Hard Eight

my hand into my bag to find my gun. “Run back to the bakery.”

The guy in the rubber mask and the guy in the rabbit suit were out of the car before it stopped rolling. They rushed at Grandma and me with guns drawn and herded us between the two cars. The rubber mask guy was of average height and build. He was wearing jeans and running shoes and a Nike jacket. The rabbit was wearing the big rabbit head and street clothes.

“Against the car, and hands where I can see them,” the mask guy said.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Grandma asked. “You look like Bill Clinton.”

“Yeah, I’m Bill Clinton,” the guy said. “Get against the car.”

“I never understood that part about the cigar,” Grandma said.

“Get against the car! ”

I backed against the car and my mind was racing. Cars were moving on the street in front of us, but we were hidden from sight. If I screamed I doubted I’d be heard by anyone, unless someone walked by on the sidewalk.

The rabbit got up close to me. “Thaaa id ya raa raa da haaar id ra raa.”

“What?”

“Haaar id ra raa.”

“We can’t figure out what you’re saying, on account of you’re wearing that big stupid rabbit head,” Grandma said.

“Raa raa,” the rabbit said. “Raa raa! ”

Grandma and I looked over at Clinton.

Clinton shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know what he’s saying, What the hell’s raa raa?” he asked the rabbit.

“Haaar id ra raa.”

“Christ,” Clinton said. “Nobody can understand you. Haven’t you ever tried to talk in that thing before?”

The rabbit gave Clinton a shove. “Ra raa, you fraaakin‘ aar ho.”

Clinton flipped the rabbit the bird.

“Jaaaark,” the rabbit said. And then he unzipped his pants and pulled out his wanger. He waggled his wanger at Clinton. And then he waggled it at Grandma and me.

“I remember them as being bigger than that,” Grandma said.

The rabbit yanked and pulled at himself and managed to get half a hard-on.

“Rogga. Ga rogga,” the rabbit said.

“I think he’s trying to tell you this is a preview,” Clinton said. “Something to look forward to.”

The rabbit was still working it. He’d found his rhythm, and he was really whacking away.

“Maybe you should help him out,” Clinton said to me. “Go ahead. Touch it.”

My lip curled back. “What are you nuts? I’m not touching it!”

“I’ll touch it,” Grandma said.

“Kraaa,” the rabbit said. And his wanger wilted a little.

A car turned off the street, into the lot, and Clinton gave the rabbit a shot in the arm.

“Let’s roll.”