“Shit! I can’t put the sugar in. It’s shaped all weird!” she half whispered, half yelled, holding the glass Coke bottle up to the opening to show me. “Now what do we do?”

“Go do the diaper. I’ll see what I can do.” The darkness of the night enveloped us in our all black clothing, the poor light from lamps high above the parking lot our only illumination.

I pulled a carton from my side bag, eggs intended for his windshield. I thought about how much he loved that car, how much most guys loved their cars. It seemed fitting to do this to the one thing the bastard really cared about. He sure didn’t care about my friend or her little girl when he slammed his fist into her windshield, breaking it, both of them inside the vehicle cowering from his rage. I remember the absolute terror on that sweet child’s face when they came to my door. She was shaking for hours. I had never been more pissed off in my life.

I had to think fast. Without the sugar, the worse that would happen is he would have to take his car to the carwash. I could only think of one thing to do. One, two, three…half a dozen eggs in total broken and shoved down the filler neck. I had no idea if it would work, but I had visions of the engine seizing up as egg cooked on the rods.

I heard the driver side door open, and I knew she was almost done. I replaced the gas cap and stood to throw the remaining eggs at the windshield. Each one landed with a satisfying thud and slowly slid down the glass, leaving a snail-like trail in its wake. The last egg landed on his hood. I guessed it would be hell on his paint job.

We could hear loud voices and clinking as the door to the restaurant opened and closed again. The car door slammed, sounding the end to our mischief. As we hurried toward our vehicle, I scraped a key down the passager side of his Mustang for good measure. We took off before anyone even knew what had happened.

“I put eggs in his gas tank,” I managed to say between heavy breaths.

“I rubbed the diaper all over the floor and under the seat,” she said matter-of-factly.

We laughed the rest of the ride home.

©2019 Nancy Lehmann