A Three-Donut Vacation: XXV. The Getaway

Chey and Sweetie Search in Vain for Their Gaxis Golf Cart Getaway Vehicle

We Find the Gaxis, but Officer Top Cop Is Nowhere To Be Seen

Written 10 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXV: The Getaway

We were racing down the hallway toward the elevator, zipping past the doors. Board of Anti-Nutrasweet Propaganda. Department of Frying Temperature Optimization. Bureau of Metric Equivalents, Baker’s Dozen Section. Court of Confectionary Misdemeanors.

“One hundred seconds to detonation,” read the blue box at the upper right hand corner of my screen. “Press Y to accept your fate.” I pressed the N key.

Sweetie and I reached the elevator at the same time. I frantically pressed the UP button.

“Ninety seconds to detonation. Press Y to give up now. You know you’re not going to make it on that slow elevator.”

I typed N. Sweetie said, “The bomb script is right. We can’t wait for this contraption! We have to take the stairs.”

“Sweetie!” I cried. “You know I HATE Second Life circular stairwells. They mess with my camera. I’m always walking off the side and falling to the bottom.” I braced myself and said the noble thing: “You have to go ahead without me.”

“Never,” said Sweetie. “I’ll never abandon you! I have an idea! Go into mouselook.” She pushed me toward the stairwell.

“Eighty seconds to detonation. Press Y to die as a martyr.” Instead, I pressed M for mouselook.

“Seventy seconds to detonation. You should have taken the elevator. Press Y to be blown up in a most spectacular fashion.” Damn, but I hate circular stairs!

The countdown clock was at thirty seconds when we reached street level (I, despite mouselook, having tumbled off the stairs three times).

As we raced for the door, I grabbed at the bag of donuts on the counter. Sweetie knocked my hand away. “No time!” she hissed.

“Twenty seconds to detonation. You are still in the kill zone. Press Y to teleport to heaven, where you’ll be given a swell house and lots of virgins. If you’re Muslim. Just a condo and a blind date otherwise.”

“The entire sim is going to go!” cried Sweetie. We had reached the street, which was beginning to buckle. And empty. “Where the HELL is our Gaxis golf cart getaway vehicle?”

“That damn Michel—I mean that doggone Top Cop!” I said. “She can’t have gone out for donuts. I mean, we already HAD gone out for donuts.”

“I’m IMing her,” said Sweetie. “She’s saying something about a recall by the Gaxis company. Seems the golf cart needed an adjustment for Havok4.”

“And she had to do it NOW?” I wailed. “She is so not getting her crullers!”

“We can’t make it,” said Sweetie. “We die here, together. So right now, on behalf of the League of Extraordinary Fashionistas. I promote you to Fashionista First Class.” She embraced me, kissed me on both cheeks in BonBon Michelin style, and pinned a platinum pin to my chest.

“Ten seconds to detonation. You know this is it for you. You and your stylish outfits will be blown to smithereens! Press Y for a definition of smithereen.”

“I love you, Sweetie!” I cried. “You’ve made my Second Life ever so much more stylish!”

Just then a familiar brown boxy shape careened around the corner and screeched to a stop beside us.

“What can Brown do for you?”

“Mordecai!” I cried.

“Quick, climb in!”

We scrambled inside. I could see the UPS truck was heavily armored, but I didn’t think that would protect us from the blast which would be coming in just…

“Five seconds to detonation. Press Y to kiss your ass goodbye.”

The windows of the Krispy Kreme suddenly blew out. “Mordecai, we’ll never make it!” I cried.

“No problem, sis,” he said. “In its benevolent wisdom, UPS has equipped this vehicle with a turbo teleporter.” He reached out and pressed a button on the dash.

The world turned into hot white light and I knew no more.