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It’s a pissy day out and this lady behind the liquor store counter won’t quit giving them dirty looks for lingering about inside. As if they want to venture out on their bikes when it’s hailing cats and dogs outside. Some ferrets too. Chris and Glenn aren’t even buying anything. They’re loitering at the door, fingering boxes of cigarettes they can’t crack open just yet.
…maybe that’s why she’s fussy, her beady eyes weaving themselves into the very fabric of their jackets with her hardly innocuous stare. Luckily Glenn’s in leather, the glares bounce off. Christophe isn’t so immune and Christophe makes a face, like… goddamn, can’t we just stand here? The sort of look mean girls give you in high school when they think you’ve got a staring problem. He puts a squint in his eyes, a camber in his neck and then Glenn’s elbowing Chris for his attention. The hail: it’s starting to let up, but their ride’s already here.
Christophe is bouncing his shoulders, jerking his faux fur hood up over his head. The antiseptic scent of distilled spirits and hops coalesce into the burning, wintry one that awaits the two of them as Miklan’s dirty fucking truck rolls up, Sothis Christ. Can’t the fucker at least fix that headlight? Makes Chris nervous (everything makes Chris nervous.) The brisk assault of the whipping winter air only lasts long enough for the two of them to pile on in, loading their bikes into the bed of the pick-up before squishing themselves together.
You see, the truck’s a two seater and there’s three bitches inside. For all of Christophe’s width (the scrawniest of the three,) he’s the tallest at a sizable 6’4”. It’d be hell to try and fit himself up on the center console like Glenn does, so Glenn climbs in first. His nimble little five foot something ass is poised like a piece of meat between Christophe and Miklan’s shoulders, and he’s griping before the door on Christophe’s side has even slammed shut.
“When the fuck are you inheriting that goddamn minivan?”
“When I’m dead in the fucking ground,” huffs Miklan, his fat thumbs tapping impatiently against the steering wheel; Christophe’s paying too close attention to the angular bones in his wrists and elbows, surrounded by tattoo and sinew. “At this point, I’ve gotta accept they’re never gonna fucking give it to me.”
Miklan adjusts his rearview mirror. “My windshield cracks ‘cause a fucking golfball nails it, you’re selling that Switch to pay for it.”
“Drive fast then,” Chris mutters with a roll of the eyes, yanking his door shut.
It’s quiet for a bit, and then, “of course I’m selling the damn Switch, Mik. Felix and I already got one each.”
Chris and Mik exchange glances across Glenn’s lap. Rich people. Not like Miklan gets a cent from his parents and Christophe’s fairly middle class. The bougie boy with his black designer boots laced up sharp was the one with the idea. Go figure: the guy who somehow can’t get enough is psyched to be a criminal. They all played truant in high school, but Glenn’s always been almost too excited.
“Hell do you need to do this for, then?” Chris says with a smack of the lips.
“Fun,” says Glenn, the single syllable spat out like a movie title.
Shoving a Lucky Strike No-Filter in his face, Christophe puffs. He doesn’t get it, but Glenn’s his pal all the same, even if he doesn’t shut the fuck up about Starcraft.
The heat is blasting to no avail. Cigarette smog fogs the car. Miklan’s steering with his knee, shimmying his hands together and holding them out to the air vents with a click of his tongue. Lukewarm at best, and it’s a fifteen minute drive here from his house. Yeowch. This thing’s a fucking jalopy.
“Gonna find a nice little tree to park under when we get there and start praying to fuck that this hail knocks it off.”
“You think fuck’ll answer?” drones Chris.
“No.”
“Everyone shut the fuck up,” says Glenn and the truck peels around a corner. It checks the curb.
“Holy shit,” goes Chris.
This getaway vehicle is pretty essential to their escape. Chrisglenn as they’ve been dubbed risk too much if they’ve not got a man ready to step on the gas the very moment they sprint from the store. …not like sprinting would be the best idea. What Christophe and Glenn have learned about thievery is that the more natural you seem, the less people will look at you. It’s as simple as remaining inconspicuous. It’s a tad harder when you’re over six foot, but that’s why Glenn’s the one with the backpack in his lap. They’ve done this more times than they can count at various locations but this Target in particular’s a joke. The employees suck.
Glenn’s said so on occasion: “Loss prevention in this bitch blows.”
That’s why they’re getting dropped off in separate increments, Glenn at the mouth of the parking lot some yards away and Christophe at the door. This may seem weird to anyone who’s not done this song and dance but they’re practiced and learned. The less they look like they belong together, the more they can fuck around. The more they can get away with it.
Christophe ignores the hypnotizing red orbs. They sit tauntingly outside of the establishment but they won’t suck him in. He scrubs his cigarette out against one, defiantly. He litters the ground they stand upon. He will not sit atop them and let the time pass him by, nor will he feel tempted to spend money on a Dirt Devil. He’s more stalwart than that. Even once he’s traipsed into the tepid air of the apple-red establishment, he’s far from inveigled by the little white Target dogs and their guiltless charm. No, he will not be ‘gifty’ and ‘thrifty’ and save on his holiday shopping. He’s going to rob these fuckers blind and no beguiling bull terrier can try and change that.
