by Robert Gillis
Written years ago in another lifetime

I believe that this adventure—preposterous to say the least—is the most demented thing I’ve ever written. Why I didn’t think of it sooner, I may never know.

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The place: Down in the part of town where you hit a red light you don't stop (in a parallel universe, possibly Earth-18)

The Time: Now

The Story: Miles beyond completely absurd.

The sun was shining as I parked my Pontiac Grand Prix in front of Granny’s driveway, grabbed the copy of the Tribune and stepped outside. I activated my K40 anti theft alarm, Chapman ignition kill, LoJack transmitter and wrapped a huge chain around the car’s bumper and a large oak tree.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. I remembered what town I was in, shrugged, and opened the gate. Another bullet whizzed by my head, and I lazily looked up and saw the impossible.

My ninety-seven year old grandmother was dressed in army camouflage and shooting an AK-40 assault rifle into the street.

THAT merits repeating.

My ninety-seven year old grandmother was dressed in army camouflage and shooting an AK-40 assault rifle into the street.

I tried to comprehend the enormous magnitude of what I was seeing and failed miserably. I dove for cover just as the flagstone at my feet was shredded by a stream of bullets. The smell of burnt grass and napalm filled the air. In the distance, a man screamed.

I decided it was time to exert some control over this galactically improbable situation. I leapt up and made a run for the backyard, intent on circling the house and sneaking up behind my gun-toting granny.

“Granny!” I yelled just as a surface-to-air missile exploded above me. “Granny! It’s Billy!”

“Fire in the hole!” she answered, tossing the AK-40 aside. She grabbed a shotgun, aimed, and blew away Brad the drug dealer just as he was about to ask me for a quarter. I managed to spit out, “Granny! I wanted to do that!” as she pulled the pin out of a grenade and lobbed it at another passerby. “That will teach you to sell drugs in my neighborhood!” I ducked behind the garage just as three more people became explosively airborne.

Granny’s alleged dog Sniffles bolted from the house and almost made it to the fence when a land mine detonated under her paws, sending her sixty feet straight up. Being too stupid to comprehend the danger she was in, the brainless canine scratched its ear and yawned. Granny cried out, “You’ve shit on my rug for the last time,” targeted the supposed dog, and blasted it out of the sky.

As dog fur rained all around me, I bolted up the fire escape, attached a rope to a chimney and swooped Tarzan-style onto the front porch, where I peeled and rolled for cover. Swatting Sniffles’s charred flea collar aside, I cupped my hands. “Granny! This is impossible! You’re ninety-seven years old! You can’t possibly be dressed like Rambo and be firing a machine gun at drug dealers!”

“What?” she asked, picking up a portable grenade launcher and firing at the four cars parked outside the yard. “That’ll teach those drug-dealers to fool with me!”

“Granny! We have to talk! You can’t do this!”

“What?” she asked, loading a bowling ball into a small cannon.

“TAKE THE COTTON OUT OF YOUR EARS!” I shouted, gesturing for the side of my head. My futile shouts were smothered by a myriad of cries for help, dogs barking, bombs bursting in the air, cars exploding and planes crashing. “Granny, please! Someone is gonna call a cop!” Instantly, I chided myself. Call a cop? In this neighborhood? The last cop in this neighborhood was in 2002, when it was rumored a new Dunkin Donuts was being built here.

Another gang member raced by. Granny shook her head, produced a Hakeem shotgun and blasted Fast Eddie into most of his component atoms. I gave Granny a thumbs-up sign and noticed that a stupid individual was taking this opportunity to try to break into my Grand Prix. Granny spun, pulled out a sig .226 and blew away the would-be thief.

The neighborhood grew quieter (most people were dead, anyway) so I took the opportunity to make a pitch and spread my hands. “Granny, put the guns—er, the cannon—down.”

“Who drowned?”

Exasperated, I replied, “Nobody drowned! Give me those!”

“Rose? Rose drowned?”

“TAKE THE COTTON OUT OF YOUR EARS!” I shrieked, jumping up and down, much like a fool.

Finally, Granny pulled a huge wad of cotton out of her left ear. It actually made a thud when it hit the porch. “You don’t have to yell, Billy.”

“Granny,” I asked, stepping over the Brad’s charred remains, “why did you do this?"

“We have to watch out for each other, dear. This neighborhood isn’t the same anymore since the drug dealers, gangs, and robots took over.”

“Robots?” I said with a defeated shrug.

“The leading cause of death among the elderly. They steal old people’s medicines for fuel. I don’t even know why the scientists keep making them,” she explained as she gunned down three pimps, two drug dealers, four hookers and five fire hydrants (looked like robots, she later said). She broke open a gun cleaning kit and expertly disassembled the Sig .226 pistol she’d just emptied into the panicked crowd.

“What idiot came up with this idea?” I demanded. “Who gave you these weapons?”

“Greetings, Wil,” a voice from behind said. Captain Sean P. Farragut, United States Green Beret, Army Ranger, and one of my closest friends, stepped onto the porch holding a couple of cans of Budweiser. “Now Granny, everything went fine except your use of the laser guided Uzi. Your trigger sequence was just a little slow.”

“Sean,” I said with a groan, “you supplied my grandmother with automatic weapons?”

Sean drank another Bud. “Supplied makes me sound like some sort of Columbian drug dealer, Wil. Think of it as public service. This neighborhood just got too dangerous. I instructed your grandmother on the proper use of firearms for her own protection. And besides, those robots are everywhere.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Sean, she’s ninety-seven years old!”

Sean smiled. “Never too old to learn, Wil.”

I pulled up a chair and sat down. Granny was busily checking the scope on another weapon, and Sean offered me a beer. I declined as he continued, “Look at it this way, Wil. It took your Granny a mere ten minutes to clean up all the problems in her neighborhood. Besides, she said playing solitaire was getting dull.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Sean—” I shook my head to clear it, failed, and began again. “Sean, I’ll admit that blowing away Brad the drug dealer was a humorous touch, but this is just too much.”

I heard the distinctive clack of a shotgun being reloaded. “Do you think hollow tipped bullets work better in this one?” Granny asked, aiming the sight at a nearby tree. “Those stupid squirrels always eat the bird seed I leave for the cardinals.”

Sean smiled. “She learns fast. Next week, I’m teaching her Chung Moo Doe Martial Arts.”

“Sean, don’t you have a bridge to blow up or a South American country to invade?” I demanded, momentarily considering beating Sean into a bloody pulp. Fortunately, reality hit like a ton of Britney Spears tabloid stories and I realized another approach was in order. “Sean, is this one of our silly stories? Should I expect a spaceship to land in the yard, or something?”

Sean shook his head. “Sorry, Wil. This is the real thing."

“But I’m writing this!” I was starting to whine. I hate it when I do that.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve finally created a story so improbable, so far from reality, so completely impossible that it’s taken on a life and reality of its own.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, what do I do now?”

Sean drank another Bud. “Well, have a drink.” He proffered the Bud can again. This time I nodded and took it.

A loud roar went off behind us. Granny smiled. “That’s a much better way to mow the lawn,” she said, placing the flame-thrower down.

I sighed. “Looks like the next round of drinks is on me!”

“What?” Granny asked.

...And the adventure continues . . .