The Road Less Traveled
Three Hours Before the Mission – I Make a Horrible Decision
I had three hours to prepare for a high-stakes mission.
Naturally, I spent that time at a yard sale.
That’s where I found her.
The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.
Thirty feet of hot-dog-shaped engineering perfection. A machine so majestic it could bring a grown man to tears. A vehicular sausage deity.
A sign was taped to the side: $40 – TAKE IT. PLEASE.
I turned to the old woman running the yard sale. She sat in a lawn chair, wearing a T-shirt that said live, laugh, divorce and sipping something dark from a mug that read world’s okayest grandma.
“You’re selling the Wienermobile?” I asked, reverent.
She snorted. “I’ve been trying to get rid of this damn thing for years.”
“Why?”
She exhaled like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “It was my husband’s. That crazy bastard loved this stupid thing so much, he tried to sail it across the Colorado River.”
I blinked. “Did it work?”
She gave me a deadpan stare.
“Does it look like it worked?”
“Fair.”
She downed the rest of her mug, then sighed. “He’s finally dead now. So, I’m getting rid of the thing. I never want to see this oversized meat tube again.”
I nodded solemnly. “I will cherish it in his honor.”
“Yeah, yeah, just take the damn thing.”
I handed her forty bucks, hopped in the driver’s seat, and gunned it toward Fort Knox.
Mission Start – Tactical Meat Vehicle Deployment
Two hours later, the HYDRA team crouched outside Fort Knox, waiting for their getaway car.
They were expecting something subtle. Something tactical.
Instead, I arrived in a thirty-foot-long hot dog on wheels.
I leaned out the window, honked the horn, and the Oscar Mayer jingle screamed through the speakers at 120 decibels.
The team just stared.
Winter Soldier blinked slowly, like he was processing a fatal error. “What the hell is that?”
“Our getaway car,” I said proudly.
“…Where did you get this?”
“Yard sale.”
More silence.
Winter Soldier exhaled sharply, turned to the team, and said, with the defeated tone of a man who had witnessed the collapse of civilization, “Everybody get in the wiener.”
The Escape – A Horrifying Wienermobile Pursuit
The heist itself was easy. The escape? Not so much.
Alarms blared. Sirens howled. Cops. So many cops.
“Floor it!” someone yelled.
I did.
The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile roared to life, hitting 120 miles per hour on the highway.
Inside, the entire HYDRA team was screaming.
“This thing isn’t meant to go this fast!”
“Why are we still accelerating?!”
“Who designed this engine?!”
I grinned, eyes wild. “America, baby.”
Somehow, we lost the cops. I checked the GPS and took the next exit.
At least, I thought it was the right exit.
The Catastrophic GPS Incident
Twenty minutes later, I noticed something was off.
No Fort Knox. No desert. No military presence.
Just palm trees. Strip club billboards. A distinct feeling that I had severely fucked up.
Winter Soldier leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Where the hell are we?”
I glanced at the GPS.
Paused.
Checked again.
“Oh,” I said casually. “So, funny story…”
“…What?”
“I may have misinterpreted the GPS.”
“How bad?”
I turned the screen toward him.
The display read: Atlanta, Georgia.
Silence.
Then, a collective, “What?!”
Lost in the Hood – The Unhinged Survival Plan
We were very much not supposed to be in Atlanta.
And yet, there we were.
A giant hot dog on wheels rolling through the hood, attracting a lot of attention.
People stared. A dude on his porch pulled off his sunglasses. A group of guys playing dice stopped mid-game.
Winter Soldier muttered, “We need to get out of here. Now.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
I then blasted a dubstep remix of Sweet Caroline through the speakers.
People whipped around.
Feeling the need to add to the mood, I threw my hands up and yelled, “Ah, good ol’ Saints!”
The street went still.
Dead silent.
A single beer bottle rolled across the pavement.
Then, from the crowd, a dude wearing a Drake London jersey pointed at us and screamed, “Saints?! In Falcon territory?? Get him!”
The entire block detonated into chaos.
“They gotta die.”
“Who said that?!”
“Get the torches.”
Some guy had a pitchfork. Where the hell did he get a pitchfork?
Winter Soldier gritted his teeth. “I swear to god—”
“Everyone, get in the wiener!” I shouted.
We barely piled in before the mob reached us. I slammed the pedal and tore out of there, tires screeching, the Sweet Caroline dubstep remix still blaring.
“Why the hell would you say that?!” an agent yelled.
I shrugged. “Felt right in the moment.”
Winter Soldier was physically vibrating with rage.
The Benihana Incident
We were in dire need of food, gas, and possibly an exorcism.
Then, I saw a Benihana sign.
I pulled into the drive-thru.
There was no drive-thru.
I did not care.
I rolled down the window. “Yeah, lemme get the chicken hibachi, extra yum-yum sauce—”
There was no speaker.
Silence.
My team stared at me like I had finally gone feral.
Then, out of nowhere, a gay man on rollerblades zoomed up to my window, holding a steaming hibachi plate.
Short skirt. Crop top. Glitter everywhere.
He winked. “Here you go, queens! Keep slaying!”
Before anyone could react, a pterodactyl swooped down and snatched him away.
The entire car went dead silent.
Then, the Benihana chef burst out the doors, fists clenched.
“God damn it! That’s the fifth time this week!”
Someone in the back screamed in pure existential despair, “Benihana?! Beni-fucking-hana?!”
Winter Soldier let out a deep, soul-crushing sigh.
I took a bite of my hibachi, chewing thoughtfully.
“Damn,” I said. “They really hooked me up with the yum-yum sauce.”
Winter Soldier said nothing.
Because he was already walking away.