Grizzly and Panda

I didn't mind. Better to have a prude sister than a promiscuous one.

I neared the tunnel's exit, and I wondered what she expected as she emerged. Was she wracked with guilt or was she crawling along, expecting me to whip out my cock and have her suck it right there as she lay just inside the tunnel's exit?

Climbing out, I breathed the fresh night air and rose, turning and extending my hand to her. A few seconds later she took it, and I drew her out, catching her body weight and setting her on her feet.

I stretched out, groaning and letting her see my hard-on for a moment. When I turned to her, her eyes darted up to mine and she blushed, opening her mouth to say something.

"Check it out," I said, wanting to redirect her. I pointed to the sign.

She looked, muttering, "Yeah."

"Okay, let's roll."

Suddenly, her hand was in mine, and I climbed up the slope and led her home. Back inside the house, she sat on the couch, watching me strip down to my underwear. It seemed she wanted to say something, but had no words.

"Go ahead and shower if you want," I offered.

"Yeah, okay."

Like last time, I waited for her to climb into the shower before I marched in, washed my face, and pissed. When she emerged, wrapped in towels and carrying her things, she muttered, "I'm going to bed," before shuffling slowly toward the stairs.

I rose from the couch and followed her.

At the landing, Hope stopped and turned to me. "Well, good nigh--," she began.

I pulled her head toward mine and kissed her on the lips. One--two seconds, and it was over. Drawing back, I said, "You were awesome, Panda. Good night." Then, I turned and left.

In my bed, I didn't spend too much time reliving Hope's joy ride and subsequent orgasm. I thought about my choices.

Despite the crippling guilt I felt, I began to understand how I had been almost subconsciously maneuvering to attract Hope. I figured she was so beautiful that she was weary of guys fawning and begging. That wouldn't be me. I wanted her to feel a kind of take-it-or-leave-it sexual ambivalence from me--and yet despite that, a persistent sense of my caring about her and liking her.

Because I did like her. I did care about her.

But, my gosh, when I let myself think about what I had done to her in the culvert--that shit was like bathing in hot shame.

***

I didn't see Hope again until Monday morning. Her face looked strained as she climbed into my car, and we drove off to school.

"You okay?" I asked.

She nodded.

Neither of us spoke as I eased us onto the ramp and merged onto the expressway. Cresting the long hill, we both looked. Our change to the sign was still there.

"Fuck, yes," I muttered, giving a little fist pump.

She didn't react.

"The fuck's the matter with you?"

She shook her head.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" I said, praying she wouldn't actually talk about it.

"Can I, though?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Of course, you can."

She received this in silence.

"You're the one upset and wondering if we can talk," I said, "and you're going to make me do all the talking? Is that how it is?"

"No!"

"So talk!"

I sensed her attempting--twice--to begin before angrily saying, "I don't even know how to start. And, look, we're going to be at school in, like, three minutes. There's no time."

"Okay. No big deal. We talk after school."

She sighed. "Fine."

"Listen, you can say shit to me. I'm not going to judge you. I think you're pretty freakin' awesome, Hope."

She turned to me, appreciating the compliment, but still confused about something. I nodded at her and drove onward.

Neither of us spoke again until she climbed out. I leaned over and said, "Keep your ears open for people talking about paying whores."

A hint of a grin appeared, and then she shut the door.

Seven and a half hours later, she spiritlessly climbed back into my car, and I asked, "Okay, were people talking about the sign?"

She gave a weak smile and said, "A lot of them actually. Some people took pictures."

"Yeah, baby!" I hollered. Turning back to her, I said, "So, it worked, right?"

"It was pretty funny, actually," she muttered.

"Good, because I expect to delight your friends again next week." I pulled out of the high school and remembered something. "Oh, shit. I almost forgot to tell you. One of my professors brought it up in class today. Can you believe it?"

"Really?"

I nodded.

"It was all over social media," she mentioned.

I pumped my fist.

A few minutes later, we saw a billowing white sheet covering the entire sign as we approached it on the expressway. "Fucking pussies," I spat.

"They covered it up!" Hope exclaimed.

I turned to her. "Guess those new screws have them flummoxed, though."

Hope grinned. "How do we get back at them? I don't care anymore if it's a school night."

I nodded, smiling. "That's my Panda!" Then, I rolled down the window and roared, "We're coming for you, you bunch of non-whore-paying anal misfits!"

