It was an affluent town. The revered measure of achievement was, of course, the car. There were big, impressive houses all over the place, sure; with three- and four-car garages, waterfall rock pools and hot tubs out back, granite kitchens, 3-inch pile carpet, Steven Spielberg autographed movie screens in the cavernous home theaters, and more. But what did the rich and successful spend their time on? Were they mowing grass?? Naaahhh. They washed those cars!
Lexus, BMW, Mercedes Benz, Ferrari, Lamborghini. Every Sunday, while some might go to church, others worshiped at the alter of their driveway, caressing reverently the sublimely frictionless curve of a perfectly polished fender-the multi-generational wealthy, of course, watching with vicarious satisfaction as their servants did all this.
And there was always someone dumb enough to leave the keys in.
The gang from the out of town 'hood, from the nearby big city, couldn't believe their good fortune. A late model, convertible Lexus 33000, with full bar, massage seats, and WIFI. Before heading back to the 'hood for dismantling, the entire hang piled in, with the top down, choosing to cruise downtown for just a little.
And this was their big mistake.
Suddenly, a loud noise beside them; a small car with outrageously aggressive tires. The gangstas stared in fascination as the sunroof opened and a long, silvery shining stick with a harmless-looking little basket at the end slowly rose out of it, followed by a girl. They blinked and gulped. She wore a helmet; blackened bulging goggles hid her eyes, dire brunette hair poured from beneath, flying in the wind. And she was impressively steering with her feet.
They were startled as a screeching cry tore from her lips: "NEED SIDE!"
There were screeching, responsive shouts from all around, "SIDE!"
The gangstas found themselves surrounded on all sides by cute little cars with big aggressive tires and threatening teenage lacrosse girls. The cars closed in. And the gangstas pulled out their pieces.
"WHO'S GOT BALL?!" came the cry from the Honda Civic that had now aggressively swung around in front of the gangstas. The gangstas opened fire. However, the lacrosse sticks were molecularly laminated titanium and easily deflected the amateur caliber of 'hood ammunition.
"GOT BALL!" came a shot from a side car.
"THEN SHOOT, DAMN YER EYES!" cried Captain Diché.
The lead-filled lacrosse ball, hurled at a good 120-miles-per-hour, struck the tallest of the gangstas who had just pulled out and was brandishing a ruthless automatic weapon. She got him right between the eyes. He flipped right over the front seat with just his legs sticking up.
"GOT BALL!" "GOT BALL!" "GOT BALL!" More of the girls were locked and loaded. The lacrosse girls' cars moved in closer. The gangstas began firing wildly.
Captain Diché was still out front, glancing behind her now and then while she steered with her feet, holding the accelerator to the floor with her stick, and her free hand holding the loud bullhorn. "COMMENCE FIRE! ALL GIRLS, FIRE AT WILL!!"
Half a dozen cars full of twenty girls opened fire on the gangstas. Each varsity car had one junior varsity girl quickly reloading volley after volley of lacrosse balls (good five-pounders) into the deadly sticks of the stalwart varsity girls.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
The gangstas were dropping like flies. Soon, there was just the driver and a whole bunch of legs sticking up.
"CEASE FIRE!", came the command from Diché's bull-horn.
Then she raised her mighty stick; longer and thicker than any girl had ever wielded in all varsity lacrosse history. She glared at the lone gangsta. Their eyes met. His widened in fear and dread. She drew back her mighty stick, calling to her sister Tor down below decks, "Ten-pounder!"
Her sister loaded the stick net quickly with ball, powder and wadding, and cried, "You got ball, Diché!"
Diché fired.
The lacrosse ball exploded right through the radiator of the Caddy, pummeling into the very center of the big V8's crankshaft. The gangsta driva shrieked in horror as half the engine burst out through the firewall, pistons flopping back and forth, completely ruining the fine leather upholstery, the stereo and the in-dash TV.
It was too much for even a 'hood gangsta. Despondently, he picked up a lacrosse ball rolling around on the floor. He stood up, the car still barreling down the boulevard, and raised the lacrosse ball to his head. Whack!
Well, the Caddy now went completely out of control. Varsity lacrosse girls were screaming orders to their drivers: "Hard a' port!" "Hard a' starboard!" "All back emergency!" They got out of the way fast. All except Diché.
"Tor, take the wheel!"
"But I just have a learner's permit!"
Diché, not waiting for further protest, leapt to the trunk. "Steady," she cried over her shoulder. "Ease it back... Tor!! Easy on that clutch!"
"But, Diché, I've never driven a manual shift!"
Ignoring the trivial protest from her sister, Diché leapt from the trunk and landed on the Cadillac hood, amid loud cheering from her teammates. Planting her stick firmly at the blower intake, (did we mention the Caddy was blown? No?? Well, it was!) Diché pole vaulted over the windshield, kicked unconscious gangstas out of the way, and brought the car to a quick stop just in time to avoid a slow and solemn procession of girl scouts bearing a large shipment of cookies, crossing at the traffic light.
Sirens were heard.
"Quick, my hearties," cried Diché. "Off the field!"
She jumped back into her car, there was a brief wrestling match to get Tor out of the driver seat, and then they screeched away.
