Air Brushed

One Down

Chapter 8: One Down

"Fine then. I've already got your promise for tonight," his green eyes slide towards a VERY interested POGs, who is quite clearly still eavesdropping or trying to. "I'll make sure-"

"Alright!" I cut him off. "Tomorrow morning too."

He emphasizes the 'c,' lips curling up in a wicked smile, "Fantastic."

I cringe.

"What's dis little promise?" POGs finally butts into the conversation.

I wait for Haz's suggestive comment, but it never comes. Instead, he responds with, "A little deal Ozzie and I worked out. Hold up, speaking of Ozzie, didn't you have something to ask POGs, honeybee?"

WHY does he keep calling me that?

"Right," I nod. "Why do they call you POGs?"

The blond laughs as Haz's palm slaps his forehead, but the action otherwise goes ignored, "It stands fer something."

"Like what?"

"Pot Of Gold," he smiles, adjusting the welding goggles on his forehead.

My lips part to form an 'o,' "It's because you're Irish."

"No, tis not 'cos I'm Irish,'" POGs tries to, though fails miserably, mock my voice. "Tis cos of me hair. What is it with you people an' the fact dat I'm IRISH?"

"Ozzie," Haz's tone is warning, though I sense no danger in this situation.

The blond still seems in a relatively good humor, but I roll my eyes, knowing exactly what my cohort wants, "Sorry. Alright, I'll stop teasing. What I REALLY wanted to know was what the deal is with those red and blue wires."

"Didn' I finish tellin' ya 'bout dose already?" POGs instantly resumes his usual demeanor.

"No, Little Man came along and then you knocked me out."

"RIGHT!" he shouts, stabbing the air with his finger. "So da red and blue wires..."

The guy then proceeds to shoot into a full fledged monologue about the inner workings of a bomb. Eventually, Haz and I pull up a couple of chairs to wait it out and yes, we do get to the point where POGs insists we go blow something up.

"Tats!" he yells to the guy across the fire, voice a little louder than necessary. "Got anythin' we can explode?"

"There's a car in the warehouse with no passenger seat. The brakes are too destroyed to fix and too costly to replace. That good enough for your little fetish?"

"Thanks, mate!" POGs takes my wrist and all but drags me along the side of the warehouse until reaching a metal door. Pulling a key from his pocket, he pops the lock and walks inside.

He seems too excited for any of this to be healthy.

In the warehouse, there are four cars in total. The one without the passenger seat, an old beat up Ford, sits two spaces in.

POGs leisurely pats his pockets until unzipping one of them and pulling out a metal canister. If I were to guess, it is about the size of my fist. He opens the door and pops the gas tank lid, expertly inserting what I can only assume is the bomb.

The thing fits almost perfectly, just enough inside the tube that a little less than half of it sticks out at a slight incline.

My companion appears thrilled, "Are ya ready t' see-?"

"NOT INSIDE THE FUCKING WAREHOUSE!" Tommo's voice flats to our ears and POGs gives a loud, disappointed groan.

"We can always just push it outside," Haz suggests as he joins us near the vehicles.