Now where the fuck is the electronics section?
First order of business: procure the Fornite Nintendo Switch bundle. Christophe feigns his interest in the products beside him to the best of his acting prowess, his bandaged up knuckles closing around the cherry-tinted plastic that envelopes the cart handle, shuffling with a slouch toward the back corner of the store. There, locked behind glass and lock and key and associate permission sat their prize: price hiking over $300, the Nintendo Switch—the double helix bundle, as a matter of fact. It’s some… Fornite Edition Nintendo Switch. Don’t… don’t ask Christophe the significance of that when it’s a free fucking download. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. With an employee’s permission, he’s gathered it in his cart and that’s step one.
Step two is to plant it unobtrusively. Christophe’s the king of that, if he can stop tripping over his own fucking feet. Tie your converse, you ass. What is it, 2007? You’re not in a music video for The Used, tie your damn shoes.
“Papa’s gonna pick you up soon,” he whispers to the cardboard box. None of the Barbie dolls in earshot are a fan of it. Much like a gaggle of your friends carefully made on The Sims, they take double minus levels of negatively to it. Not like Christophe cares. He shoves the Switch into a shelf. If the timing’s right, Glenn should be entering the store now.
Step three is upon him: Baby Alive.
Ashe is gonna hate this shit.
Lumbering down the aisle, as chill as one does when one is considering shoving a baby in it’s coat, Christophe keeps his eyes peeled for the blonde haired, curly abomination. He can still remember watching the commercials with a tiny twelve year old Ashe in the room. What a brotherly experience that had been, both of them wincing and cringing, mouths twisting up in horror, unable to unhear the embarrassing warble of ‘time to weewee’ coming out of the baby doll’s uncannily shifting rubber mouth.
Terrible. Terrible!
That’s precisely why Christophe is nabbing him one. What are brothers for? Nasty shitty things like this.
Fuck, and there it is. It’s eyes are so big, like ovals, like someone on the design team had seen an 80s anime and tried to do something with the inspiration. It’s god awful. Christophe can’t fucking wait. He plucks it from off the shelf and takes to unboxing hastily, getting some mileage out of the Swiss Army he’s always got in his pocket. The little plastic bits come falling right off. Christophe can fit the baby in under his shirt. The dinky accessories can hop in his parka; he’s pocketing them when footfall resounds from out behind him and Christophe’s blood runs cold.
Shit!
“What the fuck is that?” says Glenn and Chris feels his ghost hunker back down into his body.
They don’t make eye contact. Christophe’s opening his parka up. Glenn reaches for the Switch off the shelf and bags it. The bag is on his back and no fucker alive is the wiser.
“Baby Alive,” says Chris.
“No shit?” laughs Glenn, his nose wrinkling. “Of all the things to yoink.”
“It shits,” says Chris.
“It does what?”
“It shits.”
“Real shit?”
“Real shit,” parrots Chris, and then Chris lifts up his shirt. Glenn’s got a front row seat to a set of freckled abs on a bony, fucked up torso. Strapped around Christophe’s chest is a belt and once he loosens it up a tad, he’s tucking the baby between the belt and his body. It sits there snug. It even keeps itself upright. What a marvel. Christophe is a genius. He shoves the torn apart box where no one will find it: behind some Bratz Dolls. No one buys them anymore.
“You might just be too good at this,” says Glenn, throwing a Haribo coke bottle gummy in his mouth seconds before he gags and spits a Haribo coke bottle gummy to the floor. “What the fuck was that?”
“Why would you steal a bag of Haribo Starmix?” says Christophe snickering, thumbing some saliva that landed on his face. Wouldn’t be the first time Glenn’s spit was there but still, ew, dude.. “They shove eighty percent of their ‘Happy Cola’ ones in there ‘cause no one buys them fucking otherwise.”
“I’m not thinking logically,” Glenn says. “I just wanna… thieve.”
“Thieve,” echoes Chris. “What else did you grab on the way here?” He supposes while they’re parlaying all dangerously in the same aisle, he might as well snag some treats from him. Those are the easiest to shoplift: just snack and walk.
“These fucking gummy candies—”
“Don’t fucking put that shit in my cart,” says Christophe as Glenn chucks the shit in his cart. “I hate you, I hate you.”
“Some pringles…”
“I want those.”
“No,” says Glenn. “Some Lindt Lindor Truffles…”
“Ew, dude, no,” says Christophe. “They gave to Autism Speaks. Don’t eat their shit.”
“I’m stealing it,” Glenn argues, his beauty mark somewhat jumping up his face as he squints and grimaces at Christophe accusingly. “You stole someone’s Chick-Fil-A bag once. Don’t act like you’re above me, fucking hell.”
