MILE-HIGH PLANS

Mitch Dunkin took a long, sustained drag off the rainbow-colored bong and held the marijuana in his lungs for as long as he could, eyeing his best friend, Grady, sideways. “Damn,” he finally moaned, drawing out the word. “That’s some mind-blowing ganja, bro.”

Grady reached for the bong. “Hell yeah,” he sputtered. “Alien Dawg from the Platte River Dispensary. That shit’ll knock you off your ass, Mitch.” He took another long hit, set the bong on the raggedy coffee table, and ran a dirty hand through his grungy blond hair, reflecting on the fact that the long, unruly mane was beginning to look like a twice-used mop that someone had dragged across Main Street. He needed to do something about that. “Dude,” he groaned. “I’m so damn high.”

“Me, too,” Mitch echoed. “Mile-high, Grady!”

They both doubled over laughing on the worn-out velvet couch—a twenty-five-dollar special Mitch had picked up from the local Goodwill store—and then Grady glanced at a soggy, curled-up Christmas invitation lying on the floor next to an empty beer can. He reached for the ruined card and brought it a half inch away from his face, as if the up-close-and-personal eyeball would bring the words into better focus. “Hey, Mitch,” he said.

Mitch traced a line of dark-gold stitching along the dirty sofa cushion, wondering when human beings first invented thread. “Wassup?”

“I forgot to tell you; we were invited to a Christmas party!”

Mitch curled his lips into a frown—the concept was way beyond his understanding. “A party? No shit. Where?” He thought about it for a minute, and the idea grew on him. “Are there gonna be any hot chicks there, dressed like candy canes or…or snowflakes?”

Grady snorted. “Nah, dude, not that kind of party. It ain’t at a bar!” He paused to think that through, but lost his train of thought. “And not that kind of invitation.” He tossed the soiled card to Mitch. “Read it.”

“Quit throwin’ shit!” Mitch grumbled, rolling to his side to pick up the paper. He stared at the card and scrunched up his face. “Sepora and Marky’s house? Who the hell are Sepora and Marky? Don’t get it, dude. Christmas—in—Dark—Moon—Vale.” He read the words slowly, pronouncing each syllable separately. “Sounds like some sort of chick-flick to me, some high-society bullshit or somethin’. How do we know these guys?” He began to slur his words as the Alien Dawg took over, launching him into a whole new stratosphere.

Grady laughed uproariously. “We don’t!” He wrapped his arms around his belly and bent forward, clearly overcome by the hilarity of it all; and then he struggled to regain his composure—such as it was. “But, dude, do you know how much money is in that stinkin’ valley? I mean, Dark Moon Vale? Like how rich those suckers are—how much bling there’s gonna be at this silver-and-gold tinsel town shindig?” He sat up, snatched the card out of Mitch’s hand, and sniffed the paper as if he were sniffing a hundred-dollar bill. “I found this on the bank of a river, bro, just outside of Lyons. I think it must’ve floated downstream—like a boat—and you know what I was thinking?”

Mitch’s eyes grew wide as saucers—he needed to pay attention. Grady was about to drop some serious knowledge, secrets of the hidden universe and shit. “No,” he said, sounding as enthralled as he felt. “What?”

Grady nodded his head, one too many times. “I was thinking we could crash this sucker like Bonnie and Clyde—or maybe Barney and Opie… Anyway, we could do some old-school gangsta shit, rob everybody in the room, in and out in five minutes flat. And we’d never have to work again. Hell, we could walk away as billionaires, dude.”

“Billionaires?” The concept blew Mitch’s mind. “Wow. We’d never have to work again.”

“Yep,” Grady groaned. “Gazillionaires…from one freakin’ party.”

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, bro,” Mitch said.

Grady smiled. “You still got that Colt Single Action Army? The one with the really long barrel and the ivory-colored grip? You know, that O.K. Corral-lookin’ shit.”

Mitch laughed and pointed in the general vicinity of his bedroom door, wagging his finger to indicate his closet. “Hell yeah,” he said. “And you know what?”

“What?” Grady asked. It was his turn to be entranced.

“We wouldn’t even need a mask because I have a Santa suit and an old elf costume, too.”

Grady wrinkled his nose. “What the hell do you have a Santa suit and an elf costume for?”

Mitch smacked his lips and shrugged. “Dunno. It was in the back of the closet when I moved in.”

“Ahhhh…” Grady nodded as if it all made sense then. “Righteous.” A few minutes passed as both twenty-something high school dropouts stared into space, and then Grady finally broke the silence. “So what do you think?”

“’Bout what?” Mitch asked, studying the back of his hand in rapt fascination.

“’Bout gettin’ rich. ’Bout being billionaires, come Christmas. Holdin’ those rich, elitist bastards up at gunpoint. Taking all that money.”

Mitch furrowed his brows. He was getting older now; he needed to think things through like a man, not a kid. “Do we actually have to shoot anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Grady said. “I guess if they act up, we might have to.”

Mitch paused to let Grady’s words sink in—that was some seriously heavy shit. He imagined himself and Grady, dressed in long, black trench coats, cowboy hats, and spurs, rounding the O.K. Corral, and he finally capitulated. “Hell yeah! I think we should do it. I can’t work anymore at the doughnut shop anyway, dude. That shit is making my skin break out.”

“Huh?” Grady asked.

“The grease. All that hot oil in the fryer.”

“Right,” Grady said. “Same with my job. That place is brutal.”

“What job?” Mitch asked, wondering if there was something he’d missed. “You ain’t got a job, Grady.”

“Oh, yeah…”

The two of them shook with laughter.