Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

“Can’t help it.” More pacing. “If I’m told to be somewhere important at a specific time, I’m there with an extra wristwatch and breathing exercises to enhance my cooperation. But then they do it to you again! Every fucking airport and doctor’s office teasing you along like strippers brushing your crotch with the back of their hand, because the back of the hand is the legal loophole. Probably learned that from airport security who pat you down that way so they can’t be accused of groping. There are meetings going on somewhere.”

“You might be getting worked up over nothing,” said Coleman. “For all we know, that could be the last fifteen-minute delay.”

“You’re probably right,” said Serge. “Let’s find a seat and relax near screaming infants.”

Two hours later. Serge sat near the gate with his head hanging back over the chair and his mouth open.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “They just added another fifteen minutes.”

“I have to kill myself.”

“Maybe another flight attendant grabbed some beers and jumped down the emergency chute.”

“Please strangle me.”

“You need to get your mind off it.”

“You’re right.” Serge jumped up and ran to the gate desk. “Excuse me? Could you tell me the true departure time for this flight?”

“It’s what’s on the screen.”

“But it’s changed eight times already.”

“Those were unforeseen circumstances.”

“Can you see if there are any other flights?”

“You’ll forfeit your fare.”

“Why?”

The gate attendant pointed at the departure board. “Your flight’s going to be here any minute.”

“You’re absolutely right. Any minute,” said Serge. “Like seven thirty-two tomorrow morning.”

She glared.

Serge leaned over the desk and pointed down at her computer keyboard. “Could you please check for another flight? We have important business in Miami.”

Another glare. She grudgingly addressed her computer.

Serge turned around. “Hey Coleman, come over here. You absolutely have to see this.”

“What is it?”

“Something I can’t get enough of.” Serge pointed over the top of the desk. “An employee with four-inch-long chartreuse fingernails in a job that requires lots of typing.” He looked up at the woman. “Better go for the five-inch nails, Lady Gaga. You’re about to fry that keyboard.”

Steam came out her ears. “I don’t think I care for your attitude.”

“Then my plan’s working.” Serge waved at the ceiling. “Fly me out of your life.”

Gritted teeth. “All flights are full.”

The departure board added fifteen minutes.

Serge stepped away from the desk and huddled with Coleman. “I’m going to get some entertainment value out of this.”

“What kind?”

He approached the closed boarding door. “Not only are airlines cutting back on services and charging for bags, but they’ve begun treating their most valued customers like schmucks. The perks have become laughable.”

“What kind of perks?”

“See that six-foot-long velvet cord separating two lines to get on the plane?”

“Yeah?”

“The one on the left is for their special first-class club. They’re right next to each other, but there’s no difference.”

“Except the one on the left has a red carpet,” said Coleman.

“It’s supposed to be a red carpet,” said Serge. “But it’s just a red doormat. See? It’s just a little rectangle with rubber weather stripping around the edge.”

“You’re right. It is a doormat.”

“But not just any doormat.” He gestured back at the desk. “In order to complete the charade, they guard that mat like the Shroud of Turin. I once saw this guy running late, and he rushed up with his boarding pass. But he unknowingly stepped on the Red Doormat of Total Ecstasy. There were no other people in line, but they still made him walk back around the cord to the other lane.”

Serge took a step sideways.

“That’s really weird,” said Coleman.

“A-hem!” The woman with the fingernails.

“Yes?” said Serge. “How may I help you?”

She looked down. “Your left foot is on the Star-Elite Club carpet.”

“Really? Thanks for letting me know… So anyway, Coleman-”

“Sir! You have to move your foot!”

Serge moved his foot. “This other time I saw airport maintenance guys fixing something in the ceiling, and they set up their ladder on the doormat, and the gate crew went completely ape-shit.” Serge reached out with his leg and set a toe on the doormat, then quickly pulled it back.

“Sir!”

He looked over. “Yes?”

She flared her nostrils.

Serge faced Coleman again. “They started yelling at the maintenance workers: ‘Move the ladder! Move the ladder!’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re about to board a flight!’ ‘Can’t they go around?’ ‘But it’s the Elite carpet!..’ ” He set a toe on the doormat and withdrew it.

“Sir!”

“Is there a problem?”

Teeth gnashed.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “She’s getting really pissed.”

“This is priceless.” His toe touched the carpet again.

“Mister!”

Coleman looked out the window. “Our plane just pulled up. They’re not adding another fifteen minutes.”

“We rock now.” Serge grabbed the handle of his suitcase and took a spot in the crowd.

Finally, their row was called. Serge walked around the correct side of the cord and handed his boarding pass to the woman with the nails. She tore off his stub with open hostility.

“Thanks.” Serge reached back and stomped his right foot on the doormat, then took off down the gangway.

Miami Morgue

The lieutenant burst through the lab doors. “What’s this nonsense you were babbling about on the phone?” He stopped to look around. “And what’s that god-awful smell?”

“It’s a morgue.”

“I mean more than usual.”

Forceps clanged into a pan. “Wanted to give you a heads-up because I know how sensitive you are to weird headlines.”

A deep sigh. “What now?”

“Take a look at this.” The medical examiner hunched over his work on the table. Dabs of menthol Vaseline under his nostrils.

The officer stepped closer. “The smell’s even worse!”

A giggle. “Fish tend to do that.”

The lieutenant studied the deceased on the steel table. “So what happened, pet detective? Someone murder a shark?”

“Remember the dead shark in the middle of Flagler Street from the TV news shows?”

“Which one? The guys keep throwing them around the city.”

“Tuesday’s shark.” The examiner pointed toward a clear, sealed evidence bag. “That came from its stomach… Help yourself to some Vaseline.”

The lieutenant dabbed his upper lip. “Looks like a mullet or something.”

The M.E. used a pen to lift something from a metal tray. “Wearing a Timex?”

“That’s an arm?”

“Most of one. I know it’s hard to tell between the regular decomposition and digestion.”

“Great. We got a shark attack.” The officer added more dabs. “Chamber of commerce will love this.”

“I don’t think it was an attack.”

“But you said it was in his stomach.”

“Postmortem.”

“The victim was already dead?”

“That’s my bet.”

“Okay, so he accidentally drowned somehow, and the shark came along later.”

“Doubtful.”

The lieutenant emitted a whine. “ Eeeeeeeee… It’s been a bad week. Can’t you just call it a shark attack?”

The M.E. emptied the evidence bag into a tray and pointed with his pen. “This along the mid-forearm is the shark’s bite line. I pulled these teeth out.”