WACKY

Big Sal loaded up on caffeine pills and coffee. Necessary fuel for the all-night stakeout. Someone had been stealing vehicles from his used car lot, and his shotgun was in the mood to catch a thief.

It started a week prior. He drove past Mr. Wacky, the lot’s inflatable waving arm man, and immediately noticed two empty spaces that should have held a pair of ’06 Geos.

The next morning, two more empty spaces.

He uncapped his thermos and swallowed a mouthful of midnight roast. His eyes pierced through the darkness, surveilled his domain. No car jackers in sight.

But then he heard the sound of a running fan.

He turned his head toward the noise. Standing next to him, with arms flailing like possessed tube socks, was Mr. Wacky.

Big Sal looked directly into its misshapen eyes and suddenly remembered: He never owned an inflatable waving arm man. Thought they were a silly tactic for desperate salesmen.

Yet there it was, an abomination of polyester, nylon, and human flesh. A dancing tapestry from hell.

Blood spilled out of its left eye. Big Sal dropped his coffee onto the asphalt and reached down for his trusty sawed-off. He came up empty handed.

Mr. Wacky’s mouth blasted hot air that smelled of sulfur, held up Big Sal’s missing shotgun and said:

“The cars were just the appetizer.”