A Snake Plissken Adventure

Portland Free Commerce Zone, Oregon Department. October 2005

Rain drops fell heavily on the windshield of Snake Plissken s electric blue GTO. Wedged in an alley across the street from a pay office of a local military contractor, the grill of Snake s muscle car pointed directly at the front steps of the office. Craning his neck, Snake could barely maintain visual with his two partners, Malarkey, a buddy from his Black Light days, and Deladier, a down-on-his-luck hood. The two were parked three doors down from the pay office.

On his lap, the snub-nosed AK-150 and a bag of roasted, lightly salted sunflower seeds he had lifted off the corpse of an unfortunately amateur mugger earlier in the morning. Life was pretty damn good.

In a few moments, Malarkey and Deladier would don masks and burst into the pay office. Malarkey would shoot the two security guards and two tellers on duty with his silenced pistol. While Deladier controlled the front area of the office, Malarkey would rondezvous with an inside man in the back counting room, who would have already killed the additional security guards and clerks inside with seven small canisters of CN-20 nerve gas. The two would haul yesterday's delivery of $20 million in unmarked, mixed coin and scrip- meant for the troops stationed north of the Oregon Department border, who liked to blow off steam in the many cash-only brothels, casinos and play palaces of the Portland Free Commerce Zone.

Once his two partners breached the front door of the pay office, Snake would give them till the count of 120, and then pull out of the alley and block the one way traffic on the street with his muscle car. If any USPF blackbellies or rent-a-cops tried anything, they d have to brave Snake's barricade.

The plan was, Malarkey would finish off Deladier in the atrium to the pay office- it was a personal thing, he had said, and Snake was in no position to argue- and then ice the inside man once they dropped the haul in Snake s car- can t ever trust a traitor, said Malarkey. Malarkey and Snake would then peel off to the Zone s port district, split the money, davy jones the car and then go their separate ways.

That was the plan, anyway. A perfect caper.

Minus destroying such a beautiful GTO, of course. Snake caressed the leather of the steering wheel, inhaled the musky odor of fuel oil, mildew and sweat. Felt the vibration s of the Goat s v8 thrum through his nethers. What a waste.

And then there was the issue of Malarkey himself. With $20 million in unrtraceable cash and 10 homicides under his belt, would Malarkey even hesitate before wasting his old Black Light buddy?

Snake mulled over his options while he crunched his seeds. Two minutes to go, and Malarkey and Deladier would be on the move.

It was at that moment that Snake noticed the bearded bicyclist. Tall and reedy, bald-pated, dressed in a baggy cable-knit sweater, and riding a rusty Schwinn with an over-sized weaved basket on the handlebars. Typical Portland freak, Snake thought. Some patchouli chewing, vegetarian, indie-rock loving, anti-Robertson peacenik. He spit a crushed seed at the windshield, watched it stick to the glass, an overlay to the hippie's bearded face.

The bicylist skidded to a halt in the mouth of the alley.

If the hippie didn't move in a few seconds, he'd be road jam under the Goat. Snake cringed at what a hippie bag of bones would do to the Goat's beautiful chrome grill.

It was then that Snake noticed the man's thick-framed glasses. A memory jogged loose from fuzzy remembrances locked deep within his brain. Something.

Snake pondered the bicyclist and his weird glasses for a moment.

And then all hell broke loose.