The Diary of Dumb Things I Did In College: The Wet Bandits Heist (Part II)
Juggy Fats made a curious beeline for the bushes. He called me over in a hushed, scoundrel-esque tone. “Check this out,” he smirked, pulling two small pieces of paper from his pocket. “Fake fucking tattoos, man. Now we’re real bad asses,” he chuckled as he grabbed a handful of snow. The snow quickly turned to chilled, murky water in his palm, which he used to tat me up with an “I love Mom” on my deltoid. Next, he pulled up his sweat suit, showing a mess of body hair and fleshy fat, slapped a wet hand to his stomach. He leaned back into the lamplight, just enough for me to see a demented skull smiling at me from his wrinkled, bulbous gut.
“Let’s move, Marv,” he whispered, assuming the role of Harry.
We tiptoed up the stairs and it was only then that I realized how drunk I really was. Pulling off the Wet Bandits caper wouldn’t require a huge invest of my motor skills, but if a getaway were to be involved, I was fucked. Juggy Fats was doubly fucked.
Details, details, I thought, realizing even my thoughts were slurred. I wobbled into the women’s room, not for moment feeling a tinge of anxiety that a girl might be on her way out, towel-clad as she finished an early-morning shower, and could scream, effectively blowing the cover of our entire operation.
Luckily, we were the only maniacs awake at that hour. Despite our drunkenness, we made quick work of that women’s room. We clogged each faucet, swiftly, blasting a torrent of both hot and cold water. We plugged up the showers next. We even stuffed up the toilets, putting our surplus towels to good (or bad) use. Leaving, we swung the door open like gunslingers in a Western.
The dorm was eerily peaceful. When the heavy door creaked shut, only the faint murmur of running water sounded. Juggy Fats and I looked at each other, busting up with silent laughter under our ski masks. Had we just left it at that, we probably would’ve gotten away with it. But with Juggy Fats, nothing can end peacefully or without fail.
He slinked to a girl’s door that was covered in a potpourri of crap. Pictures, streamers, ticket stubs, and serrated construction paper decorated every conceivable inch of door. In perfect cursive, written in glitter, proclaimed, “Emily and Amanda’s Palace – Knock Before Entering!”
Juggy Fats looked at me, and then back the door. He looked at me, again, this time with a carnivorous grin appearing in the mouth hole of his ski mask. In one swoop of his meaty hand, he pawed half the paper-goods off the door. He then grabbed a dry-erase marker from a neighboring door and drew a huge, anatomically incorrect cartoon penis. Emily and Amanda’s palace had been usurped; Juggy Fats was on the prowl.
For the next ten minutes, he stopped at every door he could stumble toward and drew his signature giant penis. It proclaimed profanity on each door like the blood of Passover. As we passed the last room before the stairwell, his face again beamed that carnivorous grin.
“I’m gonna show these girls what having titties really means!” he cried, confusing me until he grappled off his sweat suit top, stood bare-chested and looked repulsive, as he traced the dry-erase marker across his boobs until one side of his chest was a sloppy shade of Smurf-blue. He then ran into the door – tit-first – setting off a riotous THUMP. Before we darted down the steps, I saw a distinctive “tit mark” stamped on the door. These girls were in for quite a morning.
Stay tuned for Part III.
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About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.