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Of Club Cars, Doughnuts, and The Powers of a C10

This submission was sent in by Texan_Idiot25 some time ago; in the creation of AtomicToasters recently, it got overlooked. It’s my bad, but fortunately we don’t have to worry about our resident Texan Idiot taking it out on us: we don’t have any Club Cars.

The events described may or may not have happened. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

It had been months since I had been in it. It sat like a crooked drunk, weary. Eyes squinted, seeing back to many past tales. The 1969 C10 had not been bothered for quite some time, and it was I who had to revive it. It was important, no, principal that it was ready for tonight. Tonight’s duties were of utmost tomfoolery, and the appropriate ship was needed to navigate this dastardly plan. The Orange Crush was fit for the job. Three hundred and fifty cubic inches of engine was enough for a quick get away. An 8 foot truck bed was capable of carrying men, tools, and ramps with room to spare for the target. But, like a crooked drunk, it was not happily woken.

The carburetor had to be bone dry, down to the pump. The key slid in, and with a thunk it turned the ignition. The battery gave it’s last bit of life for this moment, but spitting and sputtering, fuel slowly made it’s way back up, and the engine awoke from it’s coma. Success. The tires had rotted, but they held air. Surely, this would be no issue. Eventually the smoke cleared from the pipes, a combination of unburnt fuel and moisture, maybe a few visitors in the exhaust being evicted from the steel caves of the mufflers. The sweet, sweet lumpy rumble of a genuine American V8.

The plan had been a shortly thought one. A little bit of civil disobedience is good, so we thought. Past excursions into neighborhood pools had been thwarted by a man on a mission, of which we were not quite certain. He rode on a 48 volt chariot, a Club Car golf cart. Fitted with the finest fun fighting tools- a orange safety light, a walkie-talkie, flash light, and a prepaid cell phone with the Travis County Sheriff on speed dial. He rode the sidewalks of West Cypress, like a rebel cop looking for some vigilante justice, at the expense of no tax payer- only at those aiming for a little bit more fun.

But, what if we took his horse away, hijacked his chariot? His tools would be taken too, and what is a knight with out his sword? We packed enough tools to rebuild this motor in a Walmart parking lot, there had to be no less preparation for the getaway. ATV ramps were borrowed, with the promise that they’d be returned the next evening after we returned from the trails, I said. A rope to secure the target. A spare license plate was prepared with magnets on the back, for quick placement and removal. If the numbers were ran, it would tell you about a 1987 Chevy Cavalier that saw a date with the crusher 3 years ago. Not a privy to the identification of Orange Crush, we had chosen a dark park to help mask it’s true colors. It helped in these situations to play on outside turf, far from a regular drive. I was keen on this, and locations were planned accordingly.

9 o’clock on a Friday. Our accomplices had gathered, and we made final plans and mental trials to predict any problems. The plan was simple enough: get Tyler and his girl into the pool after closing. No problem. We’d already have Orange Crush in holding a street away. The pool would be in plain view, but the truck would be out of site until it was fired up. It was to stay idling until the two had entered the pool to keep the engine warmed up. A cold start is a nasty experience for a carburetted vehicle sometimes, and we could not afford the extra time spent getting the carb happy with it’s cold surroundings again.

The truck would sit like a trap door spider, baiting it’s pray and ready to grab it and take it back to it’s home. When the guard would entered the pool gate, the truck team would roll in, drop the tail gate, fit the ramps. We were prepared to push, but the hope was that the cart would be driven up the ramps. Tyler would flee over the fence, awaiting on the other side for the truck to come around (the road looped around the pool) and jump into the back. We were to fly out to the ranch country and dispose of the Club Car in “Italian Job” style — mid turn, moving vehicle, and out the back. Victory would be sweet, and The Man would be once again stuffed.

But what about the risks, the dangers? How does one explain a truck full of people and a Club Car with “West Cypress Security” plastered on the side in cheap reflective paint? Why hello, Officer, how are you this fine evening? What’s this? Oh, sir, we found this golf cart abandoned a few miles back. Yes. I gathered a posse to rescue the lone Club Car from the ditch. We were headed back to headquarters to wait until the morning, it’s far too early in the morning to call to this little guy’s home, to calm his worrying parents. Our mission is a noble one, no doubt.

An hour past midnight, and things went into action. The happy couple were in the pool, being overly noisy to garner attention quicker. The truck was awaiting, hot and ready. It didn’t take long before the lowly hum of an electric motor and a flash of orange lights announced that the brave warrior was back out to fight. We were tense. No, tense doesn’t describe it. Ready to scream, yell, and generally fuck things up with excitement and adrenaline would better describe it. We were sticking it to The Man and damnit, we were doing it with style.

