Like Jason Statham in the Transporter, who’s a a big, burly, buff martial artist who kicks ass, breaks necks, and screams around town in his black Audi, I, too... drive a black Audi.
So when I was called upon to drive around a rich executive’s pretty young assistant, I gladly accepted.
"I don't see any documents, but I think I see my Rolex."
"When does the job start?" I asked.
"Now," said the voice on the other end of the line, right as the phone clicked and I got an earful of dialtone.
The girl was in the trunk. Don’t ask me why, but girls are always stored in trunks. I keep mine in a basement because it’s darker and harder to escape (modern cars have that stupid trunk release from the inside that makes it easy to get out, complete with hilarious diagram), but whatever. She clambered up into the passenger seat, none too happy to be there.
“You need to drive, now,” she instructed, in a Russian or Polish or maybe Ukrainian accent. I would have asked her which one, but they always seem so damned hurt over that, like I should CLEARLY know the difference between a Russian woman and a Polish woman and a Ukrainian woman and a woman from the southern tip of Uzbekistan.
“We’re being pursued,” she told me, calmly, eyes darting back over her shoulder with great urgency. “We’re being chased by Russian mobsters that want my father, who is a major political figure, dead, and me, his unnaturally hot daughter (considering he’s an ugly old man) is wanted dead also. Naturally, my father’s henchmen paired me up with you, an attractive driver in my same generic age range who will be more likely to sexually connect with me at the end of this. Oh, also… we need to go to King Soopers for some Lucky Charms and frozen breakfast burritos for your brother in law.”
You said a mouthful, sister.
I slammed the car into first gear, the turbo gave a not-so-manly whistle, and we zipped off to King Soopers.
Sure enough, they were waiting for me in the breakfast aisle—four Russian goons with foreheads like canyon walls and eyebrows thicker and furrier than Robin Williams armhair. They were ugly motherfuckers, and they were mad at me for wanting to bring their sworn enemy some food. With five, yeah five big muscleheads between me and Lucky the Leprechaun, I took off my Armani jacket, handed it to the assistant, and stepped into action (can’t dirty up the jacket).
The first goon was fed a hearty meal of knuckle sandwich, which sent him into a bargain bin of knock off cereals. The second one I kicked in the junk so hard his testicles exploded.
Clean up on aisle three, bitches.
The third and the fourth were more work, because they each grabbed an arm of my button up shirt and pulled with all of their might. Apparently the buttons on my $200 shirt are of poor quality, because they ripped and the shirt came clean off, exposing the glistening, well oiled muscles beneath. This always happens to me. WTF? I need higher quality shirts.
Regardless, I used that very shirt to acrobatically and skillfully choke the two goons unconscious by tying their necks together and pulling until the veins in their throats burst.
I guess you could say that that day I dressed.... to kill.
The two remaining goons, of the six that had showed up (yes, six), were twins, and I’ll be damned if those two didn’t both look like Louie Anderson; they were fat, gap-toothed, pedophile looking motherfuckers with greasy hair and grating, nasally voices that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, and they both came at me hard as the first Louie Anderson said to me, “You’re mine, bitch.”
I delivered to the two of them a single roundhouse kick so deadly it's currently being studied as a way to fuel rocket ships by NASA, and sent their now dead bodies into a coffin of Crunchberries. I felt sorry for the poor sap who was going to have to clean this mess up.
Later, in the car, the assistant wanted to thank me.
"I want to make love to you," she said, in a sultry tone that would have been more sultry if she didn't have that weird eastern European accent, the one that makes everything sound like a hard consonant. It was like getting seduced by Hitler. "But I am betrothed to be married on this day next week, to the evil warlord my dad is in business with, even though I want nothing to do with him."
"Oh, that's cool," I told her. "I'm engaged, and my fiance's pretty damn hot. Plus, tonight is taco night, and I don't want to be late for tacos."
And so we made our getaway in the black Audi, back to her boss to drop off the goods, and go figure, he was mad that it took so long. We both figured it was best to keep our mouths shut, but if only he knew the lengths we went through to get that sugary marshmallow cereal.
If only he knew.
Mmmm, taco night.
Stay classy, friends,
Mood: Exhausted from all that ass kicking
Beer: Sam Adams Noble Pils
Shower: How do you get the blood of dead Russians out of your hair? Asking for a friend.
The author's car, between ass kickings, when it's running (which is not often, goddamn Germans)