Past Imperfect

Past Imperfect – #315

Reporter, passing by: “Excuse me, gentlemen. Could I have a word with you?”

Edward, left: “We’re a little busy here and this thing is kind of heavy so… no.”

James, right: “Get lost, sister.”

Reporter:  “This will only take a few minutes. I couldn’t help but notice that you appear to be in the midst of a heist. As a reporter, I find that very exciting.”

Edward: “A heist? This ain’t a heist. We’re just… moving stuff. We’re movers. On a movin’ job.”

Reporter: “And why would you need a gun for that?”

James: “It’s for safety. This is a bad neighborhood. People get killed all the time. Like nosy reporters.”

Reporter: “Wait a minute. That box looks like it has alcohol in it. Alcohol is against the law during Prohibition. Why are you moving boxes of alcohol?”

Edward: “This ain’t alcohol, it’s…”

James: “It’s a casket. See, it has “Old Grand-Dad” on it. Grandpa didn’t make it.”

Reporter: “It also says ‘bourbon whisky’ on it.”

Edward: “That was his nickname. He liked to drink whiskey. He died because he was so sad about not getting to drink it anymore.”

Reporter: “That’s an awfully small box for a casket.”

James: “Grandpa was really short. He was in the circus. Are you making fun of short people who die?”

Reporter: “Of course not, I would never dream of it. But the box says ‘Since 1788’. Was Short Grandpa also a vampire?”

James: “Okay, I’ve had enough. Lady, you need to move along or you are never going to write any news stories again.”

Reporter: “That sounds like a threat. I don’t take kindly to threats.”

James: “Do you take kindly to bullets?”

Reporter: “Well, not necessarily. So I suppose I should go. But I do have one more question.”

Edward: “It better be your last. We gotta get Grandpa in the ground.”

Reporter: “Why are both of you wearing so much makeup that this looks like fetish night at a gay bar?”


Previously published, slight changes made.


21 replies »

  1. James (who will never ever be mistaken for anyone but himself): Cheese it! It’s the COPS! I’ll stand here, lookin’ tough and brandishing this really long gun. Which is not a substitution for any other *koff* inadequacies. My equipment is huge!”
    Edward (guy who looks vaguely like Jimmy Smits “the early years”): What the hell you blathering about? We’re supposed to… who the hell is SHE? I thought you were keeping a look-out!
    James: She snuck up on me! She’s one o’ them Ninja thingies.. No, Wait. What’s that in her hand? Freeze it Sister!
    Edward: Hurry up and shoot her already. This damned box is HEAVY!
    ‘Sister”: I came to check up on your progress. The Big Boss sent me because youse two clowns couldn’t find your ass%$!#s with both hands and a flashlight!
    James: That’s PROFILING! And Bullying! I’m telling..
    Edward: Oh my *insert deity name*. Tell Bully Boy Boss that we were doing fine until you came along and distracted ol’ Mr. Big Gun that isn’t a substitution …
    Sister: That is far too much information! Besides I happen to know he’s not substituting for anything, are you honey?
    James (turning a shade of red that is most interesting, particularly because the film is in black and white).
    Edward: Well we’re ALL SCREWED now. Because those are the real cops! Here! He flings the box of bourbon (or short, allegedly dead grandparents) at Sister. She misses and there’s a humongous crash and a smell of bourbon, making James a little tipsy. Edward runs away, his long legs carrying him over the rainbow into a land where booze is legal, but never the wild weed..
    James and Sister are taken into custody and their wrists slapped briskly. Nobody wins. It’s an American tale…told deftly by your author magnifico Brian. Tip him.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Have I ever mentioned that our mind-workings are so similar it’s mildly unsettling? This perky little tale had me sniggling away.

      In a somewhat unrelated note, the phrase “Hurry up and shoot her already” was a fairly common utterance during my formative years in Pickup Truck, Oklahoma. There were always things going on that would be more successful without witnesses. I did my best to avoid the gunfire and back-stabbing, scribbling in my tattered diary whilst I hid in the barn. It was traumatic, sure, but I firmly believe that if I had been raised in a traditional, emotionally-stable environment, Bonnywood Manor would never have come to fruition. And so it goes…


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