Style No. 90: Action Movie

This mattress later found its way into the dumpster, and may have saved grandma's life.

This mattress later found its way into the dumpster, and may have saved grandma’s life.

“Did you drop acid at the bus station this morning?” Raj asked. He wore an orange t-shirt and held a Glock 9-milly in each of his hands.

“W…W…What?” the woman asked, backing over shards of glass that crunched and popped as she pressed herself against the crumbling brick wall of the notorious Rashtrapati gang’s headquarters and secret underground crack-cocaine factory.

“I said did you drop acid at the bus station when you got up this morning?”

“Answer the question grandma, before your ass gets lit up like Diwali fucked Christmas in a lightbulb factory,” Kumar said, brandishing his trademark acid-soaked potato cannon. He also wore the Rashtrapati gang’s signature orange t-shirt, and was leaning against a bullet-proof Hummer behind Raj, smoking a Cuban cigar.


“Well that ain’t good news baby. Cuz I’d say dropping acid at the bus station is maybe the only way you coulda wound up here in the wrong part of town by accident. And since you ain’t dropped no acid I’d say you come here on purpose. And old ladies who come here on purpose get they ass lit up, unless they our mommas, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, or our aunties,” Kumar said, jamming a poisoned spud into his cannon and sneering as he played with his chrome-brushed lighter.

“I…I…I swear to you, I was just out looking for the sabzi market, I only need to find some bitter melons and coconut for dinner is all.”

“Oh don’t you worry, there’s gon’ be some bitter food to swallow in a minute,” Raj said, smiling and looking back at Kumar as he twirled his shining Glocks on his middle fingers.

“I beg you, I’m just an old woman, please let me go.”

“Just an old woman, yeah?” Kumar spat through a puff of cigar smoke. “Well if you’re so innocent, why don’t you show us what you’re hiding under that headshawl of yours.”

“Yeah grandma, let’s see what you got in there,” Raj said, raising his pistols and aiming them at her head. “Unless you want me to shoot it off for you.”

“There’s nothing, I swear! I’ll show you, I’ll show you. I just keep my grocery money in a small purse up there is all. Here,” she said, reaching for the cloth on her head.

“Hey, slow, no funny shit,” Raj said.

“P…P…Please don’t hurt me, I’m just out shopping for my family,” she pleaded through a salty current of tears. “I only wandered in here by accident, and please if you’ll just let me go all I want to do is… KILL ALL YOU SISTERFUCKERS!!!” The grenade hidden beneath the scarf on her head flew through the sky as she roared these final words, landing at Raj’s feet as she dove for cover behind an old dumpster filled with soiled mattresses.

“Raj!” Kumar cried out as shrapnel from his brother’s skull blew into his face along with a strong dose of brain and guts. He scrambled behind the reddened Hummer and noticed his cigar had been extinguished by one of his brother’s eyeballs, now stuck to the end of it. “You old cunt butter, I’m going to kill you and your whole goddamn family! I’m going to kill your dog and shove its dick up your ass!”

“Oh yeah?” she shouted from behind the heap of steel and garbage. “And just how is a dirty ass hair like you going to do that?”

“In about five seconds this potato is going to burn a hole right through your fucking face, that’s how.”

“Try me, ass rod,” she shouted back, quietly withdrawing a Sterling submachine gun hidden in her kameez beneath her ample grandmotherly bosom.

Kumar threw down his brother’s eyeball and wiped the brains off his face. Then he readied his lighter and charged around the backside of the dumpster. “Die you mangy whore!” he cried as he lit the potato cannon.

The spud blasted through space like a rocket, but the old woman was too quick. She tossed the submachine gun in front of her then dove into a front handspring, picking up the weapon as she flipped back on her feet. The tuber splattered across the wall, and the air filled with the sizzling smoke of acid as it ate right through the brick.

The grandma pointed her weapon at Kumar, his eyes bulging white with fear. “Looks like you’re mashed, potato man.” With that she smiled and, casting her head back in wild laughter, cut the Rashtrapati gang’s most feared enforcer to shreds with thirty rounds of hot metal.

She dropped the weapon and stood over the corpses, or what was left of them. It was less a pair of bodies than a vat of blood stew spilled on a cracked patch of concrete. “Well boys,” she said. “Time for me to get those veggies.”

She turned to leave, but saw a crowd had formed in the distance. No matter, she thought. I’ll escape the other way. As she turned, however, she noticed behind her a strange man. In one hand he grasped a samurai sword, and in the other he nursed a caramel frappuccino nonchalantly while looking the other way.

Dear God, she thought, fear pulsing in her veins like a mad taxi blasting its way through traffic. Not him. Anyone but him.

She thought to hijack the Hummer and mow him down like an unruly lawn. But it would be no use. He knew too much.

And so she would hold her ground. She would wait till he finished his blended coffee. And then she would end it for both of them in a mushroom cloud of Semtex and C4, bringing these Rashtrapati dogs to heel once and for all.


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