"It's All About Me, Right?"
Dope the Doper strutted down the sidewalk, bellbottoms swishing, checking himself out in storefront windows. The hostages protested from inside his huge pompadour , their cries blending in such a way that from a distance they melded into the sound of Saturday Night Fever playing from a boom box. Dope's gliding strides adjusted to the rhythm of his pulse. Short-long short-long short-long. He doublechecked his coat pocket to make sure the ransom note was still there, and it was. He'd gone to so much trouble to get these hostages, it sure would suck if he had worn the wrong coat (the one that made him look fat.)
He did a male pirouette at the corner, timing his snap out to the light change. Stepping out into the crosswalk , he was flattened by a semi as he bent to adjust the crease of his bell-bottoms. But he had always wanted that thin silhouette, and peeling himself off the sidewalk safely patted his great hair puff and walked on. Suddenly, a thick set man grabbed and propped him up in a novelty shop entrance, thinking he was a Travolta cut out.
"Kids are going for that again," the man said, and flipped on a strobe light. Dope tried to sneak out, but was bought by a teen-age girl named 'Moesha' in the next 60 seconds. She had recently seen 'Pulp Fiction' on TV and fell in love with the hunky Hollywood hottie. Dope, who was a dope, made the mistake of trying to reason his way out of her clutches. She freaked out and swatted at him with her hand bag. The impact knocked the hostages out of his Do and it ... it ... it sagged!
Suddenly no longer the crown jewel in God's gift to man, Dope sobered. A woman passed by on the other side of the street and didn't even notice him. He regrouped, he still had the ransom note.
But then again, who cared about them - especially that Scottish one (Bangus? Fangus?) who was always blowing his nose on Dope's rolling papers. Better to just let them go. If he hurried, he could still get a perm in before the Dick Clark retrospective began.
