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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 102

By: Rich Cromwell
6 min read

In which we find our hero apparently wandered into Mexico and must find his way back across the border. Then some other things happen.

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Rich Cromwell
@rcromwell4
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There was absolutely no reason for the aurora borealis to be present at this time, particularly in the southern portion of the northern hemisphere. Yet there it was, illuminating the night sky. The border guard was not properly appreciative and more focused on the figure approaching him, a suitcase in his right hand and a bag of grapefruit in his left, a dog walking beside him. It didn’t seem like he was going to stop.

The agent stepped from his shed, his drug-sniffing miniature poodles at his side, and stood in front of the man and the dog. He asked what was in the suitcase, his dogs barking. The man knelt and opened it. It was completely full of Lincoln Logs.

99 said nothing about his luggage. Instead he sang some tune about “teeny ballitos, muy muy pequeno.” Alan played a chiclets tambourine. He wished it were filled with frijoles; he could cook those after their set.

The guard shook his head and said, “Well, back in my day…,” but then the sound of music drowned him out. He handed 99 a poncho emblazoned with Jesus’ face and said, “Good luck.” 99 and Alan hopped into their Fiero and headed toward the source of the music. It was probably real.


As he slid to a stop, he began to have second thoughts about this decision. Also, he noticed some eyeliner for men in the cup holder. What was that about?


He finished his 180, pointing right back toward the border. The one he’d just narrowly crossed. It made no sense.


Nearby, meanwhile, a transaction wasn’t going down.


99 paused, wondering if he should carry something other than a suitcase.


Though a suitcase is pretty cloying.


But it does hold the fumes in.


Both driver’s side doors opened, the drivers emerging. There were questions to be answered and grapefruit to be eaten. First, though, they had a problem to solve.


Meanwhile, in another part of town.


Another driver pondered the future.


Dude, of course. Turn it up and let’s roll.


On the other hand.


But on the other other hand.


In any case, this should probably be crowdsourced.


The sky’s the limit.


The time had come where the pleasantries were to be dispensed with; it was all brass tacks.


First, though, a yarn.


One featuring bowlegged women.


A minor character interrupted; she had a very methodical way of speaking.


Sandoz took in her surroundings, with certainty.


Whereas 99 was all about preparation.


Meanwhile, at another nearby location, a different transaction was similarly not going down.


99 sat at the bar, curious about what the fellow at the end was actually drinking.


The smoldering ruins, much like the cloudy whiskey, didn’t help the joint’s draw.


But was it the right thing to do? No, it wasn’t. Our trio was prepared to spend some money there.


So, 99 made a proclamation.


There may have been some elaboration involved.


And inept would-be antagonists.


This involved some legalities. Fortunately, they had some walking-around money.


Not everyone was paying attention.


Some were daydreaming.


Others were sharing humdrum details of their lives.


99 had a motto, same as the Boy Scouts: Be Prepared. That meant he always had an array of tools at his disposal.


While sipping his bourbon, he remembered he’d made a promise. There was no way he could keep it, so he had to think fast. What if he called on a friend?


Fortunately, he knew just the guy.


It's not that he didn’t want to do the job himself, he just had other plans.


Not that they were risk-free.


The radio came on, which was ominous as they hadn’t turned it on. What they heard was … ominous?


Sandoz requested something with more pep.


The universe obliged.


Well, it kind of obliged. It can’t bend time. I don’t think.


They passed a flatbed truck carrying a bunch of old tanning beds and dolls’ clothes. They wondered what that was all about.


Then everyone looked at me, wondering what all this is all about.


I beg to differ. The road awaits and offers many destinations.


Get in and don’t bother looking for a seatbelt. There aren’t any.


Off they went, heading west and robbing banks, Alan howling along with the radio along the way. The aurora borealis continued flickering in the sky, which was still odd. Maybe those vitamins hadn’t been vitamins, but “vitamins.” Sandoz’s birthplace was known for its dedication to better living through chemistry. Also, more colorful living through chemistry.

That’s when Alan spoke up and told them to stop being ridiculous and put on their masks. He was the bagman, replete with buns of steel and the requisite speed to flee the scene once the alarm was tripped.

99 cranked up “Jungle Love” as Sandoz and Alan handled the bank job. The teller handed over the sacks of cash and the dog gingerly took them from her. Bags between his teeth, he walked backwards, Sandoz opening the doors for him, his eyes scanning the scene. That’s when the teller called after him. It was puzzling, but he smiled nonetheless.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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