We were out of earshot and going sixty-five miles per hour, of course, but Hope laughed.

Back home, she followed me down to the basement. We both flopped onto the couch.

"What are we going to do?" she asked

"Tear down that sheet, of course."

"Yeah," she replied, and then she brooded for a moment. "But, they'll just cover it up again. How could we stop them from doing that?"

"Right." I blinked, shaking my head. "No idea."

Both of us sat and considered the problem for a minute. Then, Hope asked, "Are the rungs of the ladder screwed onto the pole?"

My jaw fell open. I slowly turned to her, eyes wide.

She saw me, and her face shined with pride.

I said, "Holy shit, Panda!"

***

The truth is I had no idea if the rungs were screwed to the pole, but I couldn't see any other way for them to be fastened securely. Screws--or bolts--were in some way involved. Had to be.

And if it could be fastened with screws or bolts, it could be unfastened--with the right tools. It would, I decided, be a tool-intensive mission.

There was a lot to bring. I needed the impact driver and a variety of bits--especially ones for larger screws. If it were bolts, I would need an adjustable wrench--maybe a few different kinds-- for the nut side and a set of sockets, and an adapter for the impact driver. Altogether, it was about fifty-sixty pounds of tools. So, I needed a rugged backpack, too.

Hope followed me downstairs after dinner.

"Did you want to talk about this morning in the car?" I asked. "How you were feeling?"

"No, I was fine. I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Sure? Didn't seem fine to me."

"I'm sure."

"So, what's up?"

"Before we make any plans," she began, "what are they thinking--Cozy Storage, I mean. What are they prepared for?"

I nodded. "Okay, Panda. Good question." We sat on the couch, side-by-side. I started. "I'd say they know this happens on weekends so far, and I bet they're thinking high school or college kids."

"And they would be right."

"Yeah, but I think that says they're not looking very hard on weeknights--like they think they've got time, especially now that it's covered up."

Hope nodded. "Okay."

"What are your ideas?"

She sat back and looked at the ceiling. "I wonder if they've alerted the police. It's trespassing, at least. Maybe some kind of vandalism thing. Why not tell the cops? Why not ask for a few extra patrols? What else are the cops in this town going to do at night?"

"That's a pretty good point. Yeah, we need to be careful and ready to ditch. Plus, if I put myself in their shoes, I've got to be wondering how this is done."

"Surely, they've checked their cameras."

"Yes," I agreed. "And they know it isn't someone with a key card--not a customer. So, they're wondering how we get in."

"They'd look for gaps in their fence first."

I stared at her.

"What?" she asked.

"You just gave me a hell of an idea."

"Tell me."

"What if--to throw them off--we make a cut in their fence? Somewhere else. Somewhere not anywhere near the culvert. Focus their attention on a deception."

"They've probably walked the line already and didn't see one. It wouldn't make sense for a gap to suddenly appear."

"But we could make it make sense, Hope. Say we just make a long cut--not a complete hole--in their fence at a place where, pulling the sides apart, a person could sneak through. See?"

She nodded.

I continued. "We use Dad's bolt-cutters. So we make that cut, and then we leave something in them, like a torn piece of clothing. They find it, and they think they know how we're getting in."

Hope nodded, seeing it.

I said, "They walked the line looking for a gap or a hole, not a cut, and they also didn't see it before because there was no scrap of clothing attached to it."

"Wow. That's good," she said. Then, she declared, "We're evil geniuses."

I chuckled.

"There's another thing," Hope added. "They know we have our own letters, and they know we used tamper-proof screws."

That was a huge point. My face probably showed it. "Damn, I wasn't thinking about that."

"It matters."

"Fuck, yeah, it does," I agreed. "It means they know we're serious. We've spent time and money on this deal. It means they know we're not a couple of dumbass pranksters; we're smart, and we're in this for a while."

"Probably not a once or twice thing," Hope offered.

"Right. Shit."

We both kicked back on the couch. Neither of us spoke for a minute.

"Hope, I think this means we need to be extremely cautious from here on. I don't think we can do both the fence and the rungs tonight."

"It's too much. It'd take too long," she said, nodding.

"We'd be out there for hours. And, it's a lot of tools."

"Cancel one part of it? But which one?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Going back to where we were before in this conversation, do they know we're using the culvert and the storm drain?"

