This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe.  No insult or injury is intended, this story is for entertainment purposes only.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language.

Skooter Shooter

©2006 by: Riley

(for Natalie)

Okay, okay. The new Harley’s in the shop. The other four Harleys are at the farm. And that fucking moped will never be the same after he’d kicked the shit out of it last month. So he was reduced to the scooter and the kiddy cop bicycle helmet to run to the corner market to pick up formula for Charlie. At least he didn’t need to pick up tampons. Damn scooter. He’d just put a ciggie in his mouth and look tough. That should do it. So the fuck what. He was Russell Crowe, right? Who was gonna question him?

Except of course for that cheeky nerd fucker pointing on the corner. Russ wondered what the little prick would do if he ran him over. But hell, who was he kidding? The damn scooter was so fucking slow even a nerd at ten paces could step out of the way safely.

Green light. Growl, vroommmm! Well, more like sputter, sputter. The market was finally in sight and Russ swerved around a parked car and tucked the scooter between bumpers. Nice fit if he must say so himself. Tug off the helmet, pick up the formula and he’d be outta there, fast as a speeding bullet. “Righto Tonto,” he chuckled and stepped inside.

Aisle after aisle until he’d located his target. Baby needs. Nope, don’t need pacifiers, don’t need a rectal thermometer. Not wanting strained carrots and voila! Formula. Let’s see, it’s the blue can with the goofy teddy bear. Green, no. Pink, na-uh. Blue! Three cans should hold the little bloke the night.

Waited in line. And waited. And waited more, just to discover he forgot his wallet.

“Ah, love. Can ya just have it delivered? I swear, this time we’ll ring ya up.”

“Sorry Mr. Crowe,” she said, suspiciously eyeing the goofy red scooter outside the store window. “We have a minimum for deliveries.”

“So, how much formula do I gotta buy for you to deliver it?”

“Two cases.”

“Sold, and throw in a box of tampons.” He turned and stalked out of the shop.

At the curb, there were four twelve year old boys standing around, admiring the scooter. How did he feel about that? Arrgh! He stomped over, mounted and turned the key. Backed out carefully and strapped on the helmet then moved into the traffic, hoping he wouldn’t get creamed by the slow moving but advancing 1980 Honda Civic. Whew, made it.

Enough was enough! Time to take the back streets. He swung into an alley. Fuck, dead end, at least the thing had a nice tight turning ratio. Back onto the highway and another turn. This was more like it. Quiet. Fewer pedestrians. In fact, it was a street he hadn’t explored yet. On the Harley, things went by so quickly he never actually saw what was soaring past. Nice houses, nice lawns. Flowers. He lit another fag and pressed the accelerator.

Ring. Ring! RING, RING, RING!

What the fuck? He turned to see a copper on a ten speed move right up beside him.

“What?” Russ shouted.

“Pull it over, mate!”

“Dammit.”

Ticket in hand, he once again turned the scooter around and headed back to the main highway, figuring he’d be better off taking his chances with the staring nerds. Speeding ticket? At fifteen MPH? What the fuck was the world coming to? Jesus!

Traffic had become congested. Must be rush hour, but he wondered why in hell they called it rush hour when it actually should be called, ‘going slow and laughing at Russell Crowe on a bloody red scooter hour’. Sitting still, he managed to grin nice and sign several autographs, then slither along the curb till he reached the private drive to his apartment building, swinging around the market delivery guy sporting pimples on his nose and laughing like a loon. He growled a grudging thanks and took his purchases. The bloke was laughing so hard he told him the delivery was on him, and well worth it, too.

“I’m home!” Inside the door, Russ grunted under the weight of two cases of blue teddy bear formula, the box of tampons dropping to the floor. He kicked the tampons ahead of him until he could thump the heavy cases down onto the coffee table.

Dani lifted the tampons and smiled. “How sweet. But they’re not my brand, dear.”

Russell went to his office and slammed the door. He called the Harley shop. “I want the bike TODAY!” He shouted into the receiver.

THE END

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