Saturday Morning Funnies

It's that time, true believers, when I embarass myself by finding some bit of my unpublished past and post it here for your mocking, er, enjoyment. Today's installment comes from my college years and represents a series of storties about some characters that I've had in my mind for decades. I don't know if other writers have this problem, but some of the "people" closest to my heart are the ones I find the most difficult to write about. Because they're the subject of long, drawn-out day-dreams, any plot I artifically devise for them tends not to be enough to make them work (at least not nearly as well as they do in my head.)

The hands that held the pistol shook, but the aim was steady. The barrel waivered only slightly, and was never off course by more than an inch above her heart. She couldn't help but be impressed. He was clearly stoned out of his mind. One of his eyes was squeezed shut in an almost comical parody of a sharp-shooter. The other that watched her over the sights was blood shot and blurry. Yet he managed to keep his aim. Aubrene smiled to herself. This boy had promise.

"Hand over your money all ready!" He slurred impatiently.

Aubrene snapped open the handbag perched primly in her lap. The subway car rattled around a corner. Pretending to rumage through her things, she watched his feet. This would be the true test. He rode the rail easily, shifting his center of balance to accomodate the undulating floor. Whatever his jones was, he knew how to compensate for it.

Finding her wallet, she offered it to him. She was careful to hold her other hand casually over the opening of the purse. In his current state he didn't seem terribly observant, but it wouldn't do her any good to have him notice the dull gleam of the semi-automatic she had hidden there.

"Right," He snarled snatching it from her. He jammed the wallet into a pillow case he was using to collect the valuables from other passangers. She wondered what he'd make of her National Security Agency ID when he came across it later. Of course, the ID had expired, but it was the real McCoy. In a way, she hated to lose the card. Aubrene always liked that photo of herself. It was one of the few she owned.

There wasn't much else in the wallet of value. A few credit cards, but they were all fake. If he was stupid enough to try to use them, the NSA would nab him instantly. Aubrene's gaze swept over his lithe form. Leather jacket and dirty jeans clung to a thin, but muscular body. His hair was a deep black and Asian straight, but he was white, though possibly not generic American.

As he smoothly collected loot from the other passangers, Aubrene's eyes followed his every move. Graceful and cat-like, he had an economy of motion that seemed better suited to a dancer than a thug. Armed robbery was a very high-risk, heavy-muscle job, yet, robbing a train took some brains. The whole gig was sucide, unless he had a plan for escape at the next stop. Transit cops covered every section of the well traveled routes. She wondered what he would do.

"No," the theif said to a woman wrapped in a fur, "I want the earrings."

"Please, this watch is worth much more." She offered the gaudy thing to him.

He took it. Looking at it critically, he handed it back. "No, thank you," he said politely. "The earrings are a very interesting cut of saphires, madam. I much prefer them to this imitation."

The woman seemed geniunely stunned. "Imitation? I paid a thousand credits for this. It's meant to be an original."

"You, madam, were robbed." He said earnestly.