Young Writers Society

[pre]Jimmy Mallore Trudged out of the convenience store, heading for his car. His typical green bathrobe swayed loosely amongst him. His plastic bag was stretched as far as it could go, filled with honey-brown beer and Tylenol P.M.

To make his day worse, the bag didn't make it too the car. With an unpleasant 'pop', bag spilled it's guts on the crumbling blacktop parking lot. Jimmy Mallore froze; transfixed on the escaping bottles of treasure. The rolling alcohol disappeared beneath a painful amount of different cars, parked about his surroundings. Jimmy Mallore stood completely still, entirely shocked at what had just happened to him.

Exiting the store once more, bearing another package of honey-brown beer, this time reconsidering the flavor and spent his good money on CHERRY honey-brown beer. He had also attempted to prevent another accident by using two plastic bags instead of one.

Finally reaching his car, he tromped over to the trunk with his head down.

"You 'ere for the show, too?" a voice slurred from above him. Jimmy Mallore

Would have jumped if his lolling stomach hadn't hadn't held so fast to the ground. A very disgruntled man was sitting comfortably upon his lawn chair, which happened to be situated on the roof of Jimmy Mallore's 1998 Ford Tarus. It was impeccably clear that he was sauced; the empty bottles of scotch laying about the car served as perfect evidence. But the man, in his Hawaiian button up shirt and 1980's short shorts, seemed that much unsatisfied with his previous alcoholic apparatus, as he appeared to be halfway through indulging himself with another one.

Jimmy Mallore was utterly shocked. Partially because the man was consuming an unholy amount of alcohol, and partially because he was doing it atop Jimmy Mallore's vehicle. The man continued to stare in his general direct, having difficulty focusing on him. "Well, are ya?" The man persisted.

Subconsciously he shook his head, yet returned with a question of his own.

"Um, what show?" he asked, giving the man a very perturbed glance.

"Ah, the one ol' Davy's puttin' on" was the man's reply. Jimmy Mallore was beginning to get alarmed with this man.

"Uh, sir, may I ask you what you're name is?"

The man didn't stop staring, but licked his lips.

"I s'poze..." he finally decided. An awkward silence pursued his reply. Jimmy Mallore shifted his weight, considering his circumstances.

"What is your name?" He exasperatedly tried once more. The man curled a lip and scratched loosely at his hairy stomach.

"Dad gummit, you're in hurrrrry..." He flustered, reaching into his pocket and yanking out his wallet, taking his sweet old time to sift through it's contents. Apparently his search was for his driver license, as aged and yellowed as it was. Great pains were taken to read the relatively small print. As he continued to explore the bounds of his wallet, his grip slackened on his scotch, and the alcohol drained itself down the side of the car. "I'm pretty sure it'sss in here somewheres..." He reassured himself. Jimmy Mallore nearly dropped his second purchasing of honey-brown beer at the sight.

"I-"

"Ernest! Ernest Patcher...s'what it sez here." Ernest exclaimed, looking up with an achieved dopey smile. "I knows it was here somewhere."

"Amazing. So, Ernest, anything reason in particular that made you PARK YOUR BUM ON TOP OF MY CAR?!?" Exploded Jimmy Mallore. Ernest just giggled.

"Ta watch the show ol' Davy's puttin' on! I a'figured I was gonna need a good seat. This is perfect..." He gestured the roof of Jimmy Mallore's vehicle. He went to take a draft and found to his monstrous displeasure the remainder had disappeared. Jimmy Mallore fumbled with his bathrobe pocket, attempting to retrieve his cellphone. Before he had the chance to punch in three life-saving numbers, Ernest began to burst with new found joy. "'Ere Davy comes! Looky 'ere! It's the red pickup!"

To Jimmy Mallore's ultimate dismay, a red pickup did, indeed, appear from behind the parking lot corner, topping forty miles per hour, directly toward them. The old coot didn't cease giggling like a retard, even as the speeding vehicle hit thirty yards away from the two of them. Suddenly the esteemed driver put the car into a wild spin.

The move might have been considered half a burn-out, but that label would have been swiftly stolen after said judge witnessed the trembling pickup topple by it's own momentum, screaming across the pavement. Fortunately, Jimmy Mallore happened to be just that little but farther away from his vehicle than Ernest, which saved him. Unfortunately, Jimmy Mallore's car vanished all too swiftly, crunching along with the disheveled pickup, coming to rest ultimately in the side of an average soccer mom SUV, leaving it's owner to stair blankly at her defaced car.

When the screeching and grinding stopped, another sound could be heard by the curious ears the wreck had gathered.

The shattering of six cherry honey-brown beers meeting blacktop from being dropped a second time. [/pre]