Theme: fictionalize your first encounter with another GMGM author.
Beads of sweat dripped down my temples as I performed the most delicate part of the job. Though my heart was pounding, my hands managed to hold steady as I used my diamond-edged blade to cut a 7 inch diameter hole in the glass encasing the holy grail of music artifacts: Michael Jackson’s glove. The glove. Mystics have spoken of its power for years. The word on the street was that the person who wore the glove would inherit MJ’s moves, charisma, and his magic. I was there to find out for sure.
The hole was cut. Now there was nothing that could come between me and the moonwalk. That’s when everything went dark. No, not dark… blonde. My vision was suddenly obscured by flaxen ringlets gently swaying before my eyes. I stepped back to get a grasp of what was happening. There she was, suspended by a cable hanging from the second floor balcony, dressed in a black jumpsuit that seemed to be painted on. With ninja-like reflexes, she thrust her hand in the case, grabbed the glove, and turned to me with a raised eyebrow and smirk I would later become quite familiar with.
“Thanks for the help. Shamon, bitch.”
Like friggin’ Jack be Nimble, she climbed up her cable with ease, glided to the tiled ground of the second floor and was off like a flash. It took precious seconds to wade through my befuddled haze before I snapped into action. I sprinted to the emergency staircase. I took a gamble and guessed she was headed towards the roof (to likely hop into a super cool helicopter or repel down the building onto a sexy motorcycle and ride off like a bad ass – ugh).
As I struggled up the staircase, I wished I had spent a little more time on that StairMaster at the gym. I busted through the second floor door just in time to see her get into the elevator. The arrow pointing up was illuminated. I was right. She was heading toward the roof. She saw me as the doors slowly started to close.
“Hey, why don’t you make like MJ and Beat It.”
Who is this girl, my soul mate?
The elevator doors shut. Luckily, I knew the blueprint and every detail of this building, down to the exact time it takes for the elevator to reach the roof (any good heist needs to be preceded by diligent research). I had 22 seconds to beat her there. I ran to the window on the south side of the building where I slid out onto the fire escape. I had 35 rungs to climb, but you know I took those bitches two at a time. I reached the roof, did a tumble-and-roll towards the access entrance (completely unnecessary but likely the coolest thing I’ve ever done), and stood four feet in front of the grey industrial doors. I heard the elevator ding followed by her strong-yet-feminine footsteps. She opened the door, but seemed completely unsurprised to find me standing there.
“All right, over hand it – err, I mean, hand it over.” Damn it.
“Don’t you want to know if it works, first?” she asked. She slid the glove on as I waited with bated breath. At first she looked confused, but then fell into a dance routine that would make Bruno Mars weep with envy. She effortlessly spun, crotch-grabbed, Hee-Hee’ed, and finished with the deepest Smooth Criminal lean ever recorded in all of history. With one final, high pitched “Oooo!” that deafened dogs in a four block radius, she gingerly removed the glove and tucked it into her spy-belt. “Well, it looks like my Motor-Copter got jacked. If it were here I would jump on and fly into my secret lair-loft.”
“Ughhh, so cool.” I said this out loud. Double damn it.
“I don’t want to fight you for this glove, but I will if that’s what it comes to.”
My shoulders slumped in defeat. “No. I wanted to believe I could be the next Michael Jackson, only curvy and a lady. I realize now that I would only Liz Lemon the whole thing.”
“Oh my God, I love 30 Rock!” she squealed genuinely.
“Me, too!” Our eyes locked. We both smiled shyly. I blinked and then hardened.
“Hey! Just because we have similar tastes doesn’t mean I forgive you for ruining a heist I planned for months.” I demanded.
“I would feel bad about this, but you made it so easy.” She flipped her hair in perfect time.
“But!” I started to retort, only to be interrupted by a powerful wind and a blinding light. She released wings from her jumpsuit and stepped onto the ledge.
“Sorry, this is my cue. My sky turbines have kicked in. It’s time for me to sail off with a perfectly choreographed flight.” She spread her arms and leapt into the night. As she sailed away, she called to me, “I’ll Facebook you!”