Some experiential vignettes from a life I don’t lead.
“Going for Gold,” Liam beamed. The Olympic official did not seem to take this as reason enough for our hero to be in the women’s gymnastics marshalling area. Or for having squeezed into a tiny Ukrainian’s unitard. So to add weight to his credentials Liam lay down, put both ankles behind his head and yelled “I’m a fruit bowl”. He then rocked into a pretty convincing forward roll and waddled on his hands out the fire exit. “At least put the leotard on the right way round,” the marshal yelled. But it was hard for our hero to hear over spectators screaming.
“The recoil feels great,” Liam yelled over the echo of the two shots fired moments prior. He loved gun club. Our hero was about to launch another salvo into the flank of the empty Barina when his instructor, cowering behind an adjacent Subaru, was heard pleading for him to return indoors to the shooting range or to “for the love of God” put the gun down. As the first sirens of what Liam would later learn was a full scale SWAT response filled the night air, he calmly set off a smoke grenade and disappeared, leaving as evidence only a gun club membership card bearing the name Jesus Cortez and a shattered Barina. After all, he didn’t have time for police questions.
“Amen”, Liam mouthed silently. The family, grace completed, tucked in to their Sunday roast. From his position wedged in the humble home’s ducted aircon – face pressed against the vent – Liam eyed his prize. He could execute a swift chicken grab and be gone in seconds flat. Easy. And as if the police would believe them; that a curly-haired man had burst from the overhead vent and leapt out the bay window with delicious chicken. They would have to be mad. Yes. THEY would have to be mad. The symphony of scraping cutlery was soon joined by the crash of plaster as our hero put his plan into action. “Snack time, bitches!”
“What!” the mugger cried peering into the Rip Curl wallet. “Just $15!” Liam looked at the gun pointed squarely at his chest and then back into his assailant’s eyes. Silence. The mugger twitched. Then our hero remembered his training, deftly unbuttoned his own shirt and let it fall. Ever the pro, he maintained eye contact throughout. “Just make it up to a fifty,” Liam purred, after all there was no time to draw this out further. As Liam began the first of his “blindingly provocative” (Timeout 2010) dances, the mugger fled. Our hero then calmly buttoned up his shirt and moonwalked out of the alley.
“That’s how you parallel park,” Liam yelled. Neil, 17, peered from the passenger side foot-well where the inertia had left him. The smoking car had finished it’s 360 only seconds prior and was, Liam whispered, “simmering with power”. As Neil scampered out, our hero popped the boot to release the driving instructor, yelled something about Jesus’s love and was gone.