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Gotta Love That Bomber

It was the best standoff I had ever been a part of.

Ten people were standing behind me with guns drawn, pointed at the heart of one little pus-bag who cringed in the corner of his bathroom, his rodent eyes wide with terror, hands desperately clutching a wooden rolling pin. I took a step forward, gripping my revolver so hard I thought it would break in my hand as I put the right eye of the rat between the sights and said with as much calmness as I could allow "Hand it over, jerkwad!"

Let's take a step back away from this scene for a moment and explain how it came to be. Why would I, just your average, fun-loving guy, be huddled with my friends in some scumbag's bathroom with intent to assault and batter? Simple...he stole my jacket.

Let me show you my jacket, or at least a photo of it: It's a burgundy 1970's vintage bomber jacket. Its breast pockets are wide and spacious, with ridiculous, sharply-angled flaps. A Russian Interkosmos badge is sewn into the left shoulder, and on the left arm are a triangular radiation symbol and the words "Voodoo Explosion," (a big punk band named Blue Vixen popped up just before the comet came around, and they were famous for having large, rowdy crowds. Voodoo Explosion was one of their party songs, and it quickly became a household phrase for any large gathering of people rocking out in the most creative ways they can think of). On the right shoulder is a billiards ball with the number "69." The arm consists of the phrase "B-Movie Hero" with a row of bombs, hearts, and stars encircling the sleeve just above the elbow. On the back is a photo of a vixen in military uniform bending over with her trousers down, showing her bare bottom with the legend below reading "UP YOURS."

I love this jacket. Not only is it a one of a kind item nowadays, but I think it looks pretty stylish. I found it one day while scrounging for some food, the first real thing that wasn't totally destroyed by the comet. I thought it looked pretty strange, but it was cold outside, and the velvet lining inside was comfortable. It stayed with me through all the freezing nights and boiling hot days, from when I crawled out of the ruins of the college to when I first met Jason on top of Rickson Avenue. It's become something like an old friend to me. It sounds crazy, but it's true.

I'm always adding stuff to it, little badges, mementos, and doo-dads that can be sewn, super-glued, or soldered onto it. The problem is that I'm really picky with it; it has to be the right thing, or else the whole thing looks stupid.

I was heading to the mall earlier today, one of the few institutions still in functional use today, when I get jumped by this gang of road-rats. They rough-housed me for a little while--you can bet I got in a few kicks myself before they overpowered me; one of them will be tasting his fillings for a good while--before one of them lays me out on the cold ground with strong right hook. When I woke up, my jacket was gone, and all I knew was a world of blind, blood-soaked hatred. I went back home instead of going to the mall, knowing that once my boiling anger subsided I'd be in need of some comfort.

I didn't exactly find much comfort at home, though. Jason just gave me a hug and said it was too bad, but that the chances of me finding that jacket ever again were slimmer than the chances of an American winning the Miss Universe competition (with the world the way it is now, I caught the analogy pretty quickly).

But that's the beauty about karma; you never know you have the winning hand until you see all the cards on the deck.

I saw the rat bastard about a week later, leaning against the side of a brick building like a bad model for a punk magazine. He was wearing my jacket, sporting it around like it had always been his. It was dirtier and grimier with a few rough, scratched up patches, but for the most part the jacket still looked alright.

I began keeping tabs on the rat. Where he went every day, where he was coming from, who he talked with...I wrote everything down in a little black notebook. I learned of where he lived, who lived with him, and how often he kept company. All I needed was one little day...

The next day, I was ready to execute my plans. I contacted all my friends, made sure they weren't busy or had anything else to do, and got them assembled at the cabin. I was all ready for my little war; I wore a shirt with a large zombie on it that read "Shotguns: Does a body good." I had on baggy black pants with pockets filled to the brim with spare ammunition for my new .45; a pair of black leather gloves, both of which read "Strike Anywhere;" my best Misfits baseball cap, planted backwards on my head so that my head-hair spiked out of the opening in the back.

It was war, and it was going to be total war.

A long time ago, the Greeks had (allegedly) fought a war over a woman when a Trojan stole the bride of a Spartan king. I figured that my plight had similar connotations, and I brought this argument to light when Jason saw what was going on in our kitchen. He came into the room in a huff, wiping his hands on the lemon-yellow apron with great anxiety, complaining that our racket was interrupting the maturation of his soufflé; I explained the our racket was necessary and that my jacket was more important than his soufflé, to which he gave a high-pitched cry of outrage before storming out the door.

We surrounded the dilapidated building where the rat resided, going silently; making sure that he'd be caught off guard. With any luck, my plan would be so spot-on that we'd catch the bastard with his pants down. I gave the signal, and we rushed the door open, guns drawn, shouting like the world was ending a second time. We met no resistance, which is always how I like it, and we stormed the little single-floor building. I smashed my foot into a door, and I saw the rat sitting on the john, his eyes as big as Dolly Parton's mammaries. He leapt up, his grimy pants still hugging his ankles, and grabbed a rolling pin that was curiously lying on the floor.

That's how we get to the now; with me and my companions huddled in this poor prick's lavatory, all of our weapons pointed at him, demanding that he take off my jacket, with me humming the song Little Green Bag, for some odd reason.

The rat complied without hesitation, though, which really was a good decision; I did not want to get blood stains on my jacket. He handed it over to me slowly, our eyes staring each other down. When he paid up, I gave him a quick jab to the gut, driving the wind out of him and making him double over, falling in super slow-motion to the dirty tiled floor. I looked at my friends, told them that that was all, and made my way out of the bathroom. A few of my friends were stunned, wondering if that was really it (I admit I tricked a few of them into joining my little feud), but I assured that it most definitely was it. Some of them were angry, some of them laughed at me, but I felt a whole lot better.

Outside, I put my jacket on, feeling its familiar weight comfort me. I looked on the ground and, raising an eyebrow, picked up two strange little objects: a pair of fabric squares, one black, the other pink. I thought about it for a moment and put them in my pocket, a project for later maybe. Cut them in two; sew them together into the front of the jacket...

Queer Anarchist pride.

I love my bomber.