St. Patrick's Day (draft)

In the end, it wasn't the life of crime, the decades of alcoholism or even the chain smoking that killed Grandma Burns. It was her toilet seat.

Or more accurately, her urinal. But it wasn't just any urinal. It was the urinal: Marcel DuChamp's Fountain. Valued at millions, this was the prize she had been searching after all these years. For Grandma Burns was a toilet thief, and she only stole rare toilets: golden toilets, painted toilets, or the dumping grounds of the rich and famous.

Grandma was always a bit of an odd duck.

After sixty years, Grandma Burns had become a first class toilet thief. She could unfasten the bolts that hold toilets fast in seconds, and unhook the plumbing nearly as fast. She had a brilliant mind for hacking security protocols, and her nephew helped her lift these lovely latrines into her van - this time a non-suspicious vehicle that read Al's Bakery. She also had several tricks up her sleeve that included pretended senility and flirting with the guards.

But this job was hideously botched, by something as ordinary as St. Patrick's Day.

~*~*~*~*~

Alex hopped down Princeton Street with glee, green beads swinging rhythmically from his neck. This was awesome! His friend Shannon - who was pointing and laughing from the window of the house - dared him to do it, and he thought it was an awesome idea. He wanted to jump higher and faster. He was vaguely aware that he was moving forward, but he cared little: Alex was full of green beer. He gave a loud shout and hopped faster and faster.

He passed by the house, and then another, then another. As soon as the rubber end of the pogo stick touched down on the ground, the horizon rose in Alex's vision, but only briefly. Then as the spring propelled him upward, the horizon plummeted. Up, down, up, down. His beads swung over his head in a blurry arc. The green beer began to rise up from the deep recesses of his green torso, and he lurched toward the left.

Suddenly, Alex heard the sound of tires peeling from behind, and he felt the hot impact of the steel grill. He was launched into the air clutching his pogo stick, his beads flailing desperately.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Alex woke up flat on his back with a splitting headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. He squinted his eyes to avoid the last rays of the sun. Parts of his body ached that he didn't even know he had, and he felt the intense need to vomit.

He propped himself up on his forearms and looked behind him. His eyes widened as he saw an enormous white van, looming inches above his feet. Once he confirmed that he was able to stand, he noticed that the driver was an old woman, her head slumped forward. A urinal was jammed up against the base of her skull.

Alex swore that he would never drink again.