"We decided pretty quickly it was the best way," Hope replied. "There are no cameras pointed at it, and it's close to the entrance and the sign. Yeah, maybe."

"Okay, so what if we scrap the ladder rung plan and focus solely on the fence plan?"

"Just cut the fence? But we won't have done anything to the sign," she argued. "They'll see something they didn't before and should have, but nothing changed. It won't make any sense to them. They won't even look for it."

"So, we don't leave the torn shirt or whatever. We just cut it. We save the torn shirt for the night we actually do rip down the sheet."

Hope considered it. "What if they fix the sign tomorrow, and we never get a chance to rip down the sheet and take off the rungs?"

"We can save that for the next quote that we fuck with."

"And if they put their own tamper-proof screws on the brackets or try to prevent us some other way?"

I nodded. "It's a risk. I guess we cross that bridge if we come to it, but in the meantime, we lay the groundwork for throwing them off our scent with the fence cut-out."

"Where on the fence?"

"That's part of the mission," I replied. "Recon and then cut. We'll tour their fence line."

"Okay."

"Gotta go late. Real late."

"Or real early."

I shook my head. "I don't like early. I want people tired. Say 3:00am?"

"Tonight?"

I nodded.

"I'm in," Hope said, "but, I'm getting my homework done now and going to bed early."

"Set your alarm."

Later, Hope and I were digging around in the garage, looking for Dad's bolt cutters. Moving some rusty metal cutters aside on a high shelf, I saw two olive green tubes, about the size and shape of pop cans. They both had handles and rings on the top. I spun one around--"M18 Smoke, White" it read in bold capital letters.

"Holy shit," I whispered. "Hope, check it out."

She walked over and saw them. Covering her mouth for a moment, she said, "Are those Dad's?"

"Yeah. I didn't even know he had them."

"Think there's some way we could use them ever?"

"For the sign? I don't see how."

"Yeah," she agreed.

"Did you check under that bench?" I asked.

She looked. "No. I will."

Hope bent over beside me, and I smiled, shaking my head at the view. A moment later, she got down on her hands and knees, and I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"What?" she asked, spinning her head around.

I shrugged.

"Oh, my gosh. Were you looking at my butt?" she asked, grinning.

"Maybe."

We found the bolt cutters a few minutes later.

***

At 3:05am, still waiting for Hope in the basement, I sent her a text.

Nothing.

At 3:10, I sneaked upstairs to her room. I knocked on her door quietly. I texted her again.

Nothing and nothing.

Just after 3:15, I set off on a solo mission with our father's bolt cutters in my black rucksack. Once over the silt fence, I raced to the cell tower fence.

I had a side mission.

I extended the handles on the bolt cutters and made two small vertical cuts in the cell tower fence. Without Hope around to help, I knew it would be difficult getting under that fence; the new cuts enabled me to do it by myself. The transit from home to Cozy Storage took me a little over five minutes.

I surveyed the area, listening to the sheet covering our latest message flap in the light breeze. Any new cameras? Any people in there, watching? Cops cars on the nearby streets? Anything at all suspicious?

I didn't see anything.

I crossed down to the ravine and continued beyond it. It was a slow, stealthy inspection of the fence line along the southern edge of the property--adjacent to the expressway. Keeping my eyes alert for new cameras, I confirmed both the integrity of that section of fence and the strategic placement of their cameras. Reaching the southeast corner, I stopped and took stock of what I'd seen.

Cozy storage had five outdoor storage buildings, each about 80 yards long. The buildings were simply rows of garage-type doors, back-to-back. Each structure had twelve garages on a side. The cameras were at the corners of each structure, facing along the frontage of the doors. Cozy Storage was worried about thieves breaking into garages, not pranksters going after their sign.

It was possible, I knew, that the far camera on the corner of the last storage building--the one looking south toward the expressway--might be able to see me. But I stood almost 120 yards away in the dark, surrounded by tall grasses and weeds. Possible, but unlikely. That would take one high-tech camera and a very dedicated investigator.

Still, as I proceeded along the eastern fence line, I kept a low profile. There was another fence to my right--the lot just adjacent to Cozy Storage on the east--that had an eight-foot fence with composite slats. I couldn't remember, but I thought it was some kind of shipping firm, one with loading bays for semi-trucks.

Cozy Storage's eastern fence was as secure as the south. I doubted I would find a gap as I approached the street running east-west along the northern fence line.

