“Bags”
Jun 08, 2019The cops were closing in, so Jimmy said fuck it and jumped over the fence, splashing into the muck that is the East River. He landed right in the middle of a pile of plastic bags, just relaxing and wading through the river, enjoying the sun.
“Hey, man, what gives?” said a bag with a giant Duane Reade logo on it.
“Guys, you gotta help me,” Jimmy said. “See the cops up there? They’ve been chasing me for a good half a mile and I need to get away from them.”
“So what do you want us to do?” said the Duane Reade bag.
“I dunno, hide me or something,” said Jimmy. “One of you crawl on my head.”
“Look, man,” said the Duane Reade bag, “we don’t want any trouble. We’re just hangin’ out tryin’ to catch some rays.”
Jimmy grabbed one of the smaller bags and held it over his head. The other bags started yelling at Jimmy to let go of their friend.
“Hey, man,” screamed the Duane Reade bag, “not cool. You let go of Tiffany right now or we’ll fuck you up.”
“I’ll let go if you help me out,” screamed Jimmy.
The Duane Reade bag didn’t seem to be too happy about his relaxation being disturbed. On any other day, he might have been willing to help this guy out, because fuck the police. But today he was out with his friends just chilling on the lazy river. And this guy was threatening his gal Tiffany. Maybe it was the long hours he had, all the carrying, the abuse, being thrown out with the trash—he wasn’t interested in playing Nice Bag today.
“Alright, buddy,” said the Duane Reade bag. “Let her go and we’ll help you.”
Jimmy let go of the Tiffany bag and she floated away from him toward the edge of the group.
“Thanks,” said Jimmy. “I appreciate it.”
“No worries, buddy,” said the Duane Reade bag. “We’ll hide you real good.”
And the Duane Reade bag jumped onto Jimmy’s head and wrapped its handles around Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy started flapping and waving his arms, ripping at the Duane Reade bag. He tore a hole right through the middle of the Duane Reade bag, and he could breathe again. But, one by one, the other bags covered Jimmy’s head. He clawed and clawed until it was too late. His arms and legs stopped flailing.
“Hey, fuckos,” yelled the injured Duane Reade bag up to the cops.
The cops looked down and saw their guy floating motionless amongst a pile of plastic bags.