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The Lighter Thief
Sep. 15th, 2013 02:01 amIt takes a lighter thief to catch a lighter thief. Which is how I ended up driving all the way out to Rube County, Georgia at stupid o'clock in the morning. That and the irrefutable fact that drunk me had absolutely no love for sober me played an important part of it I'm sure. Still this wasn't just any old lighter at stake here. This was my Lucky Zippo. Its case genuine silver, dented with teeth marks from where it was once shoved between the jaws of a lycanthrope to stave off a full moon catastrophe. Its flame had lit many a flag, fuse and file over the years. It had lit lucky cigarettes at the end of the pack and the cigarettes of beautiful women at the end of the night. It had lit the dreams of pyromaniacs and stoners alike. Most of all it had once lit my ex-girlfriend the green beret's cigars and its flame was all I had left of her.
The whole situation began innocuous enough. Out drinking with the boys, down to last sips well after last call. The music's off, all the lights are on and every chair is propped up on every table but ours. Still we continue impassioned talk of old comic books, movies, and music oblivious to the wishes of the staff. Now this whole time I've had my lucky Zippo resting on my smokes right next to my drink. At one point a friend of a friend who had joined us at the table asked to bum a cigarette. I nodded to the pack. Five minutes later when I looked over both he and the Zippo were gone.
Super pissed I got answers stat from my buddies A name was given. So was a number but the prick wasn't answering his phone. So I moved on to the bonus round of questions in search of an address. Initially my buddy didn't want to give with it, but after I threatened to go from zero to ghetto in the next five seconds I not only got an address but directions as well. It wasn't long after that I was out the door with at least three purloined Bic's tucked into my jeans. I hit the road with a tank full of nitro, the stereo cranked to surf guitar and a dashboard figurine of Mother Mary with her head decapitated and replaced with that of the great god Ganesh.
Before arriving at prick-o's pad, I had over the course of my travels managed to pick up three hitchhikers, two acid causalities thumbing their way from a rave in Fayettenam and one ghost who died on her way back from a homecoming dance in 1955. So long as they didn't touch the dial of my radio or ask for a light they were fine. After a quick detour at a diner to refuel on gyros and ice cream sundaes, we finally pulled up to single story stucco house at the edge of a dead end both geographically and economically. I double checked the address against mine. Satisfied, I ordered everyone onboard to stay in the car, to keep the doors locked and that the ghost was in charge of the acid freaks until I got back. Only after they agreed, did I remove the collapsible 500 volt stun baton I kept in the glove box in case a fellow commuter needed an impromptu lesson as to the purpose of a turn signal.
Fuck the door. Defenestration in reverse was how I made my entrance, throwing a garden gnome through the window of the porch and diving in after it. Coming out of a ninja worthy roll, I was immediately greeted by an old woman in her nightgown. A pack of bloodthirsty ferrets the size of crocodiles swarmed around her and she had a sizable hand-cannon aimed at my reproductive system.
Apparently I had a lot of explaining to do.
Well long story short, it turns out that the guy I was looking for didn't live there anymore. Moved out about six months ago after dropping out of mortician school to focus on his band. I asked if he had left a forwarding address. Negative. That was that. No prick, no Zippo. The old lady ordered me back out the way I came. Reluctantly I complied, tossing the gnome through an entirely different window and pulling a Superman after it.
Outside it took me all of three seconds to see that my car was gone, with only the two acid freaks standing sheepishly in its place staring off down the road. When I asked them what the fuck had happened they answered the ghost took it. That was just stupid, I told them, how could a ghost drive a car. Her hands were all intangible and being a teenager from the 50s she would have no idea how to pilot a Honda from the 21st century. The acid freaks answered with a collective shrug before I chased them off with a few swipes of my electrified stun baton.
Which made me feel better but didn't change the fact that I was now stranded and out of luck. With none of my buddies willing to answer my calls I was left to begin walking back home, which I did as the sun rose indifferently over Rube County along with the realization that my cigarettes were in the car. Somewhere in the distance, watching through the crosshairs of the scope to a high powered rifle, my ex girlfriend the green beret laughed before vanishing back into the receding shadows.
The whole situation began innocuous enough. Out drinking with the boys, down to last sips well after last call. The music's off, all the lights are on and every chair is propped up on every table but ours. Still we continue impassioned talk of old comic books, movies, and music oblivious to the wishes of the staff. Now this whole time I've had my lucky Zippo resting on my smokes right next to my drink. At one point a friend of a friend who had joined us at the table asked to bum a cigarette. I nodded to the pack. Five minutes later when I looked over both he and the Zippo were gone.
Super pissed I got answers stat from my buddies A name was given. So was a number but the prick wasn't answering his phone. So I moved on to the bonus round of questions in search of an address. Initially my buddy didn't want to give with it, but after I threatened to go from zero to ghetto in the next five seconds I not only got an address but directions as well. It wasn't long after that I was out the door with at least three purloined Bic's tucked into my jeans. I hit the road with a tank full of nitro, the stereo cranked to surf guitar and a dashboard figurine of Mother Mary with her head decapitated and replaced with that of the great god Ganesh.
Before arriving at prick-o's pad, I had over the course of my travels managed to pick up three hitchhikers, two acid causalities thumbing their way from a rave in Fayettenam and one ghost who died on her way back from a homecoming dance in 1955. So long as they didn't touch the dial of my radio or ask for a light they were fine. After a quick detour at a diner to refuel on gyros and ice cream sundaes, we finally pulled up to single story stucco house at the edge of a dead end both geographically and economically. I double checked the address against mine. Satisfied, I ordered everyone onboard to stay in the car, to keep the doors locked and that the ghost was in charge of the acid freaks until I got back. Only after they agreed, did I remove the collapsible 500 volt stun baton I kept in the glove box in case a fellow commuter needed an impromptu lesson as to the purpose of a turn signal.
Fuck the door. Defenestration in reverse was how I made my entrance, throwing a garden gnome through the window of the porch and diving in after it. Coming out of a ninja worthy roll, I was immediately greeted by an old woman in her nightgown. A pack of bloodthirsty ferrets the size of crocodiles swarmed around her and she had a sizable hand-cannon aimed at my reproductive system.
Apparently I had a lot of explaining to do.
Well long story short, it turns out that the guy I was looking for didn't live there anymore. Moved out about six months ago after dropping out of mortician school to focus on his band. I asked if he had left a forwarding address. Negative. That was that. No prick, no Zippo. The old lady ordered me back out the way I came. Reluctantly I complied, tossing the gnome through an entirely different window and pulling a Superman after it.
Outside it took me all of three seconds to see that my car was gone, with only the two acid freaks standing sheepishly in its place staring off down the road. When I asked them what the fuck had happened they answered the ghost took it. That was just stupid, I told them, how could a ghost drive a car. Her hands were all intangible and being a teenager from the 50s she would have no idea how to pilot a Honda from the 21st century. The acid freaks answered with a collective shrug before I chased them off with a few swipes of my electrified stun baton.
Which made me feel better but didn't change the fact that I was now stranded and out of luck. With none of my buddies willing to answer my calls I was left to begin walking back home, which I did as the sun rose indifferently over Rube County along with the realization that my cigarettes were in the car. Somewhere in the distance, watching through the crosshairs of the scope to a high powered rifle, my ex girlfriend the green beret laughed before vanishing back into the receding shadows.
