In Your Parking Lot and in Your Face
Smokestack
“There!” Smokestack cried, pointing through the windshield at a building just up the road. “Pull in there!”
“The police station?” the Conductor asked. “Are you nuts?”
Nuts, no. Stoned, yes. His partners-in-crime seemed unnecessarily tense and uptight. They could benefit from a relaxing toke or two.
“Come on!” pleaded Smokestack, snickering again. “It’ll be a hoot and a half!”
The Conductor eyed the Switchman, who shrugged and said. “It’s the last place anyone would expect to find this bus.”
“I suppose you’re right. Besides, we don’t have much time. That chopper’s nearly on us.” The Conductor slowed and turned the bus into the police station parking lot, pulling to a stop at the end of the lot next to a blue Smart Car.
The Conductor opened the door with another whoosh, left the keys in the ignition, and scurried down to the asphalt. Thankfully, the large bus would block the view of any security cameras that might be on the building.
Smokestack hopped down after him, turned, and lifted his chin. “There’s a gas station with a food mart two blocks over.”
“So?” the Switchman said as they quickly headed across the street.
“So let’s get a beer.” He also wanted a hot dog and barbecue potato chips and Oreos. Thanks to the marijuana he’d ingested this morning, he had a raging case of the munchies. Hey, was that where the term “pot belly” came from?
“A beer?” The Conductor glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon yet.”
The Switchman frowned. “It would be better if we split up as soon as possible. Like you said last night, the cops will never be able to connect us, to figure out that we know each other. Not unless they catch us together.”
Smokestack issued a derisive snort. “Weren’t you the guy who said he was sick of playing by the rules? Of being a candy ass? Besides, we took that bank for three or four grand and got away with a bus. Hell, man! That’s cause to celebrate!”