Smoky

This story came to life after a discussion on Twitter about clichés in 1980s Burt Reynolds movies. I tried to cram as many as I could think of into this and it’s held together by all sorts of other nonsense.
“We sure need to drive these fancy-ass cars an incredibly long distance for no reason whatsoever,” the man in the red cowboy shirt with the black hair, big eyebrows and thick, black moustache said.
He started the engine. It roared in a way that he found satisfying. The car was black and shiny. It could have been a Trans Am or a Mustang or any other kind of American sports car.
The tyres screeched and the air filled with the scent of scorched rubber as the moustachioed bastard made donuts in the car park, all the while laughing like a lunatic.
After a couple of minutes he stopped.
The blond-haired man in the blue cowboy shirt was leaning against the bonnet of his own car, smiling. His car was the same as Moustache’s, but it was the red version. Both cars looked like they’d been waxed a great deal right before they met in the car park.
Moustache turned the car off and stepped out, his tight jeans creaking as he unfolded himself from the low vehicle. He lit a cigarette as was de rigueur for all the cool fast car-driving types. He offered the packet to Blond, who took and lit one.
A few seconds of inhalation and exhalation of smoke followed, the tobacco adding to the smell of testosterone and singed tyres that hung in the air.
“What’s the plan?” Blond asked.
“Plan?” Moustache blasted two channels of smoke from his nostrils. “We don’t have one.”
“There has to be a plan, otherwise what’s the point?”
“Why does there need to be a point? We’ll drive and drive down the freeway, probably going way too fast and piquing the interest of local law enforcement types who’ll chase us.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Then we’ll stop at some rest stop or other, maybe shoot some pool with some truck drivers, drink a few weak beers, have a fight with some guys and then meet some girls who will probably be wearing bikini tops and tiny denim shorts.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“We might take them with us which will give them the opportunity to hang out of the window and remove their bikini tops to get the fat policeman who’s chasing us all hot under the collar.”
“If that ain’t a plan, I don’t know what is. So what’s the mission?”
“Don’t know yet. I imagine it will become clear the further away from here we get.
Someone will approach us and we’ll doubtlessly end up transporting a large amount of cigarettes over state lines or something.”
“We’ll need some music.”
“Indeed we will, which is why I’ve got this.”
Moustache held aloft a cassette with the snappy name ‘Country/Rock Filler for Car
Chases with Banjo and Harmonica Bits’.
“Perfect,” said Blond as he dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it beneath the heel of his snakeskin boot.
Both men laughed, shook hands and laughed again. They climbed into their respective vehicles and gunned the engines unnecessarily.
A large amount of wheelspin ensued and both men laughed as they raced out on to the main road without even a hint of mirror, signal or manoeuvre.
“Yeeha!” screamed Moustache through his open window as passers-by glared at him and tutted.
The cars were in the fast lane of the freeway, alternating between which of them drove in the lead by performing risky undertaking moves at speeds well in excess of 100mph.
A predictably fat policeman sat at the side of the road and saw them approaching in his rear view mirror.
“Ah, shit,” he said.
His snack break was going to have to come to an end. He eschewed the usual cop snack of donuts and was eating spare ribs. Sticky sauce was all over his hands and face and all down the large napkin bearing the logo of the place where he’d bought them, Ribs for Your Pleasure — the kind of hilariously-named place you’d only find in a situation like this.
The lights on his roof lit up and the siren sounded as he pulled out into traffic. The two sports cars were a great distance ahead of him already. There was no way his car could catch them. Police vehicles were always hopelessly outdated and seemed to be held together by old chewing gum and duct tape. How could he possibly catch them?
He grabbed the radio mic from the dash, smearing rib sauce all over it as he called for back-up.
The back-up vehicles would spill out of various slip roads ahead of him, but would be unable to catch the two sports cars for the same reason he couldn’t. Some would get close but would then crash in bizarre circumstances that an experienced driver would always be able to avoid. Hopeless.
