Marty steps from the bathroom, claps his hands together as if a job well done, gives the girl who walks by a smug look, and then heads back to his cubicle. But he is not completely careless, because he stops before entering the open ground from the water cooler to the first cubicle. Across the grey walls that stand in formation like a kiddy maze, Marty spots a few unfamiliar craniums.
His dangerous pursuers? Possible. But Marty isn’t about to take chances. He looks at his watch. He has a half hour to get to his phone call. So he may as well get moving now. He turns on his heel, walks casually down the hall, tips his imaginary cap to the same girl who now appears slightly creeped out, and presses the button for the elevator.
This is easy. No windows. No scaffolding. Just a happy elevator down to the parking level. The doors slide open and Marty finds himself looking into the eye holes of a mask. He is frightened by the mask itself, and the gun seems only a formality as the man grabs him by the collar and yanks him into the elevator.
The doors slide shut, and the man says something. But he sounds like someone talking around a soother.
“I can’t hear you,” Marty says. “Take your mask off.”
The man looks to the roof and laughs. He says something very smug like a I’m-not-that-stupid, but it would be hard to say for sure.
“Is that so. Because I’d always thought anchovies on pizza was a little weird.”
The man makes a confused sound, and lifts the mask slightly from his face. “I said, I won’t fall for your stupid tricks that easily!”
“I can see your face now,” Marty comments.
The man slams the mask back down, and fingers his weapon. Marty carefully allows his eyes to sneak a peek at the gun. But he looks back up at the mask as the man raises his arm. It’s hard to make eye contact with a loaded gun.
“Interesting…mask,” Marty says. It has baby blue cheeks, big gruesome green lips, and wild red eyes, with wrinkles on the forehead quite like a Klingon.
“This is not a mask. This is a face! A priceless collector’s face from the Grandé Marquee Spectaculus.”
Marty feels a jolt of plot anxiety in his gut, and he feels rather disturbed by the mask. But this news causes him to look back down at the gun. The elevator doors slide open to the parking lot, and the man grabs him by the arm and manhandles him forward. Marty doesn’t particularly like to be manhandled. Especially by strange men. Shoved, pushed, and generally kicked around is fine. But being manhandled feels a little different.
Marty makes a big deal about it, and the masked man shoves the gun into his side. “Move or this gun will remove you,” the man hisses.
Marty moves until they find the man’s vehicle, a black, shady car. And he is then shoved into the backseat, where he is met by another startling mask with a gun. This time the face has swollen cheeks painted steamy red, a golden nugget nose, and a shiny, blue forehead. His gun is very different from his accomplices, having a nearly pirate look to it.
They pull out of the parking lot and onto the street.
“Are we there yet?” whines Marty.
He feels the gun jut into his gut. He instinctively looks down at this affliction, but realizes that the masked man beside him is gazing straight ahead, and undoubtedly cannot even see Marty from this angle. Marty realizes he has somewhat of an advantage. Although, he also realizes the true danger of the situation. A man with inch wide eye holes is driving the vehicle through city traffic.
Marty groans and tries not to be sick. And quite suddenly, he realizes that they are driving along Park Lane. His phone call should be passing on the right within a few blocks.
Marty looks back to the gun. He looks to the clock. 3:42pm. Then he looks to the passing street names. Charleston Avenue. Then he looks back to the gun. Then he looks at the man’s mask. Then he looks at the gun. Then he does a double-take.
The gun has a signature on it. Lewy Stross.
The men behind the masks are taken by surprise as Marty lets out a maniacal laugh. “You guys are a bunch of geeks!” he laughs. “Thanks for the ride, but I must be going.”
He impulsively opens the side door and sees the yellow line snaking around on the ground below. Apparently, the guns were not the only things keeping him from jumping out of a moving vehicle. Right, the ‘vehicle’ part and the ‘moving’ part have to be considered. The man beside him grabs him and thrusts the gun against his side.
“Where’re yer going?” he screams from behind his mask.
