St. Patrick's Day Massacre (edited)

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. This was the prize she had been searching after all these years. Grandma Burns was a toilet thief, and she only stole rare toilets: golden toilets, painted toilets. The dumping grounds of the rich and famous.

Grandma was always a bit of an odd duck.

Grandma Burns had just finished loading the urinal into the back of her green Cadillac - with the help of her no-good grandson Thomas - and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. She saw that the knots that secured the urinal to the back seat were slightly loose. She shook her head. She had no time to waste before security arrived, and she was terribly arthritic.

"Stupid grandson," she muttered under her breath. She hastily withdrew a cigarette and stuck it between her teeth. She chewed it for good measure as she sped away.

~*~*~*~*~
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 bumper. 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 a enormous green Cadillac, 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 cigarette dangling from her lips. A urinal was jammed up against the base of her skull.

Alex blinked in disbelief, and then rubbed his eyes. It was the beer. It had to be. He closed his eyes and was scared to open them again. He swore that he would never drink again.