The sweet sounds of AC/DC blasted through my open driver’s side window while I sat at a red light, enjoying a fine cigar that cost more than your average third-world family might make in a decade. Head bobbing in time to the Young Brothers’ hypnotic buzzsaw rhythm, I sang along to the tune, completely oblivious to my surroundings.
“—all the cards were coming, from the bottom of the pack!” I croaked in my singing voice, which I’ve been told sounds a bit like a pneumonia-ridden Fatty Arbuckle. “And if I’d known what she was dealing out, I’d have dealt it back! She’s got—”
“A’ight bumbaclot!” a male voice shouted. “Out da car!”
I turned toward the source of the disturbance and observed a lily-white teenager sporting dreadlocks and a Ziggy Marley T-shirt. More alarmingly, a rather large pistol was clutched in his twitchy right hand.
“Tha’s right, mon!” he said. “Dis a carjackin’! Don’t do not’in’ crazy!”
“Like grow dreadlocks and affect a Jamaican accent?”
“Just a joke to ease the tension, my good man.”
“Jamaica my spiritual home, mon! ‘Tis no laughin’ matter! Now get out da car!”
“Alright, alright,” I said. “Look, I need to get to work in order to close a deal. Maybe we can come to an agreement?”
“Wot kind o’ agreement?”
“Well,” I said, reaching under my seat for the gun I normally keep there, only to remember that it had been confiscated the night before. “Shit.”
“Wot shit, mon? I ain’t t’take no shit off da white devil o’ Babylon!”
“Of course not,” I said. “But perhaps I could interest you in a serious ass-kicking?”
With that, I jabbed the fingers of my right hand into the would-be carjacker’s eyes while simultaneously forcing his gun up and out with my left. He fired once, but before he could get off a second shot I’d kicked my Escalade’s door open, knocking him to the ground.
Long story short, the police arrived to find me seated on the spindly wannabe’s bruised and bloody frame. Moreover, the youth was dead, his chest crushed by my considerable girth. What can I say? Classic case of someone trying to run with the big dogs when they clearly should’ve stayed on the porch.
The only downside is that the cops thought it necessary to ring me up on some laughable manslaughter charges, but again: That’s why I keep so many attorneys on my payroll. Ta ta.
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