The sun has set.
Night has taken over.
I’m the LSD Champion.
The Bruv’s are getting Eggsecuted at No Remorse.
And Plan Z is still in effect.
Zeb. Bobby. The wind.
What a hoot.
We, the remaining Bandits, have talked to them a few times since the two fled the hospital. Each conversation we’ve had has not only been a sparing one, but also grew greater in confusion. That is, until earlier today. Zeb, while still trying to conceal his whereabouts slipped up and gave us a clue. He told us he was still in the city of Chicago, and that they never left. RICK fell over after hearing it. You might have heard him. After laughing at RICK for falling, I then fell over him. Of course he was to blame, and I wasn’t afraid to let him know it. He then tore a telephone book in half and that was the end of that. And Dooze, well he was just happy Zebulon called him instead of me or RICK.
The simple things.
So, because we are Bandits, and a no nonsense type of life just isn’t in the cards, not even the biggest tag match we’ve ever had looms on our horizon.
Instead of preparing for such, we’ve been driving around Chicago in the Bandit Mobile(confiscated HOW Truck) looking for our friends. We have been totally aimless in our search– without any general direction whatsoever. We’ve been through slums, white collar neighborhoods, and everything in between. We’ve checked every chicken shack, strip club, and Bass Masters we’ve driven by… and nothing.
For seven hours we’ve combed the streets in some long shot effort to bring our boys home. And now, our journey has come to a stop at a red light in a downtrodden part of town. There are ladies walking about, promiscuous in nature. Trash litters the street. Steel bars cover bodega windows. Cardboard homes furnished with dirty blankets and empty glass bottles line the surrounding back alleys.
It’s not a very warm place.
Before the light can change and the search and rescue can continue or hopefully end…
…A bum stealthily emerges from the shadows, and begs for change to be placed inside an expired paper cup. In an effort to sway our favor, he dip-spits on our windshield and then pulls a piece of garbage paper out of his pocket to clean it. As he is leaning over the front window, I can’t help but to think that the Castaway stunt double has a familiar charm about him.
“Wait. Is that… “
Before I can finish my question, Doozer does so for me. “Zeb? ZEB! WHAT THE!”
I was going to say Tom Hanks.
RICK rolls his window down, trying to pry the homeless Zeb lookalike away from the diligence of his duties. “EGG. EGG! RICK! ORDER.”
The upstart homeless man shakes his head with worry, as if that part of him is in the past. “Just a kelpul ov korters please… mai baws es en a badd mewd.”
“Huh, he even talks like Zeb, too. What are the chances? Do you think he wrestles?”
Dooze doesn’t bother partaking in my tomfoolery. “Zeb. Fuck your boss. Get in the car. Where’s Bobby?”
Ha. What a loaded question that turns out to be.
Zeb cowers at just the mere mention of Bobby’s name. “Master dunt like that name no more.”
Dooze and RICK share a jarring look of confusion. They don’t see what I do trudging down the street. It’s a Beautiful Man, in a baby blue bathrobe with no socks or shoes on. His hair is bunched up inside a black hairnet, and a solo cocktail shrimp hangs out of his decrepit belly button. He shouts out, like the block is not only his, but has been his for quite some time. “HEY! HEY! WHAT YOU DOING! CLEAN THEM DAMN WINDOWS! THEY GIVING YOU A HARD TIME!?!”
RICK and Dooze now see what I see after being drawn to it by the hollering. RICK pulls the car over. Zeb somehow manages to keep on cleaning the front windshield as if his life depended on it. I stay put in the backseat because of trepidation and these shades fetch a pretty penny on the black market.
Dooze, because he’s the courageous one, gets out of the car and confronts Zeb’s handler. “Bobby? What is going on here? Are you okay?”
“AND WHO THE FUCK IS WAITING TO BE PIMP SMACKED WALKING DOWN MY BLOCK!?! WHO DARE CALL ME BY MY FORMER NAME? I’M BITE MARK. YOU WANT TO SEE WHY!? I DIDN’T THINK SO.”
At this point, I’m rolling around in the backseat, trying not to die from laughter. If Bobby actually smacks Dooze, I will. It will happen.
“Bob. Are you acting like this–”
“Bite, is your head okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
BITE MARK reaches down, and pulls the nestled shrimp cocktail out of his belly button. He eats the whole thing. Tail, poop, all of it, one gulp. “The only thing I need is some more of these delicious shrimps!” Dooze turns to look back at RICK and I. We both shrug our shoulders, and then RICK points out to Zeb that he missed a spot.
That’s when it hit me.
They’ve been at Qui Nei’s this entire time.
FUCK, I even remember seeing them there just a few days ago when I was getting my hair done. Bobby even gave me a hot towel and quick massage.
I can’t believe I forgot.
We found them now.
And damn it, they are coming home.
I hand RICK my shades, and tell him to protect them as if he were Zeb cleaning our windshield. I get out of the borrowed HOTv production truck, and before I can say a word, BITE MARK cordially greets me. “AND WHO MIGHT THIS BE?! ANOTHER MAN CHALLENGING THE BITE MARK! THESE ARE MY STREETS! WHAT DO YOU WANT!?!”
I don’t waste any more time and cut right to the chase. “We’re going to FREEBIRD the LSD Title, too. Now tell Zeb to get in the fucking truck and lets go.”
“Fuck them shrimp! WE OUT! Zeb, I release you!”