Two out-of-work stuntmen sat downing pints in the dim interior of Bladstone's Bar and Grille.

"No one does car chases on TV anymore," one of them complained. "Now it's all this reality show bullshit."

"I've flown helicopters for twenty-five years and now the only gigs I can land are transporting crates of hair products for makeup artists," muttered the other, showing a glob of peanut stuck in his teeth.

"Ain't fair."

"Nope. Ain't."

Glug glug.

Jethro Luggit, seated a few barstools away and slurping nonchalantly on a vodka tonic, couldn't help but overhear their predicament and said so.

"How would you two oldtimers like to help me pull a bank heist? It'd be a cinch for two old pros like you. I can't offer you a benefit plan, but there's plenty of vacation time."

"We're not crooks," said the driver.

"Me and my partner Winger will handle the crooked part. You two just help us with the getaway."

"I dunno," mused the pilot. "What's in it for us?"

"A pissload of cash."

"What if we get caught?"

"We'll say I hijacked your car and forced you to do it at gunpoint."

"Hmm. Well, I don't like guns."

"Won't even know it's there."

The pilot and the driver stepped to the end of the bar to confer in private. They agreed they needed the money, and their bar tab needed paying. Jethro agreed to settle their tab and the trio headed back to Jethro's thatched roof bungalow to talk business.

"When do we meet this partner of yours?" asked the driver.

"Oh, he's in prison right now. We'll have to bust him out first."

"Hey now," the pilot protested, rising in alarm. "Just what are you trying to pull?"

"Don't worry, it's a bamboo prison on a tiny island kinda near Tahiti. It's guarded by three natives armed with old blowguns. It'll be a pip to knock over. I'da done it myself already but I'm just recovering from a gall bladder infection."

Jethro's nubile sister brought them each a beer. As she retreated softly on bare feet, they took turns admiring her caboose.

"She's not part of the deal," Jethro hastened.

They said nothing.

Jethro turned in for the night and the stuntmen spent the night there in his living room, having flipped a bottletop for the couch. The loser slept in the wicker chair, knees drawn up to his chin.

In the morning they headed down to the beach where they found a seaplane which Jethro claimed wasn't stolen. The pilot had no trouble coaxing it into the air and within no time they were in sight of a small kidney-shaped island nowhere near Tahiti. It was sparsely treed and its terrain was the color of lasagna. As the pilot brought the plane in for a graceful landing in a cove very near the prison, a small dart from a blowgun pierced the visor of his cap.

"Um."

"Don't worry," assured Jethro, gripping a shovel. "I'll dispatch the guard."

The guard was too preoccupied reloading his blowgun to notice the business end of the shovel descend. A moment later he was stretched out facedown in the dirt with a nasty lump over his ear.

"What about the other two?" wondered the driver.

"They should be around here somewhere. Might wanna keep your heads low for the time being."

There was a whoosh. Jethro glanced down and noticed a black dart protruding from his wrist.

"That hurt?" asked the pilot.

"Yes, somewhat. I suggest we find cover or something."

Not that there was much of a selection. They had to make due with a small sandbar hardly big enough for one of them. They crowded behind it in tight formation. A gaunt face appeared nearby between the bamboo slats of the prison wall. Eyed them quizzically.

"That you, Jethro?"

"Hey there, Winger. We've come to get you out."

"So I gathered. What's the plan?"

"Well, we're a bit pinned down at the moment. Anything you can do?"

Winger spit out something green. "Nothing really from my end. Don't you have a pistol or something?"

"Yeah, but I don't really want to shoot anyone."

"They don't know that."

"Good point."

Jethro fired off a couple rounds vaguely in the direction of the crouching blowgunner. Meanwhile, the stuntmen used the distraction to make a dash for the prison entrance, which they kicked in. The third guard was just emerging from the outhouse and, not yet aware of the situation, was caught unaware. The pilot socked him in the temple, then the driver bound his wrists with the strap from the guard's canteen.

They unlocked the cell with a key they found attached to the guard's belt. A disheveled Winger stepped out and gave them both a hug, which made them feel awkward.

Back outside they found the second guard sprawled unconscious. A wild shot from Jethro's pistol had inadvertently dislodged a pomegranate from the branch above the guard's head. As though planned, it fell right on target.

"I knew you hadn't forgotten about me," said Winger, greeting his old partner with a hug. "Say, looks like you've got a dart sticking out of your hand."

"Yes. Stings something fierce. Let's get going."

As the seaplane took off over sparkling waters, introductions were made.

"Fascinating line of work," remarked Winger. "Anything I've seen you in?"

The driver reeled off some movie titles, but Winger shook his head at each one. He yanked the dart out of his partner's wrist and bandaged the injury in gauze procured from the seaplane's medicine cabinet.

"Good thing that's not your shooting hand."

"Doesn't matter. My aim is crap."

"What were you in for?" asked the driver, just to make conversation.

Winger and Jethro exchanged glances. Then, "It's kind of embarrassing. I'd rather not say."

They were nearly over the mainland. Frothy waves looked like bathtub scum. Houses made of popsicle sticks.

"Can we stop at your bungalow first before we do this thing?" Winger requested. "I want to freshen up."

Back at the bungalow they had a round of beers while Winger took a long soothing shower. His first in quite a while.

"Where's your sister?" the pilot wondered, looking around.

"School. She's studying to become a mortician."

"Oh. That's nice."

Winger came out from the bathroom, freshly shaven and drying his limp hair with a towel. "I think I broke your toilet."

"You have to jiggle the handle." He offered Winger a beer, but it was turned down.

Soon they were off in an ivory-painted jeep which Jethro claimed wasn't stolen. It only took three city blocks before the driver felt perfectly at home behind the wheel.

"Look out for that old woman on stilts," Winger cautioned.

"I see her."

He guided the jeep into the brick alley behind the bank.

"You two wait here while Winger and I pull the job."

"Say, how you gonna do it anyway?"

"Hypnotism. Stay put."

He and Winger looked around, then disappeared towards the bank. The stuntmen amused themselves with a game of "I Spy" while they waited. The pilot won because he had the better vision.

The heisters returned looking as inconspicuous as possible under the circumstances. They rounded the corner and piled into the jeep.

"Go! Go!" Jethro hollered.

The driver peeled out of the alley and sped down the main street. His left tire hit an embankment and the jeep lurched on two wheels for a short distance.

"Try not to attract attention," Jethro suggested.

"Oh," said the driver, reducing speed.

He made a few tricky maneuvers, just to throw off the scent in case anyone was tailing them. A few miles out of town he pulled down a seldom-used road and hid the jeep in an old dilapidated barn, according to the plan.

"We did it," the pilot exclaimed.

"Got away scott free," the driver joined in.

"How much did we rake in?" the pilot wanted to know.

"Nothing," Winger responded. "The bank was closed."

"Must be a holiday or something," Jethro added sheepishly. "Guess I should have checked the calendar first or something."

"I robbed the gumball machine out front," Winger spoke up cheerfully. He doled out a few to each member of the team. "Ooo, this one's grape."

The two out-of-work stuntmen sat downing pints in the dim interior of Bladstone's Bar and Grille.