The bandits’ power supply was a car battery, jury-rigged to a half-dozen extension cords. It took two and a half episodes of Friends and three microwave dinners to run it dry. When the juice finally went, Junior and I were happily chowing down on ravioli, and a betoweled Jen was about to appear. Our captive was bound hand a foot to a school desk with a chrysalis of duct tape. His dinner lay uneaten on the desk, Junior eyed it hungrily.
Sighing, I pulled the DVD and slid it reverentially back inside my jacket.
“Are you going to kill me?” asked the bandit, eyes darting between me and his meal.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Well Chuck,” I said hoisting my gear. “Im not too jazzed about losing my TV, much less all my food and smokes. I also have these fantasies about what you wanted to do to me with that tennis-racquet number of yours. I figure you can hang out here until your buddies man up and come back for you.”
He grinned suddenly as from outside came the unmistakable sound of a vehicle’s engine.

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