This shouldn't be too late, I'm on pacific time: it's 10:51! :)


--Donut Hostages--


Clouds of dust began to form around the quiet road and a dull green car rumbled boisterously by, forming the cumulonimbus nuisances even though the road was freshly paved with no dirt in sight. The car took a fitful turn onto a busier road and saw flashing lights in the distance. A man, dominating the worn interior grunted in malcontent. He passed by the covered body on the ground apathetically and ignored the paramedics who were standing in resignation. He sighed in anger and honked to the police in front of him. An unmarked officer pointed a camera towards the impatient machine and brightened the man, his car, the dusk evening, for a short moment.
A satisfying aroma of yeast dominated the air in the alcohol section of the grocery store. Perhaps it wasn't the scent that was enticing so much as it was the promise of getting drunk. A fat, round figure rolled slowly down each aisle like a lazy bowling ball, stopping either out of interest of the shelves or exhaustion. From a distance it was hard to tell that a man could be shaped so repulsively; he poked his sausage-fingers around each bottle of alcohol. The look on his face hinted careful consideration about each one. His other arm struggled with an assortment of fattening foods-- a massive potato chip bag with the proper dip, three champion-size chocolate bars and a box of caramel donuts (stuffed with raspberry jelly).
An eruption of noise followed the fat man-- an obnoxious and off-beat techno remix drew attention from around the store. The phone's ring was irritating upon first note of the clumsy song, and even the old change woman by the slot machines began to wake up. Her beady eyes could barely be seen through the wrinkles of skin that hung oppressively over her face. She attempted to find the source of music before giving up almost immediately and falling back asleep with ease. She rested her bony hands upon an old broom that perched against her legs. The broom was, like the old woman, an obvious victim of neglect-- its handle was wooden and splintery while the bristles were long and starting to fall out. The woman looked like a retired witch living out her last days in fatigued solitude. Continuing to ring, the cell phone hung off the fat man's baggy pants while he bobbed his bulbous, watermelon head in enjoyment. Recognizing that the song was nearing its end, he decided to answer the phone.
“This is Griff, what do you want?” He asked indifferently.

“Griff get your fat ass over to my house, I'm thirsty damn it.” The voice said impatiently.

Griff waddled forward a few steps and picked off a bottle of grape soda from the shelf. “I'm pulling in your neighborhood, armed with a bottle of goodness. Fire up the jacuzzi and get the ladies in their bikini's-- the party will begin in a couple.” He responded. The voice hung up without valediction.
Griff maneuvered himself to the front of the store and presented the cashier with his treats-- he had postponed his diet a day. He reached for his wallet, which he realized he had carelessly put in his back pocket. His short, stubby arms tried to circumnavigate his mammoth body until finally a finger tip caught the top of a pocket. Griff squeezed his other fingers inside and procured his fat brown wallet. It was a deceiving piece of leather that had no money in it. Griff pulled out his credit card and flashed it to the old man behind the counter. The man reached for the card, exposing an eagle tattoo on his arm-- an indication of military service. Uninterested, Griff opened his bag of chips and crunched loudly, spilling crumbs on the counter, disrupting the old man's scanner. The old solider struggled with his lips, finally formulating his quivering question.
“Do you have a rewards card here?” Griff had begun to flip through a pornographic magazine and didn't bother looking at the man.

“Old man, if I wanted to hear war stories, I'd watch PBS. Quickly bag my items, as I am in an important rush,” he replied haughtily.

The war veteran's hands were bruised and scared and he fought the pain of his arthritis as he bagged the candy bars and ranch dip. If Griff bothered to read the man's name badge-- which he didn't-- he would have struggled to read the scribbled handwriting that appeared to form the name 'Ken' on it. Ken reached for the bag of chips which aroused a grunt of indignation from Griff who had his mouth full with greasy mush and pulled the bag away protectively. The veteran totaled the items aloud to an astonished Griff. “You expect me to pay twenty-four dollars for some chocolate and pop?” Griff demanded pugnaciously. “It's businesses like this that are the cause for inflation in our flawed capitalistic economy. I shall appease your needs at this moment because I am in a hurry. However, expect a formidable investigation from the Better Business Bureau in the days ahead.”

Ken slid the credit card and raised his eyes in fear, and his voice began to tremble because of old age and anxiety. “Sir, your card is coming up as 'Declined'.”

“What? What did you do to my card?” Griff asked, not comprehending the situation.

“The system is saying your card is declined, sir. Do you want to pay with another method?” Ken responded.

“That is simply not possible. How do you expect me to pay for this?” Griff snapped.

“I'm sorry but I ran the card twice and it was declined both times. Do you want me to keep these items on hold for you?”

“I cannot believe you have the egregious idiocy that you think you can pull this on me now. Call your supervisor over immediately.” Griff growled imperatively.

Ken turned around and reached for the phone, struggling to dial only a few buttons. Snatching the credit card, Griff stuffed the grape soda and chips in the grocery bag with alacrity and walked away from the counter in nonchalance. He exited the store and moved deeper into the night towards his car. Standing in the illuminated doorway, the veteran didn't know how to react. His supervisor approached. A young, smug, arrogant face looked odiously at Ken. “What in the hell did you do?”

“I ran his card through the system and it came up as declined. Ran the card through again and the same thing happened. I told the young man his card was declined by the system and he shoplifted the items.” Ken said woefully.

“You just let that fat bastard steal from my store?”

“Sir?” Ken said with the implication asking what he was supposed to do.

“I 'ought to fire your worthless old ass right now.” The supervisor said, reaching for the phone. He slammed randomly on the number pad and spoke in a cavalier tone.
“Yes, our store has just been robbed by a heavy set man who's driving away in an old, olive colored 1975 or '76 Nova. He held us at gun point and stole over a hundred dollars from the drawer.”
Ken interrupted. “Hey, what the hell are you doing? He's just a goddamn kid who don't know better. You're goin' to get him killed you moron!” The Supervisor ignored him and continued infuriating the dispatcher towards the obese thief.
The beaten vintage car drove down the desolate road in surprisingly swift locomotion. Griff's free claw attacked the chips and fiercely chopped them with his shark mouth. An old rusted key sat miserably in the transmission and the greasy steering wheel above rotated around vigorously. Another eruption of noise caught Griff's attention, though this he didn't dance to. It was the sound of police sirens, he recalled in experience, and saw the flashing lights in his rear-view mirror. He didn't imagine stopping, since the stop-lights ahead of him were green. He continued down the road callously and made the necessary turns to arrive at his friend's house. The police were yelling on megaphones surrounding the confused Griff who began to stop, caught in a few powerful beams of light. He was wondering why one cop would care to nab a crook for such a petty misdemeanor. It must have been because of his notorious reputation. Although not intimidated by his masterful escape artist talents, the police pursued.
The cops were rookies, Griff asserted, trying to make their first catch on the job. He wouldn't dare give them the satisfaction of catching such a famed villain, the pre-pubescent bastards. Rumbling to a slow halt, the car lifted with ease as a walrus exited. One of Griff's fat paws held a defeated bag of chips and the two officers pointed their guns at him. They yelled at him to get on the ground, but he stupidly reached into his car. The cops, wanting to shoot the fat prey, saw the opportunity. But, as Griff turned around, the cops dropped their guns in hesitation. Surrendering the donuts, Griff huffed and drove away angrily.


Word Count: 1528