100-WORD STORIES

Dylan, breathing heavily, fell into the front seat of the decommissioned Crown Victoria police cruiser. Bobby, a step behind, slid into the driver's seat. They had two duffle bags of cash in their laps.

"Go, go, go," shouted Dylan."Whutch you waiting for?"

"I need the keys," said Bobby.

Dylan reached into one jacket pocket, then the other. He started to panic, and quickly felt his pants pockets.

"Come on, man," said Bobby. "Where are they?"

"I... You sure you don't have 'em?"

"You drove here, man," Bobby shouted.

"Oh, shit," said Dylan, glancing toward the building they had just robbed. 

From the dugout, he could see the grounds crew had finished raking the divots and had covered the infield.

He read the scoreboard: Visitors 2, Inning 9, Home 1. Its lights dimmed as he thought of how glorious an end the game seemed to be coming to. A second later, the left-fielder had leapt and snagged what would've been a game-winning homer.

He'd never had a walk-off hit, and wouldn't. His walking off this time would be his walking away from the game he'd played for two decades, since he was 5 years old. It was time for other things.

Here's the mission.

Lily Titanium, in position, will notify Poppy Copper, who'll cause a severe disruption in the security system for six minutes. On go, Lily will enter the office.

"This, once in the laptop's USB socket, will nearly instantaneously transmit all server data here to the office," said Charlie Bravo. "Considering the time you need to leave, you'll need to avoid trouble."

Famous last words, thought Copper. Major trouble always found Lily.

"Poppy, Titanium," said Bravo. "I don't have to tell you how crucial this is. Get in. Get out."

"Check," the agents answered together. And they were off.

"Remember the Six Million Dollar Man," Billy asked. "He was one bad ass robot."

"He wasn't no robot, he uh, uh... a cyborg," chirped Johnny.

"Cyborg?"

"One of those dudes with machine parts in 'em. Cyborg." With that last word, Johnny nodded emphatically, like there was no way Billy couldn't get it.

"Don't know nothing 'bout cyborgs, but I'd kidnap that guy in a heartbeat.  Solve our problems." Billy said. "He'd be six billion dollar man today."

"And how you catch him? Can't even catch a mouse."

"For that ransom money," Billy said. "I'd figure it. And I'd show you."

"Look at her," my friend said. "Just look."

I looked at him instead. He was smitten. So I took another swig of ale and turned to look in the opposite direction.

What I didn't say was, "Yeah, but the cigarette. And what's that under her nose? And in her lip?"

"I'm going to talk to her," my friend said.

"Do what you have to do," I said less than encouragingly. But he was gone, halfway across the room.

"Catchya later," I said. I took one last swig and I was gone, too, out the door and on my way home.

The heat was unbearable, so Billy stopped near the pond he had seen as he cycled over the last rise. Cool down time if he wanted to complete the 15-mile loop. He had water left in the bottles on his hips, but he wanted to save that for drinking.

He hopped off the bike, knelt down, drew some of the cool water in his hands to his face. He took off his shirt, soaked it, and put it back on as he returned to his bike.

"Almost there. At junction," he texted his friend, just in case something goes wrong.

Robert, near the end of his radiation scanner shift, began to sweat as the bag came into view.

He looked around. No one odd, shifty, or seemingly in a hurry. He hit the button, and within seconds, two supervisors were looking over his shoulder.

“Mother of God. Is that an unexploded shell?” AnnMarie whispered. “Let it through. Be easy, there, Bubba.” Bubba, a chiseled six-four, gingerly picked up the bag.

A man reached out. “My souvenir. Than…”

“Uhn-uh, Sir. This way please,” Bubba said, as two agents helped the man to the consultation room. “Souvenir. Are you fucking kidding me?”

His teammates, at midcourt, were bandaged, bruised, and sucking wind, holding the bottoms of their shorts. They were spent. This one's on me.

Head and heart pounding, he faced the basket. Can't have OT. Hope there's a little magic left in this run.

"Ready," the ref said. "Three shots." To make two. Breathing deep, he toed the line. Focus. FOCUS. The noise faded.

Shot one snapped the net. So did shot two. He was feeling in rhythm. The ball again rolled off his fingertips. Snap! He barely realized the result before he was supporting a pile and struggling to breathe.