A True Micro Heist

In the gloaming time of lavender and orange, in the garden center of Ultramart, hidden inside a bucket, the gnomes waited and plotted.

“Is it there?” Spittletooth whispered wetly, spittle landing on Brickenbad’s forehead.

Brickenbad let the silver mucous lay. Gnomes were disgusting, after all.

Whispertongue shouted, “I can’t see anything!”

His three companions met him with a chorus of “Hush.”

Stinkhand farted, wafting the smell at the others.

Spittletooth said, “Corn, I suspect.” No mere spittle this time. Rather a deluge of excretion.

“Tamales,” said Brickenbad. “Like your brand, I do.”

“Boost me,” Stinkhand said.

Working in concert, they lifted him to the lip of the bucket. Stinkhand gaped at the sparkling red jewel amid the lot’s metallic medley of motor vehicles.

“Corvette,” he gasped.

The bucket tipped, spilling them out. A shared look of terror.

“Ain’t see nobody,” Brickenbad said. “Now’s our chance.”

“Ain’t dark,” Spittletooth sprinkled.

“Now or naught,” Brickenbad said.

Sneaking, skittering, slithering, quickly working open the lock, they claimed their prize.

“Corvette!” they shouted.

Brickenbad hanging from the wheel, Stinkhand and Whispertongue working the pedals, Spittletooth on the gear shift, they left a smoking lamina of rubber behind them - raised middle fingers saluting humankind.