Meanwhile, Bananaman placed his ice cream sign against the outside brick wall of the small ice cream parlor. He looked at his watch and scratched his crotch. It was time for his lunch break. He didn't bother letting the store owner know he was leaving, he wasn't quite that considerate. Besides, it was his grandparents who owned the place. It wasn't like they'd fire him.

He made his way around the strip to his beat up old pinto and squished himself, still inside the banana suit, into the car. It smelled awful. He smelled awful. He still smelled like beer and pee from the party the night before, but he couldn't tell. He smelled that way so often, it was his signature scent.

Bananaman farted and started up the pinto, pulling away from the curb. The pinto didn't make it far before puttering to a stop in front of the old antique store. He grunted and gave the dashboard a pounding before swinging his door open and getting out of the car.

He slammed the door and flailed around, muttering curse words. He gave the front tire a kick, and slipped in a puddle, falling down at the curb. It was hard to get up in the banana suit. He lay there on his back like a helpless turtle, flailing his arms and legs, grunting and grumbling and cursing.