We set the camera on a timer, and it took rapid-fire shots of the split catastrophe. Sassy smiled. Boba drooled. Jango cried and I cussed. Getting out of the splits was more difficult than sliding into them.
Limping over to the phone, I did my best not to incinerate Sassy for such a fucking horrible idea. “Okay Sassy, youse should probably go now,” I said through gritted teeth as I prayed to the Goddess that the burning in my crotch area would subside. “Weese got all the pictures weese can survive.”
“Awesome,” she said. “Let me know if I can do anything else for you guys. Helping feels great!”
“Any more help and my nuts will be lodged in my esophagus,” Jango muttered.
“Weese are good,” I told her. “Thank youse.”
Sassy hopped on her broom and hovered in the air. “Welcome. I’m all aboot being a good Canadian, eh?”
Jango dragged his damaged, bulbous body over to the door and opened it wide. “Dat’s f-in’ great. Youse have a good time with dat helpin’ shit… far away from us.”
“Will do,” Sassy shouted as she strafed our heads and blasted through the front door leaving behind bright blue sparkles. “I’ll stop by later to see the pictures.”
“Dat broad is dangerous,” I said as we watched her narrowly miss crashing into the Assjacket Diner as she flew off into the horizon.
“Understatement,” Jango agreed as he clapped his paws and produced ten ice bags. Tossing me one, he placed the other nine on his junk. “Should weese get Boba out of the splits?”
“Sure.” I limped across the room and pushed the down-for-the-count cat over. “Mission accomplished.”
“I’m never drinkin’ Canadian beer again,” Boba grumbled as he came to. “Makes my marbles sore.”
Jango laughed. I laughed. Boba electrocuted us with a wave of his paw.
We were back on track.
“Holy shit. Dem pictures suck,” Jango lamented, shaking his head in dismay.
My brother in crime was correct. All of the pictures of Sassy twerking were blurry. The only ones that had come out were the photos of the group splits—or giggleberry destroyer as we called the move.
“Weese need a photo for the sign. All legal businesses have signs,” Boba said, admiring his flexibility. “Even though weese can’t walk right because weese fractured our man jewels, I think weese should go for it.”
Snapping my toe beans, I enlarged the clearest picture to thirty feet by fifty feet. It was horrendous. The look of sheer terror on Jango’s face as his nards became one with the floor was only eclipsed by the expression of excruciating pain on my mug. Sassy was grinning like a fool and Boba looked dead.
Eyeing the photo with great doubt, I had an idea. “If weese spray paint it, maybe weese can make it work.”
“I don’t know,” Jango said, still icing his package. “It’s not our best look.”
Boba shrugged. “I think the picture tells a story.”
“The story of the demise of our gangoolies?” Jango grunted with a laugh.
“Nah, follow me, boys,” Boba insisted. “Go from left to right. I look dead.” He pointed to himself.
“Can’t argue dat,” I agreed.
“And den Jango is cryin’ like a girl cuz I’m dead,” Boba went on. “Fat Bastard, youse is feelin’ the pain of never seein’ me again, and Sassy has nice hooters. Perfect for a funeral home.”
While my brain was no longer marinated with Canadian beer, knowing how to run a legal business was still a stretch for all of us. Silently, we contemplated Boba’s observations.
“Boba might have a point,” Jango conceded. “Not real happy with how big all of our guts look, but it’s a shinin’ example of bereavement, and Sassy’s melons do look great.”
I nodded. We were making rancid lemonade out of rotten lemons minus the sugar, but the effort was there.
“Sometimes,” I said. “Even when the result sucks bunghole, if the elbow grease is obvious den it’s a win. I firmly believe dat riskin’ our joysticks and dong pillows to go on the straight and narrow says a lot about our upstandin’ character. Weese should probably omit the part about bein’ wasted durin’ the photo shoot.”
“Roger dat,” Boba agreed. “Weese can spray paint little coffins over our bellies to minimize girth and let the people know weese don’t plan to just throw bodies into holes.”
“Brilliant,” I said, grabbing a can of paint and getting to work.
“Also, let’s paint some fire in the background to show the public dat weese will creamface dem as well,” Jango added, dropping his ice packs and diving in.
“Should weese add prices on the sign?” I asked. “Dat seems real professional to me.”
“Sure,” Boba said. “Five thousand clams for a coffin. Five thousand for a creamface. Five thousand for diggin’ a hole and five thousand for a custom spray paint. Makes it easy if all the prices are the same.”
I smiled and sighed with pride. “I just want youse assholes to know, I never could have done this without youse. While I’m sorry I took the dare, this is some meaningful fuckin’ time spent together. Aside from our swollen meat clackers, I’m real proud of us.”
“Sturgill is proud too,” Boba said, tearing up.
“How do youse know dat? He’s a rock.” I said, confused.
“I don’t,” he admitted. “Just wanted to add somethin’.”
“Let’s do this,” I said, grinning. “The faster weese get the business up and runnin’, the faster the week is over and weese can go back to a life of petty crime.”
We were a team—a team of douchebags. But that didn’t matter. We’d bonded as kittens in a gutter left to die many moons ago and had been together from that day forward. We had each other’s backs through thick and thin, legal and illegal, and stupid and really stupid.
Going on the straight and narrow for a week would be hard, but with my assholes by my side, it was doable.
Chapter Four
“No, just no,” Zelda said, staring up at the enormous sign with an expression of shock on her face.
“What do youse mean, no?” I demanded, insulted.
The sign had turned out great
