Monsoon

Act I

Marengo

Napoleon was his first name but people just called him Nappy. He had a slender body and his face was covered by a latex mask, in the shape of a doe’s head. As he cut his way through the fence with a set of bolt cutters; his partner in crime, Tommy Two Scoops, pressed his gloved palms against the chain link to prevent a tink. He too wore a mask, but that of a cartoonish wolf, with large teeth, and bulbous eyes.

The sharp end of the bolt cutters gripped the wire. “Last one,” said Nappy as he squeezed the handles together. He removed his backpack from his shoulders as he crouched to enter the gap he cut into the fence. They held the chain link open for one other as they entered the impound lot, crouched behind a conversion van, and kept a keen eye on their surroundings, while they spoke in hushed tones.

“We need a 1992 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. It’s Sapphire Blue Firemist,” said Tommy Two Scoops.

“Just say blue,” said Nappy.

“I would say blue if it was blue. But tha’ motha’ fucka’ is Sapphire Blue Firemist.”

“How do you want to get the 1992 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham in Sapphire Blue…umm…”

“Saphire Blue Fire Mist, Fuck. We open tha’ motha’ fuckin’ gate. There is a guard in tha’ shack up front. Knock him out with tha’ bolt cutters.”

Nappy felt the weight of the bolt cutters in his hand, “A little much, Tom. He’s just doing his job.”

“Well what tha’ fuck are we doing?”

“Our jobs I guess.”

“Right. So we get tha’ job done or he gets tha’ job done.”

“A conflict of interest,” Nappy licked his lips, “Maybe.”

“Maybe nothin’. I’ll find tha’ Fleetwood Brougham. You get tha’ gate open,” said Tommy Two Scoops as he disappeared into the darkness.

The brightness of the stars illuminated the rows of cars, pickup trucks, and sport utility vehicles parked in long columns. At the front of the lot was a guard shack on an elevated cement pad.

Nappy searched for something to stand on so he could look into the window. He found a small maintenance shed which contained cardboard boxes stacked up to the ceiling. He opened the top of a box, found aerosol cans full of brake cleaner, and was surprised at how heavy it felt. He carried it back to the shack, placed it under the window, and stood on top of it.

A man in his mid-fifties, with salt and pepper hair parted to the right, and thick bifocals perched on the bridge of his nose, was glued to an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. A chrome six gun revolver sagged in the holster on his hip. The massive firearm made his thigh look tiny. Robert Stack, the host of the television program, detailed the events of a man known as Charles Morgan, an escrow lawyer, who was found murdered outside Tucson, Arizona in 1977. One peculiar detail at the crime scene was a two dollar bill pinned to his underwear with spanish surnames and other cryptic images written on it.

Nappy thought about Charles Morgan’s dead body as looked at the bolt cutters. His stomach churned as he thought about the way it would feel if he brought them down on top of the guard’s head. The sound it would make. How much he would bleed.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The guard turned to face Nappy in what seemed to be an attempt to answer the telephone before the second series of rings began. Nappy ducked under the window, slipped off the cardboard box, and smacked his head against the shack.

The guard peered into the night from the illuminated interior as he spoke with a calm voice, “This is Dollar.” He covered his brow with his free hand. “No. He hasn’t come by yet. Don’t worry about me. You do your job and I’ll do mine. Plus you owe me for that Wild Cats game.” He moved away from the window.

“No way we shook on it. Don’t be that guy. No, I can’t. I work tomorrow night. Plus, the monsoon is going to shut the whole city down when it hits. They are saying sometime before midnight. It’s supposed to be worse than Tropical Storm Octave in 83’.”

Dollar waited for the other end of the telephone to finish, “You were born in 87’? Well, in 83’ a Monsoon tore through Tucson in the worst of ways. Double digit fatalities, Rita and Santa Cruz rivers overflowed, Marana was under damn water. Make sure you have your life jacket ready. Talk to you later.”