He hit the gas and reached into the box on the passenger seat for another rib.
Hapless police officers well behind them — one of whom had somehow managed to drive mistakenly up a wooden ramp which was next to the road for no reason which ended with the car landing upside down in a muddy ditch while some cows watched — the two men drove into the parking lot of a fine-looking drinking establishment which had a fifty-foot high flashing neon sign depicting a naked woman bending over stuck to the front. It was clearly a low-grade strip bar and was probably called something from the time of late 70s sexism along the lines of ‘Juggz’ or ‘Melonzz’.
Moustache grinned as he lit another cigarette and his partner in crime pulled up next to him. Curious how they managed to park right by the door in a busy parking lot where there were already easily 500 vehicles parked.
The two men entered the bar. Lighting was clearly an afterthought and it was dark and dingy, quite possibly to facilitate the taking of recreational narcotics and under-the-table fumblings with members of the opposite sex.
Women in bikinis and high heels carried trays of drinks and almost every customer in the place was wearing a lumberjack shirt, jeans and a trucker cap — some were definitely truckers, but it was a safe bet to assume there wasn’t a single lumberjack in the building.
Moustache and Blond walked to the bar where a grey-haired man who was presumably the proprietor stood polishing glasses with a tea-towel, clearly unimpressed with the job his dishwasher had done.
“What can I get for you two gentleman?” he asked.
“Two beers, two whiskies,” replied Moustache, slapping a large denomination bill down on the beer-soaked pine bar top.
There were many kinds of beer and many kinds of whisky available in the bar, but the grey-haired man knew instinctively that the two new customers would want two long-necked bottles of generic pilsner and two shots of cheap, paint stripper-like whisky.
The bill was removed and no change was given. Neither party had a problem with this transaction. Sips and slugs were taken and the two men headed towards a booth in the far corner.
No sooner had they sat down when an impossibly big, wardrobe of a man appeared next to them.
“That’s my spot,” he growled.
“It’s ours now,” replied Moustache, taking a pull from his beer.
“I don’t think you heard me,” said Wardrobe.
“I know how this goes.” He nodded at Blond who stood and walked over to the jukebox before inserting a coin.
Within seconds a song with incredibly fast banjo-picking filled the room and all eyes were on the booth where Wardrobe towered over Moustache.
Blond headed back towards them, stopping to pick up a pool cue which was then used to smack Wardrobe in the testicles from behind.
This was the catalyst for a mass brawl and numerous needlessly flimsy chairs were reduced to matchsticks over numerous patrons’ backs. It was playing out exactly as planned.
Moustache roared with laughter as he finished his drinks and stood up. Wardrobe was sprawled on the floor in agony and the whole bar was alive with the sound of impossibly loud punches being thrown and connecting.
As they reached the door they noticed one man sitting on a stool at the corner of the bar, unflinching as others were thrown over the top and into bottles and glasses. He just sipped his beer as if nothing was happening.
As they stepped into the daylight they noticed a police car driving slowly along a far lane in the parking lot. If their vision had been good enough they would have seen a very fat officer with rib sauce all over his face behind the wheel. Nevertheless they suspected something was afoot and headed along the front of the building, away from their cars.
The two men rounded the corner and saw a girl in tiny denim shorts bending over the engine beneath the open hood of her car. They looked at each other and grinned.
“Do you need some help, ma’am?” Moustache asked.
The woman stepped back from the car and turned around.
Moustache and Blond gasped.
This was no woman. It was a bearded man dressed as a woman. This confused Moustache and Blond as they had been initially attracted by the long legs because they were the world’s most heterosexual men, but now they wondered if they were both perhaps a little bit, you know, gay. Blond wondered how it was possible for there to be no testicular spillage from the seemingly sprayed on mini-shorts
Moustache played it cool.
“What’s the problem with your vehicle?” He pronounced vehicle as if it were two words, vee and hickul.
