True Story: The Hostage
[Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.] By: Jack Grisham He walked into the local Lane Bryant and grabbed a pair of quadruple-X nylons: control top, for big girls--and he was big, a solid 280 pounds of mostly fat piled high on a medium-boned frame. As I said, big.
"Are you going out tonight?" the nosey clerk at the counter made small talk as she rang him up.
"Yeah," he lied. It was Halloween. "I'm going as one of the Kardashian girls." He twirled around and showed her his ass--"Guess which one?"
"Ha!" She laughed. "You're Kim--no, you're the young one with the . . ." He grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
"The mole," she continued, "you're the one with the mole. . . ."
He walked out. He was going to wait until he got home to dress, but the mile from the shop seemed to take forever, so he ducked into an alley and put on his things. He removed from his bag a pair of size-12 flats. He'd tried heels once, but it was a disaster--his ankle still hurt from the twist. He also unpacked a beautiful, stretch-y, black sequined dress and a luxurious red wig. As for padding, he needed none. He had womanly hips, and his push-up bra lifted his man-tits to just about right--that is, if you were looking for a man who wasn't even half-close to being mistaken for a woman. He was ugly, not-passable and desperate to be recognized as the girl he pretended to be.
He waddled out of the alley and hit the street.
He was immediately met with catcalls--two street-corner boys played rough with his emotions. They taunted and jeered at the poor would-be girl.
Just then, gunfire rang out in the liquor store behind him. There was screaming, and then another shot. John Washington Jr. had pegged the clerk--he'd also put two in the owner, and one into the surveillance camera behind the counter, and he was heading for the door. Our girl was frozen in place, her beautiful red curls static in midair.
A police cruiser skidded hard into the corner--two officers jumped out, guns drawn. "Get the fuck out of there!" the officer yelled, but it was too late; John Washington Jr. had exited, grabbed our girl and put his gun into her most ample breast.
"You move," he screamed, "and the bitch gets it!"
She was ecstatic--finally, she was recognized as the girl she really was. She lightly pushed into her captor, tilted her head and gazed lovingly into his eyes.
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