Pinkie looked at the flashlight and sighed.
“Gee, Joanie, do you really think Salvador Allende wants to take over Chile?”
“Pinkie, don’t be a dolt!” Joanie stamped her foot, placing her hands on her hips. “Of course Allende wants Chile! What kind of revolution are we running here?”
Just then, Chachi appeared carrying an armful of AK47 assault rifles and a jar of honey. The soft death moans of Arthur Fonzerelli could be heard coming from beneath the tool shed, and Richie, wild-eyed and doped up on bennies, licked with a fawning reverence at Joanie’s ankle.
“Hey Pinkie! What should I do with all these guns?” Chachi dumped them unceremoniously to the ground.
Suddenly, one of the guns went off, and a stray bullet shot into Joanie’s left eye, slicing its way through her brain and blowing out the back of her skull with a crimson spray of blood and skin.
“Oops,” said Chachi.
“Oh, great,” said Pinkie, folding her arms and rolling her eyes. “Now Joanie’s dead. Who’ll plan the civil uprising in the public market?”
“I’ll do it!” chimed Potsie, bounding in from the avocado orchards, his face smeared with green pulp.
“No, Potsie,” answered Pinkie, “you have to be ready at the switch to make sure Chachi’s explosive charges effectively kill everyone at the Pomegranate Festival.” She held her chin thoughtfully in her hands for a moment. Then, her eyes wide and bright with realization, she snapped her fingers and said, “C’mon! I have an idea!”
Later, after the concert, Pinkie and her kid sister, Leather, who wowed the gathered populace by lip-synching ‘Somebody Else’s Lipstick’ over and over before they all exploded in a holocaust of flesh, strode arm-in-arm into Arnold’s. “Well, there’s another Latin American upstart who won’t be pulling any jobs out of the good ol’ USA!”
“You didn’t stop the heroin shipments, did you?” asked Ralph, looking up from his pipe.
“Nope!” And, laughing with happiness, she pulled out a bag of opium for everyone!