“Damn thing won’t start,” said Denim Shorts.
Moustache had a look.
“Here’s your problem,” he said, spotting a tiny problem even a trained mechanic would struggle to notice, certainly not in less than ten seconds.
A wire was moved and Moustache climbed into the driver’s seat. He tried the ignition and it started first time.
“Wow! That’s great, thanks! How can I repay you?”
Moustache and Blond looked at each other. This wasn’t going to end in the montage
of shots of a seedy motel bedroom they’d perhaps imagined. Was it? No, no it wasn’t. They were men who liked women, goddammit, and that wasn’t on the menu.
“It’s no problem,” said Moustache.
“Hey, I tell you what. I’ve got a job needs doing.”
The two men raised eyebrows and knew their mission had arrived.
“It’s not, you know, legal.”
“That’s our specialty,” said Blond. Not speciality, but specialty.
“There’s a truck full of contraband that’s parked about 10 miles from here and it needs to be taken a thousand miles and across several state lines. The time in which it needs to be completed is unnecessarily short and I think it’s frankly impossible to achieve.”
“Do they say it can’t be done?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Moustache and Blond grinned like children at Christmas.
“We’re in!”
The three got into Denim Shorts’ car, Moustache was driving, Blond was in the front passenger seat and Denim Shorts was in the back.
As they pulled out of the parking lot the rear window opened.
“What are you doing?” asked Moustache.
“I know what has to be done.”
The man tore off his shirt and leaned out of the window, jiggling his hairy man-boobs at the fat rib sauce-faced cop who was still pointlessly driving up and down the parking lot.
Needless wheelspin. Laughter. Exit.
The truck was parked behind some bushes next to the main road. It wasn’t particularly well-hidden and a truck so shiny and new would probably stick out like a sore thumb in normal circumstances.
“What’s the cargo?” Moustache asked.
“I can’t tell you that. Just deliver it to this address within 48 hours.” Denim Shorts handed Moustache a piece of paper.
Moustache knew the best route to take to their destination, a route which would doubtlessly be full of many pitfalls which always had a habit of turning up in these situations and there would also presumably be numerous further encounters with more inept law enforcement types.
They set off in the kind of way that can only draw masses of attention, by driving across several carriageways and causing all traffic to come to a standstill. Soon there would be cops from all over the state on their asses and Moustache laughed as he sounded the horn.
There was a CB unit on the dashboard which crackled. Moustache picked up the microphone.
“Breaker, breaker,” he said.
There were a few replies, things about smoky and 10–4s and other specific CB-talk which basically means nothing.
They drove along, keeping just inside the speed limit.
“Let’s make this a little more interesting,” said Moustache as he spied a police car by the side of the road up ahead.
He needlessly accelerated, the truck’s engine roaring in disapproval.
The police officer looked up from the magazine he was reading, probably the kind of softcore, demeaning-to-women rag that most bored cops would sit by the roadside reading and stared open-mouthed at the passing truck. He had no idea what speed it was travelling at, but instinctively knew it was way too fast. The lights and siren were switched on and he pulled on to the road from the grass. Back-up was summoned.
Moustache laughed like a complete madman as he spied the cop in his mirror and other police vehicles filing out of roads behind him to give pursuit. They were only a few miles from the state line and the cop who was giving chase would never catch him before he got there. He knew that law enforcement in the next state would be expecting them and that there would probably be a roadblock set up which he could pass through with hilarious consequences.
Then there it was up ahead — the roadblock. Where had all the cars in front of him gone? Nobody could pass this block in either direction and it was as if every other vehicle had somehow vanished.
There were four cars parked across the road in a line, officers standing by their vehicles’ sides with guns drawn. Moustache moved into the middle of the road and aimed for the slight gap in between the second and third cars.
He burst through effortlessly, barging the two middle cars aside as all the cops looked on aghast.
