The Great Oakland Bear Heist
Time Away From the Lotus Position
Red-eyed and with a terminal case of the munchies, Damon found himself in a corner booth at the Polar Bear Burger Bar. Leaning in toward Greasy Gene and Crazy Doug, the smell of half-cooked burgers and ancient fryer grease hung heavy in their beards. Damon scratched out a rough plan on a used napkin, the vivid blue ballpoint streaking through a grease stain, mapping out their screwball endeavor.
“Doug,” he said, pointing at the drawn truck on the napkin, “We need your pickup, the old F-150.” Doug, his bushy eyebrows arched in suspicion, nodded slowly, his wary eyes scanning the sketch, the beginnings of a lunatic grin creeping up on his face.
Gene, scratching at his unshaven jowls, hunched over the table, eyes wide. He chewed on his Burger, grease dripping down his chin, his hand steady. “You're nuts, Damon," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face, "Absolutely bat-shit crazy. I'm in."
The PolarBurger was a wretched hive of cholesterol and lost souls, a culinary apocalypse of trans fats, where hope came to be deep-fried and served with a side of regret. Amid this sorry spectacle stood a silent sentinel - a 10-foot-tall Polar Bear.
The bear, an apex arctic predator, was trapped in a glass box, its radiant white fur now dull and yellowed. Its sharp claws, once instruments of death, were reduced to mere relics of a forgotten wilderness. The bear should've been tearing apart seals and swimming under the Northern Lights. Instead, it was caged in a sideshow saturated in the stake scent of frying oil, looking as out of place as a nun at a gangbang.
There, scotch-taped to its transparent prison, a yellowed news clipping spelled out the circus act that led to the big bear's incarceration. Sam Burks, the alleged kingpin of this fast-food empire, had, in a fit of millionaire madness, decided that hunting an Arctic predator was the proper antidote to his midlife crisis.
Alas, in an epic showdown reminiscent of David and Goliath—if David was high on peyote and Goliath had a penchant for frozen fish—Burks's finger had frozen on the trigger, only to be saved by his Eskimo guide who brought the beast down just 100 feet short of making them both hamburger.
Their plan was simple. Or as simple as any plan could be when conceived in a state of chemical enlightenment. Using Doug's beat-up F-150—more Frankenstein than Ford—they'd bust the bear out, like breaking Elvis out of Graceland.
As they hunkered in the dim light of a 4 a.m. East Oakland alley. Damon was twitchy. "What the holy fuck are we doing? This a felony, man."
Casting the crazy eyeball at Damon and Greasy Gene, Doug cackled, “Oh well, what the hell!” and ran for his truck. He gunned the engine, popped the clutch, and bounced backward over the curb. The glass shattered. The bear, kneecapped by the bumper, pancaked onto the truck bed. Flying hands secured a tarp with ratchet straps. The bear's hairy mangle legs hung like spectral warning flags from the back of the truck.
Then it was pedal to the metal and a straight shot to Berkeley and the Family Frog Commune. Damon, Greasy Gene, and their colossal Arctic cargo struggled and grunted through the front door. They made a surreal entrance.
Amid the post-coven fallout, Koe, Nephy, Leslie, and Judy emerged from a tapestry of dreams, their glassy eyes meeting the ferocious gaze of a 12-foot-tall crippled Polar Bear.
"An avatar of our inner savage goddess," Koe murmured, her dreadlocks dancing with realization.
Nephy's eclectic eyes sparkled, "She’s a perfect polar tarot card!"
Leslie scribbled furiously in her journal, musing over metaphors of rebellion.
After exhaling a smoky sermon, Judy laughed, "Better than the ceramic gnome Damon brought last time.""
Laughter filled the room, a chorus bathing their totem bear, an unwitting deity in a hazy hippy sanctuary.
Together, they celebrated. A moment frozen in amber, bearing witness to the liberty and lunacy of Berkeley.