“Look at that son of a bitch run,” she said. “Can you believe that guy never leaves me a fucking tip.”
Mom says we got to go ghetto this year. Look tough. No more Wizard of Oz crap like last year. Last year wasn’t so fun anyway. Mom always tries to make me wear the stupidest things, Spider Man mixed with Wonder Woman, Hansel sans Gretel, the 2nd musketeer, even when all I ever wanted to be was Dorothy. Mom says it is time to get up and go. “Get the hell out!”
She forgets we barely survived last Halloween.
Carjackers are not priests or dancing bears. They mean business even when that means taking mom by the neck and the Datsun too. Mom doesn’t have balls but if she did they’d be bigger than those jackers or teabaggers. He pulled a gun on us. Colt 45 or Smith & Wesson, or Wesson Oil. Mom was closer but she had her eyes closed. It looked like a gun. I’m not a fan of the NRA. That’s all I know. She kicked one of them in the nuts. I grabbed the gun, pointed it in his face, the face of the Wizard of Oz. I was wearing my Nixon mask which gave me the courage to lie to myself that I had courage. He was a republican but I’m just a girl I thought. I could tell by his mullet he was a mullet. Mom is the kind of woman you wouldn’t sleep with without a background check but she was the Lion that night. And I had the biggest cajones in the world for once.
“To Oz,” she said, as she rearranged her boobs and my mask. And we drove off.