Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

“Why not do both?”

“Want to save one for dessert. It’s like when fortune shined on me as a little kid and I found myself with two Reese’s peanut butter cups. I’d always hide one for later to make the magic last, but they always melted in my underwear.”

“That still happens to me.”

“… My… mother… said… to… pick… the… very… best… motherfucker… and… you… are… it!… Coleman, give me a hand with the dirtbag.”

After a forced gunpoint march, the would-be robber was flung down on cold cement. Serge flicked the toggle on his plastic box. The garage door lurched and cranked back down behind them.

“Coleman, hit that light switch on the wall.”

The hostage squinted in sudden brightness. Then puzzlement at the ensuing flurry of activity.

Serge dragged a ladder to the center of the garage, then climbed up with pliers and metal snippers. He stretched a tape measure along the lifting chain of the garage opener’s motor. Bending and cutting. Twisted links of broken chain bounced on the floor. He grabbed kite string in his teeth and flicked open a pocket knife…

Ten minutes later, Serge folded the ladder against a wall. He placed the broom on a workbench, sawed off the business end and carved a lengthwise groove down the shaft.

“Coleman, kill that light.”

In darkness, Serge raised the door again. He walked to the garage’s threshold, reached up and tore weather stripping off the bottom edge, then generously applied a ribbon of superglue. The truncated broom went in place, reinforced with duct tape. He knelt on the ground, unscrewing the back of his custom transmitter.

Coleman felt inside his other pocket and pulled out something round and tan. He tasted it. “What are you doing now?”

“Removing the nine-volt battery so I can wire my alternate power source.” He stood with the resulting configuration, left the garage and placed the automatic opener in the driveway. “I need your help. Grab that rope.”

Coleman threw a pebble over his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”

“After I finish these knots, pull as hard as you can…”

BOSTON

Patrick McKenna arrived for work, punctual as always. He got off the elevator. All the cubicle people stood and began clapping.

“What the heck?” Patrick went in his office and sat down at the computer.

A colleague opened the door and ran in. “Turn on the TV!”

“What’s happening?”

“Just turn it on!” He hit the remote.

“ … It was an emotional homecoming after FBI agents raided a remote farmhouse in Essex County and rescued a college freshman who’d been held hostage for more than a week. The big break came when a local satellite imaging company… ”

A commotion back in the doorway. His boss rushed in, followed by three TV crews jockeying for position. Patrick jumped up.

The boss threw an arm around his shoulders. “Here’s your hero!”

Blinding camera lights. Patrick shielded his eyes. “Get them out of here!”

“Smile,” his boss whispered sideways. “It’s great publicity for the firm.”

“I don’t want publicity.”

A thrusted microphone. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

FORT MYERS

Shafts of light hit the empty street.

“Sun’s rising,” said Serge. “We have to work fast.” He threw another rope to Coleman. “Pull!”

Moments later, they were done. Serge stood proudly before another enigmatic scene.

Their guest lay on his back, lashed into precise position with a spiderweb of thick rope stretching his limbs to the aching point and knotted around open wall studs and various heavy objects. His body was inside the garage, head resting on the ground outside, just over the threshold, staring up at the edge of the open automatic door.

Serge chugged a coffee thermos, then grinned gleefully and rubbed his palms together. “This is usually the part where I get a thousand questions! But I pride myself on being the perfect host and anticipate them all. Let’s get to it!”

Serge held a plastic box to the captive’s face. “Dig! RadioShack! I rigged my own universal garage door opener, conveniently tuned to this house’s frequency.” He reached up and carefully ran a finger along ultra-sharp metal. “Also sawed a horizontal groove in the broomstick attached to the bottom of the door. Now that’s patience! No need to thank me. Then I took the liberty of applying Kwik Dry superglue the entire length of the notch and inserting a bunch of razor blades I got at the drugstore.”

Coleman picked his nose. “Wondered what you were going to do with those.”

Serge squatted next to the head. “By your eyes I can tell you’ve guessed it. That’s right: Serge’s Garage-Door Guillotine! Patent pending.”

Fierce wiggling and gag-muffled screams.

“Better conserve energy because there’s a lot of work ahead if you want to make it out of here.” Serge looked back at the growing dawn light. “You’ll have at least an hour to free yourself.” Serge smiled again and tapped the man’s terrified cheeks. “Just joking. I wouldn’t put you through that kind of inconvenience. I made sure you can’t get loose… Although I could be bluffing. You’ve probably noticed I’m a different kind of cat. Maybe I made one of the knots a slip knot. Ain’t this a fun riot! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. More coffee for everyone!”

“But, Serge,” said Coleman, “garage doors come down pretty slow. It’ll just cut him a little. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not very impressed by your guillotine.”

“That’s the whole beauty.” Serge walked to the middle of the garage and pointed up at the motor mounted to the ceiling. “This is a newer model I wasn’t familiar with, so it took a bit of extra analysis, but I finally cracked the code. The special chain here is key, with sprocket holes that go around the main gear.” He kept pointing above as he walked forward. “And here’s the end of the chain, which reaches the gear when the door gets near the bottom. Notice how I’ve removed a section of metal links and tied the other two ends together with kite string. Then I used my pocket knife to slice partially through the twine.” Serge spread his arms upward like a preacher. “And there you have it!”

Coleman fired a jay. “Have what?”

“When activated by my remote control, the chain lowers the door halfway, until it reaches the string, which snaps because the load’s too heavy, and the door free-falls under its own weight.”

“Is that enough to chop his head off?”

“Of course not. What is it with you always asking about chopping heads off?”

He shrugged. “Never seen it done.”

“Razor blades aren’t that long, but more than enough to do a number on major blood vessels, like the jugular and carotid, just to name a couple.” Then, looking down: “Will you stop trying to scream? That’s so impolite when someone’s attempting to have a conversation.”

Serge dragged garbage cans and a lawn mower into the driveway- “Blocking views from the street, in case you were curious.”

“When do we get to watch?” asked Coleman.

“We won’t be here.”

“Knew you were going to say that.” Coleman sighed and took a hit. “I always wait bored while you do your hobbies, but then you don’t let me see the good stuff.”

“Coleman, it’s going to get ridiculously bloody.” He shivered at the image. “Not something a normal person would enjoy.”

“But how will it happen if we’re not here?”

“The crowning cherry!” Serge held up a shiny, square plate with a lacquered surface encasing loops of embedded metal strips. “My alternative power source.”