. shouts from across the yard. “You two are
worse than a goddamned sewing circle. Jesus

Christ bananas!” George and Scott snicker. “C.C.,
Scott starts with a grin, “Why do you always say
that? It don’t make no sense. Why would Jesus eat

bananas? He was from Nazareth.” “Ain’t no
bananas in Nazareth, C.C.,” George states.

“It’s from a book, you morons,” C.C. snaps. “Now
please, would both of you be so kind as to shut

the fuck up and find some fucking weapons? Please?”
“Sure thing, sis,” Scott says, busting the lock on a

rollup door with a crowbar. Inside the stall
they find all sorts of sex toys, including five

blow up dolls, a sex swing, one sarcophagus
containing a plus-size dominatrix suit

and another for a smaller “gimp” outfit.
Along one wall are magazine pictures of

Jennifer Lawrence and Ricki Lake. “What in
God’s name goes on in here?” George asks. Scott frowns and

pulls the door shut. “I don’t know. I don’t want to
know. Let us never speak about this again.”

Outside the fence lining the storage space, Bart
and Lesley have crept up close enough to see

the three trucks parked nearby. “Who could this be?” Bart
asks, almost in a whisper, and Lesley gives

him an odd look. “What?” Bart asks. Lesley grins. “You
sounded like you were in a movie just now.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bart asks. “Nothing,
Lesley replies. “You reminded me of Luke

Skywalker, that’s all – when he’s on The Death Star
trying to get C-3P0 on the line.”

“Are you telling me I sounded whiny?” Bart asks.
“What? No. You just reminded me of–“ “Shut up,

Lesley,” Bart says, closing his eyes in anger.
“Just stop talking. We need to come up with a

plan. I need to get in my storage spaces.”
“Spaces?” Lesley asks. Bart blinks and looks at the

sign on the office reading Highlands Storage.
“Space,” Bart states. “Just one. You can rent only one.

I’m not thinking clearly. I didn’t get a
lot of sleep last night. Plus it’s hot out…” “It’s

January 1st,” Lesley replies. “It’s not
hot outside. It feels nice, actually. Weird.”

“I wonder what’s going on in there.
They hear a loud bang and a cry of glee from

inside one of the sheds. A man yells, “Jackpot!”
Bart’s powerful shoulders slump and he hangs his

head. “Damn it,” he mutters. “Whoever they are,
they’ve found my weapons cash.” “Do you mean cache?”

Lesley asks. “I don’t think you’re pronouncing that
right,” Bart says. “It’s cash.” “No, Bart,” Lesley replies.

“It’s cache.” “What am I saying?” “Cash. You need
an ‘ay’ at the end of it.” Bart shakes his head.

“No. I don’t think that’s right.” A gunshot goes off.
They drop to the ground. “Did you hear that?” Bart asks…


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