The phone hung up, the volume on the television grew, and the sound of Dollar’s chair as it creaked beneath his weight permeated through the guard shack walls.

Nappy sighed, secured the bolt cutters to his back, and crept to the front gate which he found secured in place. As long as the gate was locked; the Fleetwood Brougham would stay in the impound lot.

Dollar’s company car sat in a lone parking space next to the maintenance shed. Nappy’s smile sprawled from one ear to the other. He retrieved the cardboard box full of aerosol cans from the maintenance shed, held the box on his hip with one hand, while he pulled the door handle with the other.

A chill ran up Nappy’s spine. His shoulders shuddered. He did not ignore his sudden urge to crouch, dropped to one knee, and placed the cardboard box in the driver’s seat before he quietly closed the door.

The sound of footsteps in the gravel grew. He laid flat on the ground, scooted underneath the vehicle, and fought the urge to scream inside the confined quarters. Jammed in between the ground and the undercarriage only allowed for his lungs to expand to half of their capacity. His heart hammered inside his chest as Dollar stopped a few feet from his face.

The sound of glass being shattered pierced the night. Dollar turned in the opposite direction and jogged away from Nappy, who fought the urge to emerge, spun the flint on his windproof lighter, and searched for the fuel line.

“There you are,” he said as he severed the rubber hose with his pocket knife. He inch-wormed out from under the car, careful to avoid the puddle of gasoline that leaked from the severed line.

Nappy removed everything from the glove box, stuffed it underneath the driver’s seat, and set the conglomeration of documents aflame. The tinder bundle smoldered as Nappy blew air into it.

“Fire, fire, fire,” he whispered.

The blaze spread around the cardboard box full of brake cleaner. Orange embers billowed from the open doors.

Nappy felt the heat intensify. He shielded his face as he backed away from the burning vehicle.

Dark blacks, purples, and grays of nocturne fought against the piercing oranges, yellows, and blues of the inferno’s blaze. Shadows from the flames licked Nappy’s face as he moved out of the light.

Tommy Two Scoops had his head inside the Fleetwood Brougham when Nappy touched his shoulder, “Motha’ Fucka’. You scared tha’ fuck outta’ of me.”

“You good?” said Nappy with a chuckle.

Tommy Two Scoops smacked his lips and shrugged, “Tha’ motha’ fuckin’ gate open?”

“Not yet.”

“Tha’ fuck you mean?”

An explosion rocked the repossession yard, a fireball churned into the sky, and the darkness momentarily turned to light.

Tommy Two Scoops flinched, slapped Nappy in the chest with the back of his hand, and laughed, “What tha’ fuck did you do, Napster?”

Car alarms blared, as the sound of glass sprinkled the ground, like thousands of tiny symbols.

“Open says me,” said Nappy as he chuckled, “If he wants to stop his company car from burning; he is going to have to open that gate for the fire department. Let’s go before they get here. We got a few minutes tops.”

“That’s my fuckin’ dawg’,” said Tommy Two Scoops as he turned the ignition.

The Fleetwood Brougham did not make a sound.

“Motha’ fucka’ tha’ battery is dead. Get a car over here to jumpstart us.”

“On it,” said Nappy as he hopped out of the seat. He heard the hood pop open as he passed the front of the vehicle.

The wail of emergency vehicles as they screamed in the distance forced him to move faster. He knocked out the window of a station wagon, hot wired the vehicle, and pulled in next to Tommy Two Scoops, who connected the jumper cables. They both ran to the cab of the Fleetwood Brougham.

Tommy Two Scoops removed his wolf mask, “Let’s get tha’ fuck out of this hot ass motha’ fucka’.” The flame from his lighter revealed a goatee, a bald head, and tattoos. The cherry of his unfiltered cigarette burned in the darkness.

“Come on you bitch,” said Tommy Two Scoops.

The Fleetwood Brougham loped to life, Tommy Two Scoops erupted into laughter, and shifted the Cadillac into drive.