Now, this knight in loose khaki was not a fit man. He chugged slowly while walking, an advantage to our bait couple as they had to dash for the fence quickly. The Club Car squeaked to a stop. I flicked the key over, a slight jab of the throttle to coax the accelerator pump to the engine just enough liquid gold to satisfy the requirements for ignition. The Orange Crush woke from it’s quick nap, and with everyone braced for impact, lurched out of hiding with a quick squeal of the tires from an overzealous shift from Park to Drive. This impending problem for our brave khaki knight wasn’t noticed, as he asserted his power from behind the locked gate, fumbling for the right keys. He made it through just as the Orange Crush had beached onto the parking lot, and stormed for the cart.

Things went quickly now, another overzealous maneuver with the brakes and nearly throwing the crew overboard, the tail gate slammed down and the ramps were in place. We were lucky the Khaki man had left the keys in, but unhappy with the carts… vigor. It took a 20 foot run up to get up the steep ATV ramps, but it was in. The happy couple had already made the fence and the now dazed and confused defender of all that is civil saw his chariot being shanghaied into the back of a pick up truck. He must’ve been stunned, he couldn’t move. You could have dropped the finest chocolate-sprinkled doughnut and he would’ve stood stone cold. This made the get away and recovery of the happy couple pleasantly easy. Once we were out of site of the pool, the Cavalier plates were put away and the headlights were safe to come back on. There was an exciting feeling in this truck, we had toppled The Man off his horse, literally.

It was a dash of back roads to get the cart out of site. Some where along the ride, the crew in back decided it was best to remove the Club Car’s roof with the tool supply. Probably not a bad idea, the tall roof still had it’s dazzling little light on the roof grabbing for attention. The drop point was a half mile off. The tail gate fell once more with a solid thud, and all eyes were on the cart. A quarter mile. The turn approached in the C10’s spotlight-like headlamps. Everyone cleared for the drop. In my head was the simple lines from 1969’s The Italian Job:

Gotta get a bloomin’ move on
Jump in the jam jar. Gotta get straight.
Hurry up mate, gonna be late!
And ‘how’s your father?’
Tickety-boo, tickety-boo.
Gotta get a bloomin’ move on.

This is the Self Preservation Society,

This seemed appropriate. If those plucky Brits with Mini Coopers could use it while dumping their cars off a mountain on their getaway, then I’ll be damned if I can’t for throwing a golf cart out the back of a pickup. With a unanimous smile, and a sure push, the cart left the back of the truck bed at approximately 35 miles per hour. The debris field that ensued was glorious in the red glow of the C10’s tail lights. We had done it. Stuck it to The Man by all definitions of the saying. No harm done, certainly not. The C10 had provided to be like a Titanic that didn’t sink. That night it and it’s crew were unsinkable.

Then again, these events may or may not have happen. There may or may not have been a Club Car scattered in the middle of a country road.

Of course, we at Redusernab would never condone such irresponsible actions. Nor would we suggest that such irresponsible actions would have been much more fun if they’d had fireworks attached to the golf cart.

  • That's great dude, nothing like a stickin' it to the man with friends. Beautiful truck, that front license plate kills me. I love the first shot!

  • zsm

    Don't they shoot you for stealing another man's horse, let alone killing it, in Texas?

    Seriously now, great story, but yes good you did not get caught.

    • Texan_Idiot25

      It's still illegal to carry wire cutters in your pocket. I can't even imagine what they do for horses.

      • Rustlers use them to cut wire and steal cows.

        • Texan_Idiot25

          Yup, I'd figure most of our frontier laws are still in the books.

  • BGW

    Good lord, son. Between this and your Banned Camp story, I'm pretty sure you're a menace to all that's good and decent.

    Keep up the good work.

  • marmer

    Vandalism! Reckless endangerment! (snicker) Willful destruction of property! (cough) That security guard was just doing his job! (Heh) I don't ever want to hear about this kind of thing again! (mumph)

    Uhhh, how'd it sound when it hit?

  • Wow. I think the worst thing I've done recently is park in the "Expecting Mothers" spot at Meijer. I'm getting soft in my old age, I guess.

    • Can I do the same at Tesco if I'm Expecting my Mother?

    • BGW

      My wife called me an expectant mother the other day, so I guess that counts. Granted, she added a couple extra syllables after "mother" but I think that's close enough.

      • IronBallsMcG

        I get called that often enough that I'm bewildered at not getting cards on Mother's Day. Of course that's offset by the the joy of not receiving unexpected cards on Father's Day.

        • njhoon

          Glad to hear that I am not the only one that holds their breath when that day rolls around.

  • IronBallsMcG

    What a compelling work of fiction, yeah, that's it.
    Thoroughly enjoyed it. A pick-up in a creative young man's hands is a heck of a thing. I may or may not have piloted a mobile garbage catapault long ago.
    I always enjoy any contribution from you, thanks for this.

  • That's fucked up. Hilariously fucked up, and I totally approve.

  • FuzzyPlushroom

    The closest I can come involves roughly a dozen orange traffic cones, the trunk of my 244, and a newly-closed rural road that had previously been under construction. Or does it? Maybe it doesn't.

xxx cartoon