Poison Ivy

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a place and an object. From that point, you have 48 hours to write 1,000 words or less. My prompts were crime caper, an auto parts store, and a pug.

Greg sat at the sales counter, doodling the same three letters - his hand so accustomed to the lines, curves and dips he didn’t even need to look.

Ivy Ivy Ivy

His mother had dubbed her “Poison Ivy”, insisting he had these feelings only because she was the lone female at work, Kunzelman’s Auto Parts.

“Choosing her is like being half dead from starvation and choosing the only rotten egg in a field of rocks. What other choice do you have?” his mother would rasp, laughing hoarsely; a cackle perfected by 25 years of smoking three packs of Pall Malls a day. The only sound more grating than her laugh was her overweight, yappy pug, Tater.

Greg wasn’t interested in his mother’s opinion, though. Her idea of a relationship was whatever guy happened to pass through the revolving door to her bedroom. He’d rather focus on Ivy - her long hair, a different color each week; her tattoos, a smorgasbord of butterflies, movie characters and Chinese symbols; her six months probation. Ivy was walking chaos and Greg was smitten with her mayhem. She was a stark contrast to his pale pudge, marked by too many freckles rather than colorful ink.

“Hey, Greg, whatcha got there,” Tim snorted as he entered the sales floor from the supply room, carrying a large box.

“Maybe I should ask you the same,” Greg retorted, although he already had a pretty good idea.

Ivy knew she had Greg wrapped around her finger and had used that knowledge to boost her eBay business - a business which consisted of sneaking out parts from the store and posting them online. After a close call with their manager the week before, Greg had told her he couldn’t risk it anymore, so she had turned her attention and affection to Tim.

While Greg was certain Ivy was only interested in a loser like Tim because he could supply her little side gig, it still pained him to hear his cell phone ding with her texts or see them talking in the break room.

The front door to the store opened and Greg looked up to see Ivy come in. She gave Tim a quick wink and held the door for him as he carried the box to her car.

“Hey, Ivy,” Greg nervously stammered. “I’ve missed your texts the last few days.”

Ivy rolled her eyes and she sighed, walking past him to the back room. Desperately trying to get back in her good graces, Greg jumped to his feet.

“There is a big delivery coming in tonight,” he exclaimed. “I think we could sneak up on it, really boost your business.”

She stopped in her tracks and slowly turned back toward her admirer, head tilted to the side with interest, signaling him to go on.

“I know the driver for this one. He is an older guy, bad knees. Jack is the only one who will be here to sign off on it, and he is so old and out of it, we could easily trap them inside or something, grab stuff and go.”

“Go where?” Tim asked, returning.

“Nothing! I wasn’t talking to you,” Greg snapped.

Ivy wasn’t as dismissive as Greg, though, and filled Tim in on Greg's idea. It was set. Before leaving work that day, Greg would disconnect the camera system. In six hours, the trio would park a few doors up and converge on Kunzelman’s, dressed head to toe in black, faces hidden by masks. They’d wait till Jack was signing for the goods, the delivery driver standing close by, and ambush the pair.

Unfortunately, when Greg pulled in at the designated time, he had an unexpected partner in the passenger seat.

“What the hell, Greg!” Ivy questioned, motioning towards the slobbering dog hanging out of the window. “Why’d you bring that mutt with you?”

“My mom had a guy over and he’s allergic. She wouldn’t let me take the car unless Tater could come too,” he explained, cheeks flushed.

Leaving the window partially down, the three crept in shadows to the dumpster next to the delivery dock, serenaded as they went by the wet yaps of Tater. After a few minutes, the canine clamor calmed; the silence as benign as a bomb before the blast. The truck arrived and they watched as it pulled up to the platform, several loads wheeled to the receiving gate.

Quietly, the three started towards the pair of men, Tim carrying the rope and Greg carrying rags to blindfold the two. Ivy motioned her smitten suitors to split up, one approaching from each side of the dock. As expected, it was not difficult to corral their coworker and the driver, putting them inside the truck.

Tim sprinted back to grab his car, while Ivy directed Greg on which boxes to set aside.

“Maybe you’re not a nobody, afterall,” Ivy gushed, flashing him a seductive smile.

Greg hardly had a second to savor her sentiment before it was interrupted by the sound that haunted his dreams - yapping Tater. The mangy mutt had squeezed through the window and was running towards Greg, announcing his freedom. Greg looked back at Ivy, fearing her reaction.

“Shut him up or I’ll turn him into tater tots,” she snarled, all affection gone.

Greg chased the dog in circles, trying to keep him from the road. Tim and Ivy loaded the goods into Tim’s car before climbing in. Greg stood in Kunzlman’s parking lot, Tater in his arms.

“Better luck next time, loser,” Tim chided.

“You’re such a sucker,” Ivy spat at Greg, leaning in to Tim and kissing him deeply, clearly not their first.

Greg walked the short trip back to the car, feeling defeated. As he opened the door, a blue light caught his attention; a shining beacon in his darkness.

He picked up the receiver of the pay phone, dialing 911, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

“Hello, police. I’d like to report a robbery.”