It would only be a matter of time before there were more on his tail and so he turned on to a side road, which was of course little more than a farm track. Still driving needlessly fast, the truck was throwing up huge clouds of dust which could be seen for miles and it would have taken even the most inept law enforcement officer no time at all to locate him.
For whatever reason Moustache managed to park up next to the road and they both got a decent night’s sleep without being discovered at all. Was it too much to hope that the police had given up looking for them? In a word, yes. It wouldn’t be long before he would get them back on the main highway and drive past a diner where an extraordinary number of cops would be drinking coffee as they watched him pass. In their haste to get out of the diner, one cop would spill an entire cup of volcano-hot coffee all over his crotch and in the rush to get out of the car park, two cars would collide with each other and end up totally written off.
And so the pivotal moment approached. Moustache was speeding along a road, cops giving chase. There were maybe 20 of them behind the rig and there was nothing to do but to try and outrun them. A sign by the side of the road warned of a bridge that was out in a mile and a half. How did that happen? Bridges don’t just disappear, but it was his destiny to encounter this. It had been written in the stars from his birth, or at least dreamed up by a Hollywood type with a restricted imagination.
As the bridge, or lack thereof, drew closer, there were lots of traffic cones and roadworks signs along the side of the road, despite no evidence that any work was taking place. A barrier loomed into view. Moustache pressed his foot to the floor.
The barrier was burst through and as always in these situations there was a slight incline immediately before the missing bridge which served as a kind of ramp. The truck left the ground and floated elegantly across what seemed like an impossibly wide ravine. How convenient that the other side of the gorge was substantially lower which aided a jump which, to be honest, shouldn’t have been possible in any vehicle, let alone a truck.
Moustache screeched to a halt and got out to smoke a cigar. He looked back across the unbridged area he had just cleared where he could see several police cars parked close to the edge of the other side. Officers were standing and shaking their fists at him. It appeared no one was radioing for back-up to intercept him on the side he now found himself on, which is what a good police officer would surely have done.
On his way again, Moustache kept to the speed limit and drove courteously.
“Are we nearly there yet?” asked Blond, who had long since become a redundant part of the story.
“Not far to go now, “replied Moustache, turning the vehicle on to what appeared to be an abandoned industrial estate.
The truck stopped in a cloud of dust outside an old factory and the two men got out.
“I think this is the place,” said Moustache, taking the piece of paper from his pocket and scrutinising it, knowing full well that it was the correct address.
A limousine approached from another road, despite the fact that there seemed to be only one way in and out of the area. The men couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Was the car really being driven by a monkey who was wearing a chauffeur’s outfit? That seemed a little bit far-fetched even for such a cliché-ridden story.
The vehicle, which seemed like an exaggeratedly-stretched version of a popular American car stopped behind the truck and next to the two men, the rear door opened and a man who looked like a businessman who you wouldn’t want to mess with unfolded himself on to the gravel. He was a burly man, more muscular than fat, although a paunch was evident. He was almost totally bald on the top of his head, but the hair on the sides and back had been grown long enough to scrape into a tiny ponytail. He lit a cigar.
“Have you got my cargo?” he asked.
Moustache gestured towards the very obvious truck.
The monkey chauffeur climbed out of the car and walked made its way to the rear doors of the trailer. Leaping up, it pulled the handle and swung the right hand door open.
Moustache was shocked as the left door was opened and the cargo they had riskily crossed state lines with was revealed.
The businessman nodded in approval as he looked at the interior of the trailer. It contained hundreds of boxes of bananas.
The monkey chauffeur opened a box and grabbed one before swinging on one of the doors and screeching wildly as it unpeeled the fruit with one hand.
Laughter, back-slapping, cigar-smoking, country music soundtrack, end credits featuring a montage of outtakes solely based on driving mishaps, laughter and cigar-smoking.
Smoky, and other similarly crazy stories, can be found in my book, Leftovers, which is available here.
