General Discussion : Don't have time to explain...get in the car!

Weapon: Desert Eagle, because once they see it, you won't even have to fire it.

Vice: Not being able to keep my nose out of that sweet bolivian marching powder. (and expensive prostitutes)

Superpower: The power of flight of course.

Rescue: Busting Walter White out of federal prison. 

Secret Hideout: A seedy motel in downtown Phoenix. 

"Get down," I'm yelling, but you never give a fuck, you're just leaning out the window with your hair flying back and blood leaking in windblown drips from the sides of your nose as you keep screaming.

"C'mon, boys! Foxy's got a pistol! Foxy got a gun!"

And here I am behind the wheel while you gleefully fire off the remaining ammo.

So I throw another fish behind us as we almost skid into the guardrail, the fish jumping in the bucket, sloshing around the vodka I'm keeping with them so it stays cold, and all I want is a drink. I throw another fish instead. It smacks into the windshield of the car behind us, dances there for a minute, then flies off over the edge of the cliff back into the water.

Another bullet rips past and I swear to God you're trying to catch it with your face.

"Will you please just get down?" You're laughing, but I'm not, and my eyes are going red. The adrenaline rush is making my head spin. "I'm stressed out and I really don't need to be this stressed out right now."

"No baby," you say, "you cool as ice. Just drive! We're almost there!"

And we are. But I still don't want to rescue your husband.

Another bullet, this one sending pieces of your hair through the wind, and it's gold, like straw, like the fields just up from the cottage. That place we'll never go again because you just had to buy the painting. So beautiful for the loft, you said. It'd look great, you said. And it did look great for the whole two days you left it up. But soon as I was gone, you stripped it, soaked it, let the powder run out, and you strained that, dried it, did whatever the hell it is you do, that Foxy magic, and now all that blow is in the back of the Mustang, and just because I'm the only adulterer boyfriend you know with superhuman reflexes—the kind that can keep your ass from falling out of the car while staying on the road and chucking fish at a pack of pissed-off Paraguayans in a '66 four-door Chevy Malibu—I've got to do all this with you. We're not only on the run, because no, that'd be too easy. Now we've got to grab your old man, too, because these guys somehow thought the balding fuck would be leverage.

And I guess he is. You always were a sentimental.

The things I do for love.

So fine, I said, let's find him, but I'm really just looking forward to stashing him somewhere, taking the magic suitcase with the magic powder, and slipping off to a beach somewhere on the other end of the planet with you. And no more of this stuff, no more hostage rescues. I'll be sleeping off a bender in a cabana with you on that beach, somewhere with pink and green drinks with umbrellas, with weird breakfast foods that taste like dinner that you end up eating at 3 in the afternoon because you keep waking up at 1.

And now you're finally aiming the gun at somebody up ahead standing outside the shack as we approach it. Or maybe at the guy next to the black van another ten feet past that. You're firing off again, and God I wish you had superhuman reflexes, or aim, or anything other than that superhuman T&A, but I don't see any bodies dropping.

And you're laughing again, coked out of your mind.

Fine, I said, let's do it, let's save your old man before we run. What an idiot. When will I learn?

I pick up another fish. I chuck it back at the Malibu.

I'm torn between six pack abs and my little pony fan fic...

six-pack abs

My vote for the Rescue goes to Mattack.  Good call, man.  Good call.

A weapon: I am a weapon.

A vice: A woman. It's always a woman.

A super power: Unstoppable.

Someone to rescue: No time for names, get in the car and keep your head down.

The destination of our secret hideout: I'd tell you but... you know the rest. Now get in the fucking car.

Better times.  Before group mockery and mass derision could make people decide not to associate with us. 

You've got her so worked up she can't even type.  That is a very special skill.

And I actually spent 44 seconds watching that.

Everyone choose your parts!!!

I'll be Katie Holmes.

I want to be the one who has a nervous breakdown. 

@Foxy - no one wants to be the homewrecker, it just happens. 

You can be the creek.

Yeah, you couldn't be Pacey. 

I see you more like...the grandmother. 

I could see that. Then you change your mind and get back together with him. 

Whore. 

Desert Eagle, because once they see it, you won't even have to fire it.

The side of MY gun says Desert Eagle point five oh. YOUR gun says 'Replica' on the side....

The side of MY gun says Desert Eagle point five oh. YOUR gun says 'Replica' on the side....

 

Most...awesome...scene...ever.