“The phone’s for me,” Marty shouts, fighting back by plugging the eye holes of the man beside him. But the man grabs at his throat, and Marty finds himself hanging out of the open door with his hands nearly on the rolling pavement. The car swerves and skids down the road as the driver wonders what he should do with the side door wide open.
Marty screams a few wild insults somewhere beyond Monty Python in the parallel dimension to Shakespeare and appropriately riddled with an orchestrated score of obscenities. And then he decides to go for a different tactic as he pulls himself back into the car enough to wrap his hands around the driver’s mask. He grabs hard and holds on, his thumbs over the eye holes.
The accomplice in the back seat attacks, attempting to pull Marty away, but he only manages to add to the pressure on the driver’s mask; all it takes is two thumbs to blind him.
The driver doesn’t scream because he doesn’t have enough air, but the wheels scream for him as he accidentally slams on the gas rather than the brakes. The side door is still open, and it slams into a trash can on the far side of the road as the car leaps off the road and onto the rich lawns of Park Lane.
Marty’s eyes are wild as he stares out of the front windshield. They’re aiming for a serious army of lawn ornaments, and it’s not going to be pretty. The car tears up the grass as it accelerates parallel to the road, and Marty is nearly pulled from the driver as the other man is flung backwards. Marty somehow frees his legs and uses them to push his masked friend over the back seat.
The seven dwarves are taken out like bowling pins and the fawns are smashed like pumpkins on November 1st with the power of an extra fire cracker. The vehicle then launches through the lattice fence and onto the next lawn. The driver is no longer hard on the gas, but he also hasn’t found the brakes, and his knees are stuck in the wheel as he pushes back against his seat to relieve the pressure while freeing his hands to grab at Marty.
A fake wishing well is sent spinning off of its base like a shooting star and a net of grape vines wraps itself across the front windshield. Add a splatter of compost and no one can see out the front. Suddenly Marty, though he is busy blinding the driver, feels rather afraid at not being able to see in front of the vehicle. Now there is no chance to steer even if he did allow the driver to take a peek.
The car hits an incline and flies up and over a set of steps, stripping a clothes line as it goes. This would be the part where everyone in the fight would end up in a new set of clothes, but things don’t quite happen that way. Instead, the post that held the clothes line is dragging behind the vehicle, whipping from side to side like a deadly dragon’s tail, knocking out swingsets and petulia's like a wrecking ball for teenage rebels.
At least nothing is on fire yet. Maybe that's not a good thought to come across in this sort of accumulating situation.
Marty kicks harder at the man in the back seat, and his heel connects with the man’s jaw. Then the vehicle flies through a hedge, leaving the outline of a vehicle behind it. The driver bumps the steering wheel during this, and the car careens sharply back toward the road. They crash through something heavy and explosive and then feel pavement beneath the wheels once more.
Perhaps it was a set of trash cans they had just smashed through. But it could most likely have been Spot’s House or Little Billy’s Lemonade Stand. Perhaps there will be evidence left on the front of the vehicle. Of wood, not of Spot. And of lemonade obviously, not Billy. Billy would not be manning the stand by this time of the afternoon. He'd be having a smoke and coffee break down by the sprinkler.
Marty feels a sickening tug as the driver wheels hard to line up with the road while finding the brakes for a moment. A few horns whistle by and there is the sound of crunching glass. And then another vehicle slams into theirs, Marty is flung straight out of the open door, and the vehicle is thrown clear off the road.
Marty rolls painfully onto the sidewalk, taking the curb like a jump, and he is just aware enough to see the black car go flying clear through a pay phone. A pay phone on the corner of Park Lane and Sunny Drive.
“Shit!” cries Marty, jumping to his feet. He is hardly aware of the hoards of angry residents who now stand among the rubble of grass and mud, amidst the mass murder of lawn ornaments and the spray of lemonade. Marty is bleeding from a road burn down his side, and the black vehicle is totaled. Everyone looks to Marty for some sort of an explanation, but he is far too caught up in his very own scene of drama.
“The pay phone!” cries Marty. “Shit! I needed to take a call!”