The passenger window shattered. A massive chrome revolver, with a barrel to boot, crossed Nappy’s face, and pressed against Tommy Two Scoops’ temple.

“Keep the lit end of that lung dart where I can see it or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head smooth the fuck off,” said Dollar as he cocked the hammer of the revolver.

The cherry, on Tommy Two Scoops’ cigarette, froze; except for the tiniest of trembles.

“Police are almost here. You went and did this all wrong,” said Dollar as he looked over his shoulder at the open gate, “lose the fuckin’ mask.” He nudged Nappy with his elbow.

A bead of sweat rolled from Nappy’s temple, onto his cheek, and joined his sweat soaked shirt. The smell of Dollar’s underarms a few inches from his face filled his nostrils with sharp body odor, cheap cologne, and ineffective deodorant.

Nappy could see the non-filter’s ember in his peripheral vision as it sat still in the dark from the corner of his eye. One thought crossed Nappy’s mind. Any decision is better than no decision. He thrust his elbow into Dollar’s chin with one arm, pushed the revolver to the roof with his other, and screamed, “Go!”

Kaboom!

A bright light ignited as the revolver discharged, the smell of gunpowder filled the cabin, and the rapped out engine seemed far away under the bells which rang inside Nappy’s ears.

As the Fleetwood Brougham screamed across the lot; Dollar hung from the window, “Stop!”

Tommy Two Scoops laughed, smashed the gas, and dragged his Turkish tobacco, “Bitch ass motha’ fucka’.”

Dollar lost his grip, crashed to the gravel, and rolled end over end.

“Oh boy,” said Nappy as he peered into the passenger mirror, “He got up. He is cutting through the cars to catch us at the exit. Go, go, go.”

“If you would have listened and knocked him tha’ fuck out.”

The Fleetwood Brougham drifted around a row of cars, lined up with the open gate, and the big block barked as it made a break for freedom. As the speedometer soared; the unlatched hood blew open.

“Fuck, I can’t see shit,” said Tommy Two Scoops.

“Brakes, brakes, brakes,” said Nappy.

Gravel ground under the locked tires of the Fleetwood Brougham, Tommy Two Scoops turned the steering wheel, and they skidded to a stop just before a flat bed semi trailer turned their hard top into a convertible.

Nappy hopped out of the truck, removed the jumper cables, and secured the hood.

Kaboom! Pop! Tink!

A bullet zipped between Nappy and Tommy Two Scoops’ heads, and disintegrated the rear view mirror.

“What the heck? Go, go, go,” said Nappy as he dove into the passenger seat.

Kaboom! Pop! Tink!

The radio bezel exploded as another round entered the cab. Gravel catapulted violently as the Fleetwood Brougham attempted to gain traction. The vehicle blasted out of the front entrance.

Kaboom! Pop! Plap!

Droplets of warm liquid splattered the left side of Nappy’s body.

“I’m hit,” said Tommy Two Scoops as they exited the lot, “I’m fuckin’ hit.”

Nappy fought the urge to vomit as the smell of iron saturated the cabin.

A fire truck roared past them on its way to the blaze.

“Pull into this neighborhood,” said Nappy.

Tommy Two Scoops pulled the car over, “Turn tha’ fuckin’ light on.”

Nappy broke into a cold sweat as he observed what the magnum round had done to the palm of Tommy Two Scoops’ hand.

“Oh boy,” said Nappy as he turned his head away from the wound.

He felt his vision tunnel, beads of perspiration gathered on his head, and his stomach jumped into his throat. He ripped off his deer mask and threw it on the floorboard.

“Take me to Doc’s,” said Tommy Two Scoops as he scooted into the passenger seat. He removed his belt, wrapped it around his arm, and cinched it tight. He shrieked, spit dribbled from his mouth, as his face grimaced in agony.

Nappy hopped over him, slipped, and fell onto his mangled arm.

“Bitch ass’ motha’ fucka’.”

“Sorry, Dude.” said Nappy as he pulled the Fleetwood Brougham back onto the road with both hands on the wheel.