Widespread Panic

It’s a quivering quick-march. The Kiddie Korps follows their festering father — they goof some goose steps and hop in the Chevy van. Voldrich whips behind the wheel and peels out.

They looped left on Sunset. I looped left and lagged back. I caught cover behind a big bus booming eastbound. I rode the back bumper and kept their back bumper surveilled.

We headed into Hollywood. The bus barged due east. The van vizzed south on Wilton Place. A taco wagon wiggled between us. It was chopped and channeled. It surged, submarineesque. The sassy side panels read Los Intrusos.

The van vipped ahead. I surfed behind the submarine. We’re headed southbound and down. Wilton arced into Arlington. We passed Mount Vernon Junior High/aka Mount Vermin. The van angled east at the Jefferson juncture. The tacomobile tooled on south.

I lost my car cover. I dawdled three car lengths back and dug darktown by nite. Something Rodent Robbie Molette said sacked me.

Escalation. Liquor-store 211’s. We’re at Jefferson and Normandie. It’s liquorland lit large — right here, right now.

Telepathy ticked — me to them. Don’t read my mind, Menschen — don’t cross this line.

The van wriggled to the right lane and crept curbside. I saw the lit-up liquor store window, jarringly just ahead. I whipped wide and nudged up to the north-side curb. The van stopped in front of the store.

Achtung!!!! Raus!!!! Mach schnell!!!!

The six sickos pile out. Nazi Nick’s got the camera. Nabob Nick’s got a pump shotgun. Jimmy Dean’s got a bottle of T-Bird topped with a cotton-wick fuse. It’s a sure-as-shit Molotov cocktail.

I froze, I watched, I peeped. I’m a peeper first and forever. Bill Parker told me to intercede and fuck up all felony actions. I didn’t. I disobeyed. I sought succor in savagery. I was coldly complicit. I’m all vile volition, and—

They walked into the store. The counter clerk saw them and guuuuulped. Nick Ray rolled film. Chester Voldrich reached behind the counter and tapped the till. The clerk yelped. His mouth moved. I imagined a plaintive please. The two no-name Kameraden hopped the counter and taped his mouth shut.

Voldrich shagged a shelf bottle. He uncorked it and passed it to his putrid pals. Some reflex ripped me. I kept going for a gun I didn’t have.

Nick Ray rolled film. No-name Nazi #2 pulled out a Minox minicamera and snapped stills. Jimmy flicked his lighter and lit the Molotov. Nabob Nick pumped his shotgun and blasted the booze shelves.

Glass shattered and sheared. Wino wine and rotgut rye and skunk scotch blew wide. Jimmy tossed the Molotov. It caught the cold cuts case and exploded. Fumes flared and flattened out at the ceiling. Electrical cords caught fire and sparked blue and white.

Smoke smothered my Peepvision view. The clerk ran outside and ran straight out of my frame. Nick’s Knights walked out, en masse. They stood studly, six across. They rebel-yelled. They whipped out their whangs and pissed in the street.