Pinecrest housing development sat across the street here. Its white, picket fence stretched the length of the road to the intersection about 150 yards east of me. The entrance to the development was nearer to my west. The "Pinecrest" sign was lit, and there were street lights inside.

But the Cozy Storage side of the street was dark. I needed to be very careful here. Even at 3:40 in the morning, there might be a car.

What helped was that between Cozy Storage's fence and the street--a fifteen-foot span--a drainage ditch stretched along the fence. It was about two feet lower than the level of the street, spotted here and there with litter. Checking for cars in front and behind, I crawled into the ditch and began making my way west.

About 60 yards into my crawl, I found myself across from the Pinecrest main entrance. I peeked into the Cozy Storage fence, discovering I was positioned in the middle of a building. No cameras pointed here--even from the far side.

This was the spot. Anyone finding this cut would instantly conclude the sign bandits were coming from Pinecrest. Looking and listening for any cars or signs of people, I pulled off the rucksack, dug out the bolt cutters, and unfurled its folding arms, locking them into position.

Then, I began cutting a slit, straight up and down. Each cut took several seconds, and I had to cut links every two inches, stopping to check my surroundings after a few snips. Once I had about a four-foot vertical slice, I set down the cutters and checked my work.

I pushed one side in and pulled the other side out. A person could get through here. Check. Better with three people--one pusher, one puller, and one sneaking through--but doable. Loose clothes would probably get caught up a few times, but it could work.

I released the fence, and it snapped mostly back into place. After adjusting a few of the links, it didn't even look like it had been cut anymore. Perfect.

I crawled back into the ditch and put away the bolt cutters. Tossing the rucksack on my back, I dropped to my belly in the ditch and froze. Someone was there. At the opposite corner--the northwest one. Outside the fence. Crouched low.

"Shit," I muttered because my chest was resting on a hard bit of litter, maybe a can.

Then I heard a car to my right, coming from inside Pinecrest. Its headlights washed over the grasses around me. It came to a quiet stop.

Had it seen me? No fucking way. I was careful and too low to be seen. But, fuck, if I hear a car door, I told myself, I'm fucking outta here. Light speed. Gone.

Suddenly there was movement in front of me again. The person darted around the corner and dove into the ditch.

Hope. That was fucking Hope. I knew her body. I knew how she moved. She took a stupid risk to hide in the ditch.

The car to my right floored it. Tires squealed. The engine roared. I followed the transit of its headlights as it spun west, directly toward Hope. I popped up after it passed.

Cop car. SUV.

"Holy fuck."

I sprang to my feet, squatting low and watching in horror. The cruiser aimed right for Hope. Its spotlight blazed, illuminating her black attire. The cherries on the SUV flashed. A short, earsplitting blare from the cruiser's siren ripped through the night air. The car closed with her recklessly. Brakes suddenly screeched.

"No!" I hissed.

Not even thinking anymore. My hand reached down and hauled up the item that had been jabbing into me. It was a full can of Diet Pepsi with a bulging, distorted top. I sprinted down the fence line toward Hope and the cop car.

"Don't move!" a stern voice on the vehicle's PA system snapped.

"No," I huffed, flying towards them. Eighty yards. Seventy.

Hope rose and slowly put her hands in the air.

Sixty yards.

The cop opened the door and emerged, a portly officer with a mustache. No weapon drawn, he began to step toward Hope.

I skidded to a stop about forty yards away and hurled the Diet Pepsi at the SUV.

Why did I watch it sail through the air? Why didn't I instantly turn and run? I don't know, but that fucking can nailed the driver-side back quarter panel of the cop's SUV. A metallic thud echoed and the drink burst open, spraying Diet Pepsi like a geyser.

The cop jumped, hollering and turning toward the spinning, spitting can. Then, he saw me. I roared, "Drink that, you fat chunk of shit!" Then, I skipped backward, cackling loudly at the officer and presenting both middle fingers.

Instantly, the cop jumped back into his car.

I spun, screaming, "Run, Panda! Run!" and I rocketed down the street.

The SUV peeled out. The cherries flashed and the siren blared.

I crossed the street at an angle and sprinted into Pinecrest, darting past the sign that was perched on an island at the entrance separating inbound from outbound traffic. I turned right in full view of my pursuer, crossing into the front yard of the first house on the corner and heading toward the street.