Flash Friday 03/07/2015: Bizarre Car
The sign read ‘MOTORISTS: Thieves Operate In This Area!’. This caused the tall and lanky Smiffy to spit on the floor.
“Bastards,” he muttered. “Going around, putting up signs, making our job harder. Who the ‘ell do they think we are, eh?”
The stumpy Johnson raised a finger. “Thieves, mostly.”
The pair of them slinked into the darkened car park like two foxes entering a bin-filled alleyway.
“No, you know what?” Smiffy said. “I resent that. We’re not thieves. ‘Thieves’ is too strong a word. Thieves are what people who go around nabbing money from banks, and stealing jewellery from grievin’ widows, and all that disrespectful guff. All we do is nick radios and tablets and the like.”
“Oh.” Johnson placed a finger on his chin in thought. “So what are we, then?”
“I dunno. Pickpockets, maybe.”
Johnson eyed up a nearby car. “Awfully big pockets.”
“Sharrap, you know what I mean.”
Johnson didn’t, no matter how hard he thought about it. He learnt that arguing with superiors never ended well. Besides, he liked the term ‘pickpocket’. Made him sound like he was out of one of those Dickens books.
It didn’t take long before Smiffy double-took on his patrol. “‘Ello,” he said to himself. “What do we have here, then, eh?” He moved around the car like a leopard on the hunt, peering his crooked face into the window. “Why yes, that’s exactly what I think it is.”
Johnson looked up from his own window-peering. “Found something?”
Smiffy tapped on the window that held his interest. “Wet dream, this is. Old car. Weak security. Laptop computer sitting right on the drivers seat. Well.” Smiffy raised one of his arms backward, as if about to backhand someone. “Looks like someone didn’t read the signs.”
Instead of a slap, Smiffy moved his arm down elbow-first. Johnson knew no diamond drill more cutting and durable than Smiffy’s sharp bones, and they did a damn good job of caving in the car’s window with a crack. Moving a long, slender arm into the car, Smiffy played around with the primitive car lock until something clicked.
“I tells you,” Smiffy said, opening the door. “There’s something about someone who keeps modern technology in an old car that just makes me think they deserve this. Here.” Smiffy handed Johnson the laptop. “Really good haul, these are. Not just for sellin’ on t’Internet for a pretty penny, but all the personal gubbins on it too. Maybe find a bank password or two,” Smiffy added, a glint of glee in his eyes as he wringed his hands. “Right then, let’s bail.”
“Bail?” Johnson said in mild awe. “But what if there’s still stuff in there?”
Smiffy stopped. “More stuff?”
“Yeah. What if they’ve got a load of kit in there that we can nick?”
Smiffy looked into the car. “Didn’t see nuffin more. But, I mean, now that we’re here and all…”
The second item took a little longer to find. Smiffy had to crawl into the car in order to find it. When he did, he came out again with a face of pure victory. “You were right,” Smiffy said, holding the smartphone up. “Might just keep this one for meself. Been wantin’ one of these since God-knows-when.”
“Mate,” Johnson said, pushing Smiffy towards the car. “Go back in there and get more loot. There’s gotta be more.”
“We’re pushing it as-is.”
“Just one more check.”
Smiffy seemed to want to leave, but curiosity got the better of him. Once again, he climbed into the car until he was no longer visible. “Oh,” he finally said. “Got a biggun.”
“Oh?” Johnson tried to peer into the car. “What is it?”
“Dunno yet. Can’t see in the dark. Lemme get it out. Move out of the way of the door, would you?”
Johnson stepped back as Smiffy wriggled out legs-first. dragging something with him. It wasn’t until half of the widescreen television came out of the car did both of them realise what it was.
They exchanged a stunned glance.
“Sod precautions for a laugh,” Smiffy said, placing the television aside and diving back in. “This thing is like a clown car.”
Johnson pointed from the front of the car. “It’s a legitimate clown car.”
“How can you tell?”
“The eyes for headlights give it away.”
Smiffy reappeared holding a unicycle. “Seems to add up.”
“Can you believe it? A hit on a clown car. I bet there’s all sorts of good stuff in there. Easy nickings.”
“Says you,” Smiffy said, pushing the circus lion back into the car as it growled. “You’re not the one in here.”
“Just find us one or two more good pieces of loot and we’ll leg it.”
“Alright, alright. Here, this looks nice, doesn’t it?” Smiffy pulled out a rainbow-coloured strip of fabric, the other end of it hidden away in the bowels of the car. “Probably sell this for a pretty penny. Nice material.”
“Depends. How long is it?”
Smiffy began to reel it in, expecting it to be a few meters long at best. Instead, he found himself making a small mound of fabric half the size of himself, the tugging at the cloth seemingly never-ending. When he finally got to the end, he discovered where the other end was — wrapped around the neck of a very angry-looking clown.
“Oh cripes,” Smiffy said. “It’s occupied! Run for it!”
“Run?” Johnson snickered as he watched his companion flee. He drew a switchblade from his pocket. “It’s only one man, we can stick him up real nice. Look, watch, I’ll have the idiot’s oversized hands in the air in no–”
Johnson turned around. Fifteen clowns glared back at him.
Johnson fled so quickly he ended up dropping the knife in panic. There were just some hits that were definitely too good to be true.