Flash Fiction -- Flaming Moe

Friday, April 8, 2011

It's that time again. Chuck Wendig has issued his weekly flash fiction challenge (but cut the words in half this time). The title this week had to be a cocktail, and then he went and posted about a bear with a scimitar and a jetpack on meth. So, I blame him for this.

I chose the title "Flaming Moe" because there's something decidedly Simpsonesque about this whole set-up.


Like most bad ideas, it sounded good at the time. Considering "the time" was a moment when all involved were so plastered they couldn't remember their name, eye-color, or state of residence, it probably would have been best if they'd just passed out on someone's couch.


Idiot Number One (as their names were being withheld by authorities) had picked up some extra shifts at the convention center while the circus was in town, so he had access.


Idiot Number Two had a car.


Idiot Number Three had a camera. (All three had smartphones, but, being idiots, they forgot this tiny detail, and actually waited to find a camera.)


When they reached the convention center, as near as anyone can tell, Idiot Number One let the others in through a back door meant for service personnel. They snuck through the auxiliary areas into the portion of the prep-space that had been cordoned off for circus use. (As no one thought there was a danger of three idiots sneaking in to annoy several thousand combined pounds of wild animals, security was light.)


Now, at this point, they could have gotten bored, or chosen one of the smaller animals because they had no idea how the place was laid out or how long it would take to locate something more spectacular, but Idiot Number Two (whose possession of a car meant he knew how to turn knobs and push buttons) found a light switch.


Turning it on only made things worse because that was the point they discovered that not only was the room full of animals, but the circus trunks were littered about as well, and since they were already miles down the road of ill intent, they figured a few more feet along the way couldn't hurt.


While Idiot Number Three selected a target, Idiots One and Two raided the costume trunks, and in their addled stupor came to the conclusion that a Turkish scimitar went smashingly with the Human Bullet's jetpack. (It was the jetpack that did them in really, because they had to pick an animal with "arms" to fit it. Up to that point, Idiot Number Three had set his sights on the giant tortoise.)


The young grizzly they finally decided on was still half asleep when they picked the lock on his enclosure and slipped the jetpack on his back. They used a scarf to tie the scimitar to one of his paws, then stepped back so Idiot Number Three could line up a shot... but the bear just wanted to go back to sleep.


Undeterred, the three idiots, who were still trashed, decided the poor animal needed a pick me up, and never having been the kind to hoard their stash, spiked a bit of food from the treat barrel and tossed it over. Then they waited and waited and waited and...


… well, no one really knows what happened after that. The camera didn't stay upright long enough to capture more than their screaming voices.


And that's where I ran out of words :-(

7 Chiming In:

Author Lindsay Mawson said...

Funny! I wonder what happened to those idiots...

Matthew MacNish said...

Hah! Justice.

For some reason, forgetting your own eye color sounds like it makes for a more inebriated state than just forgetting your own name. I like it.

Quinn Slater said...

Agreed with MacNish. That was a great line. I read it twice.

Angie said...

"Like most bad ideas, it sounded good at the time" Great opening!

Tara Tyler said...

I like all the added details. Good drunk story! I hope they lived to forget it.

Seth said...

I think you ran out of words at exactly the right moment.

cmstewartwrite said...

Yes, perfect ending! :)

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