We turn off of Gothard Street into the Slater Lake parking lot. I motor the two-door hardtop 1965 Oldsmobile Cutlass past a couple of parked cars.
“Prob’ly some metal heads,” Robbie Blount mutters.
I pull into a space at the end of the deep lot.
I carry a twelve pack of cheap beer. Frank carries a bottle of vodka. We walk in darkness along a paved path for a couple of minutes. We veer towards a large open aired kiosk-booth thing where I set the beer on the ground. Take a bottle out, twist off the cap and immediately guzzle the whole thing. To limit evidence in the event that cops show up, I throw the empty as far as I can into the bushes. I do the same with three more swallowing the stuff in big gulps.
“Fuckin’ Cellini’s here with Pete Girgle, Ish, and Skidmore. Some Garden Grove chicks too,” Robbie informs me and Frank after joining us in the kiosk. Then Mark Cellini walks up with a half-pint of bourbon in hand.
Robbie walks over to a nearby emergency phone and grabs the handset from its cradle, “Ya see here… You just pick the phone up…, then hang it right back up like this,” he demonstrates. “It’ll ring, and if you answer it, a helicopter’ll fly over head with a spotlight lookin’ for us.”
Me, Frank and Mark share swigs off the vodka watching Robbie. The phone rings.
“Yeah?!” Robbie screams into the receiver. “What’s the fucking problem…?! My fuckin’ dog’s gone…!” He’s wailing doing a good imitation of crying as if a catastrophe has just occurred. “And I don’t know where the fuckin’ thing is…! I think some devents, deveriants, I mean, fuckin' ah..., deviants or whatever mighta stole ‘im…! And they’re prob’ly gonna stick fireworks up his ass…! And burn ‘im alive and then fuckin’ eat ‘im!”
“Fuckin’ bogey’s comin’!” Robbie yells some seconds later. Mark caps his whisky and takes off in a sprint. Me, Frank and Robbie dive into shrubbery, barely eluding a Huntington Beach police cruiser.
We lay silent in the dirt as the cops roll over pavement a couple feet away. Robbie is laughing uncontrollably.
“Dude…! Shut the fuck up!” Frank whispers. A helicopter floods the area its spotlight missing us.
Image copy written to Hot Rodding Magazine 2016
Bio: Robert Vogt worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. Vogt has published in Horror, Sleaze and Trash and Fuck Fiction. His chapbook Stilnox and Stolichnaya and his novel Conceived in Iniquity are available at Lulu.com.