Okay… Christophe can give him that. It’s stealing. No money is going to their cause. In fact, by stealing it, you’re actually stopping other potential buyers from ever giving that money that would’ve been spent on it to their cause. Christophe amends the thought, pouting his lip and nodding.
“Actually, you’re right. Carry on.”
“Chick-Fil-A isn’t even good,” grouses Glenn, digging in his bag.
“They just do spicy chicken sandwiches right.”
“You’re such a bad gay, shut the fuck up.”
“I am,” agrees Chris, peering into the black hole, the fucking Mary Poppins bag that Glenn’s big jean backpack has become at this point. “How many bottles of soap you got in there?”
“Some,” Glenn says plainly, lifting one up and snapping the top open. “Smell this.” It’s shoved in Christophe’s face.
Breathing in, Christophe’s eyes dilate. “Shit that’s good. What is it?”
“Herbal Essences hit different.”
“Okay, word though,” and Christophe can see now why Glenn’s hair is so damn silky and shiny all the time. Christophe’s really gotta lay off the bar soap. Maybe Glenn will share some of this loot when they’re done.
“Have you picked out anything but this dumb doll?” Glenn asks.
“Nah, this run was your idea,” insists Chris. “I’m here for the moral support… and to get you that damn Switch.”
“Fair, I guess,” says Glenn.
“Don’t see why you need to, anyways, with all the money you’ve got.”
“Dad’s a dick. He’s been cutting me off.”
“Ooooh,” sneers Christophe, wiggling his mummified fingers at Glenn. “Might have to fuck around and get a job or some shit.”
“Fuck off, as if.”
“Can’t play Dota 2 your whole life.”
“I’m doing university full time,” says Glenn, tugging on the collar of his leather jacket. “Piss off. I don’t need a job.”
Christophe’s yawning, “you’re lazy as shit.”
“I’m double majoring in physics and economics.”
“And yet somehow useless as shit.”
“Fuck you.” Glenn kicks the cart into Christophe. It pounds him in the stomach.
After scuffling for half a minute or so, they get the hell out of that aisle.
Christophe’s loading his cart full of shit he won’t buy, just ‘cause it looks good and less suspicious to be roaming around with nothing to show for it. When the time comes, he’ll leave it behind. Glenn all the while is filling his bag to the brim. He abuses Christophe’s height, sneaking in the shade of his silhouette to stock up on mini candles and a whole box of Christmas shaped condiment holders (just… just dump all that shit in the bag, Glenn.) Christophe sneaks a few more items into the fabric of his pockets: a pack of AA batteries, a few bottles of ibuprofen (Chris goes through them like candy,) and a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
Mission accomplished. Now they just need to nail their exit.
Glimpsing over his shoulder for probably the first time today, ever the master of insouciance and cool, Christophe’s sleazy little green eyes detect the hint of a nosy employee. You know the ones, that come up and ask you if you need anything ‘cause they can tell that you aren’t gonna buy shit. Yeah, she’s got a butchy looking haircut and Christophe knows that if it had not been for her station, the very laws of this land, she would have slaughtered them both.
That’s fine, Chris decides. They’re just on their way out, splitting down the middle as they were meant to all along. She hovers nearby Glenn which is what they’d both expected. Christophe’s outfitted in a baggy parka but Glenn’s got an overstuffed bag and it’s sagging down his back. There’s no mistaking the fact that it will beep like a motherfucker the moment that Glenn is out the store so he’s gotta be the last to leave.
Storming to the west entrance where Miklan’s truck should sit, license plate wrapped up in a plastic bag and hot air hopefully running through that bitch, Christophe’s confidence leaks out from behind his hazy smile. He walks past the censor as it starts to blare and not a worker alive can call out loud enough to make him move any slower. In fact, the adrenaline kicks in and as soon as Miklan’s gesturing wildly from the truck, his heart beat skyrockets and he’s leaping, scrambling into the truck. His legs are still out the door when Miklan stomps on the gas again.
“Mik!?”
They gotta get Glenn. He’s at the east entrance.
Just as Miklan zooms up to the sliding doors, melting skid marks into the blacktop of the parking lot, Glenn Fraldarius flies from the Target like a bat out of hell, crashing bodily into Christophe as he makes it into the truck.
“Close the door! Shut the door!”
“Go go go go!”
A cacophony of voices ring out. The truck tires roar. The truck is too warm, too hectic and heavy and they’re all squished together. Glenn’s bag clatters to the floor of the passenger side. Christophe is sat up on the center console between Glenn and Miklan, the sounds of their laughter shaking through him. There’s a tint in his cheeks. He can feel their breaths on his face. He shrieks, “goddamn, how’d that work!?” Miklan grins at him, something quirky, something electric.
“‘Cause we’re good at it,” he says.
Glenn’s hand runs back through his liquidy black locks, sweat forming on his skin. “Fuck me running.” He slaps Christophe’s open palm. Mission complete. Ashe gets his shitty doll, and Glenn gets cash to blow on loot crates.
“I drove. Where the fuck’s my high five?” says Mik.
“Shut the fuck up,” the other two bark, synchronized.