Two figures slide through the deep shadows cast by semis gleaming in the moonlight. The cheery light of the Walmart sign glows over the scene as the men crouch along the grey walls. The lanky, all-elbows one runs his hand over the rough cement blocks.
"Er, Tory?" a slow, deep voice.
"What?" the first man snaps. He spins around, the blue peacock feathers stuck in the band of his ragged sweat pants waving enthusiastically.
The second man, a rather large and pronouncedly spherical person, scratches his turbaned head. "I just don' feel right, Tory."
Tory scowls, yanks the crowbar from the band of his pants. "Just get in there, doofus."
The goliath shrugs his wide shoulders. He grabs the cold metal bar, leans into the door. The emergency exit splits like a can of peas to a monster truck tire.
The two peer into the dull lit storage room, Tory craning his thin neck around the second man's bulk.
"You sure they dressed up like In'jinns to dump the tea?"
Tory slips past him, muttering, "Sure I'm sure."
The storage room is lined with cartons of eggs and milk, stacked high along the wall. It's chill, they're behind the freezer displays. The only light comes through the thick, fogged plastic from the other side of the 'Employees Only' door.
What our two prowlers have not noticed, however [that they will become aware of soon enough], is the night guard flush with the wall. Randy Williams is sweating, trying not to breathe, with his gut sucked in so the men won't notice him behind the milk crates. I told them, I did. Loonies, crazy loonies. Tied up with the Mafia or something. I knew it, I knew it. They didn't believe me, but I knew it. That and the Kennedy thing - I knew that, too.
"Look, Skeet," Tory hisses, tiptoeing to a crate stack. The door swings shut behind them. "We're just doin our public duty. 'S are duty, nay our responsibility, to overthrow a tyranical government." He grins, gap-toothed. "Thas from the Constitution. 'S a law."
"But," Skeet squints at a funny-looking shadow behind the milk crates. "They din' dress like dot In'jinns, did they?"
Tory snorts, snatches the crowbar back from Skeet. "'Course not, doof. But we're progressive, see? 'S not politic'ly correct to say In'jinns 'less they're really from India. People'll get mad for all the wrong reasons if we go 'round bein politic'ly incorrect."
Loonies! I knew it, Randy grips his night stick [he doesn't get a real gun, pending investigation] tighter and chews his lip. And they sound like freaking hicks.
Tory moves to the 'Employees Only' door, swings it back a smidge.
"Tor-" The night guard leaps from his hiding place, clocks Skeet over his shaved head with the stick. "Ow," he points out. The goliath scoops the night guard's collar, grips the fabric in his massive claw. Randy's eyes bulge. "Ow," Skeet repeats.
"Yes!" Tory screeches, doing a little victory dance by the door, shaking his bony fists. "We gotta POW!"
The great Skeet tilts his head. "Now whatta do I do, Tory?"
He grins, slides back to the struggling, vaguely blue night guard. "Hiya, Mr. Thinks-he-can-halt-the-revolution."
Randy's eyes flick from one maniac to the other. Decides he should probably keep an eye on the old one, he's the brains; but then again the big guy could accidentally crush him without breaking a sweat. But then again that old guy's got feathers sticking out of his pants.
"Re'ution?" he hacks, still gripped by the neck.
"Yup," another gap-toothed grin that releases a noxious smell of rotting teeth. "You're coporate monopoly has spoilt the soul of the American people," he rolls the words as if the cue card were hovering over Randy's cap to give him pointers.
"Ek?" a sad squeak.
"Cuz your comp'ny has exploited the American people's dollar, tradin cheap goods for really - er - bad prices. And we're here to stop it, right, Skeet?"
Skeet considers the question. Blinks. "Tell him 'bout the feathers, Tory. And the turbans. And the Liberty's Nephews. An-"
The old man sighs, massages his temples. "The feathers are symbolic of when the Ar-"
"When the archiduke shot an ostrich cuz he was hungry." Skeet beamed.
"Right, good boy."
Randy motioned to the feathers with his frantic eyes, raising an eyebrow.
Tory notices and frowns, the skin around his mouth carving into deep folds. "Yeah, I know they're peacock feathers. I said they're symbolic."
Then he whacked the night guard with the crowbar. Randy slumps.
"Doofus doesn't know his history. How else he think WW-two started?"
"Dontcha mean WW-one?"
"Shut up, Skeet."