Predator Press
[LOBO]
“We don’t
need Full Coverage,” I insist.
“Yes we do,” replies Terri, speaking more to the agent than to me.
“It costs twice as much!”
“Full Coverage,” Terri assures the agent.
“Don’t listen to her,” I says. “She orders avocado and spinach dip at restaurants. The nachos throw themselves off of the table attempting suicide.”
Terri turns to me. “Do you remember when you
wrecked your last car? If you had Full Coverage, they would have cut us a check for the full value. We could have bought a
new one.”
I turn to the agent. “Really?”
“Yes,” nods the agent.
“So you’re saying if I crash the car again, I’m covered.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m parked on a ferry in the middle of Loch Ness, and a 747 falls out of the sky and smashes into it sending my car spiraling into the murky depths.”
“Covered.”
“Let’s say I’m driving down by Lake Michigan, and a 450 pound shark jumps out and-“
“You’re covered,” she says.
“-I’m not done,” I says. “A 450 fifty pound shark jumps out. Smashes my car.
And smashes a nearby bulletproof Secret Service limousine full of foreign dignitaries.”
The woman goes to speak, and I hold up a finger warningly.
“-But the
dignitaries,” I continue, “aren’t alone in the limo: it turns out to be full of cocaine and underage hookers. And dynamite. Yeah. But when Dan Rather shows up to cover the story, Walter Cronkite calls him a
'punk-ass-bitch' and punches Dan right in the face for trying to steal his story. Tempers flare, pandemonium ensues, and after a raging gun battle Chicago is ultimately burned to rubble, occupied only by a handful of radioactive mutant survivors.”
She examines the forms closely. “Does the dynamite go off?”
“Yes,” I confess. “During the gun battle.”
“You’re covered.”
“Baby,” I says to Terri. “I think we should go with the full coverage.”
“Good idea honey,” says Terri.
The agent puts on her glasses. “Do you want roadside coverage?”
“Have you
seen these roads?”
Terri interjects. “She means the insurance for tow truck service, flat tires, …”
“They fix flat tires
too?” Standing, I reach for my pocketknife.
“Easy baby,” says Terri. “We haven’t signed yet.”
Disappointed, I sit. “Well those tires aren’t getting any less bald.”
Endless signatures later, the agent was sliding a card to each of us.
“What’s this?” I says.
“It’s your Bond Card. If you get a ticket, this prevents the police from confiscating your license.”
“Yeah,” I says smiling at Terri. “Let’s go. I can’t
wait to drive by some cops and flash this baby.
'Fuck you, pigs! Hahahahah! Lookie here ... !'"
