Jeff Strand: Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

The second book in the Andrew Mayhem series, 2003

SOMETIMES you wake up in the morning and you just know it’s going to be the kind of day where you end up tied to a chair in a filthy garage while a pair of tooth-deprived lunatics torment you with a chainsaw. So as I struggled against the ropes, I can’t say I was all that surprised.

This was actually my second time being tied to a chair and threatened with a cutting instrument, which I think is pretty impressive for a guy in his early thirties. Last time I had a burlap sack over my head, and to be honest I really would have appreciated one this time around. I mean, I know it’s what’s inside that counts, but these guys were seriously ugly. And their combined breath could probably be used as a Drano substitute.

The larger lunatic, whose tee shirt was decorated in a fashionable tobacco stain motif, sighed with annoyance as the smaller lunatic gave the chainsaw cord yet another tug. They’d been trying to start it for about five minutes. “Maybe it needs gas,” he suggested.

“I told you, it’s got gas!” his partner snapped.

“Then tug harder.”

“I’m tuggin’ as hard as I can!”

“Here, give it to me,” the lunatic offered, extending his hand.

“You keep your nasty hands off my chainsaw!”

“Then start it!”

“I’m tryin’!”

I guess it reflects poorly on me that I allowed myself to be kidnapped by these gentlemen, but I didn’t get much sleep the night before. I’d been relegated to the couch for breaking the living room lamp. Actually, I didn’t break it, my son Kyle did, but it was while playing basketball in the house, a rule that I was too busy watching television to enforce. Helen was less upset about the lamp than the fact that I encouraged both of our children to lie about the cause of its destruction. I really don’t know what made me think a seven-year-old and a nine-year-old could carry off the ruse (which involved a stray Doberman), but it earned me a sleepless night on the Fold-Out Bed of Misery.

So, anyway, I was pretty much out of it when I stepped out of the house that morning. One chloroform-soaked rag to the mouth later, I awoke to find myself with my hands, feet, and torso tied to a chair in a filthy garage while a pair of tooth-deprived lunatics tormented me with a chainsaw.

“Try this,” said the larger lunatic. “Put it on the ground and brace it with your feet, then yank the cord with both hands.”

“Maybe you should grease the pistons,” I suggested.

“You shut the hell up! Nobody asked you to say anything about greasing any goddamn pistons!” Large Looney was shaking with rage, his mighty beer gut wobbling to and fro like the waves on a beautiful moonlit Caribbean beach.

Small Looney set the chainsaw on the cement floor. “Why don’t you read him the statement?”

“Because, you frickin’ little moron, we agreed to cut off his arms first to get his attention! That’s why I need you to start that worthless chainsaw! You’re making us look like a couple of idiots! That’s how Andrew Mayhem is gonna die, thinking we’re a couple of idiots! Real nice. That’s just super. Makes my day.”

“Actually, I was thinking that you were never Boy Scouts,” I said, holding up my free hands.

Okay, no, I didn’t really say that. Despite their chainsaw-starting inadequacies, these two maniacs knew how to tie a darn good knot. I was struggling as much as I could, but it didn’t appear that I’d get to use my clever Boy Scout comment any time soon. As sweat dripped into my eyes, I hoped I’d at least be able to say something wittier than “AAAHHHH!!! MY ARMS, MY ARMS!!! AAAHHHH!”

Small Looney placed both of his feet on the chainsaw, gripped the cord tightly, gave it a good tug, said an extraordinarily bad word, and landed solidly on his butt. Large Looney was too furious to recognize an example of outright hilarity when he saw it, and proceeded to kick his partner in the side.

He snatched up the chainsaw and tugged on the cord. The motor roared to life, and I found myself making unheroic, borderline feminine noises as he walked toward me. I continued to struggle against the ropes, suddenly realizing that I could turn my left wrist a little further than before. This information still left me totally screwed, but you’ve got to appreciate the tiny victories in life.

He positioned the chainsaw blade inches above my left shoulder, and then said something very dramatic that I couldn’t hear over the motor.

“What?” I asked.

He repeated it, louder, but I still couldn’t hear him. Though I’m pretty good at reading lips, enunciation was not one of his stronger skills, nor was keeping his personal saliva contained within his mouth.

Large Looney shook his head with frustration. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe that he was so sensationally, spectacularly, stupendously stupid that he’d shut off the chainsaw in order to make himself heard. He wasn’t and didn’t. He lowered the blade toward my shoulder.

The roar of the chainsaw abruptly turned into the sputter of a dying chainsaw, followed immediately by the silence of a dead chainsaw. Large Looney stared at it for a long moment, and then touched the blade to my shoulder anyway. Not much happened.

Large Looney screamed out a rather confusing variation on the f-word, and then flung the chainsaw across the garage and against the wall. “You idiot!” shouted his partner, rushing over to retrieve it. “Maggie’s gonna have my butt if I don’t get the firewood cut tonight!”

“Who the hell cuts firewood in Florida?” Large Looney demanded.

“It’s December!”

“It’s seventy degrees out!”

“Maggie likes a warm house!”

“Maggie’s a fat cow!”

“What does that have to do with liking a warm house? Why are you always saying things that have nothing to do with what we’re talking about? You’re always doing that! Always, always, always! I oughta chainsaw your face.”

I realized that I could rotate my left wrist even more. If they continued arguing for the next three or four hours, I’d be home free.

Large Looney closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “We need to focus,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Let’s just collect our thoughts and reflect upon our purpose. We’re not here to fight with each other; we’re here to kill him. So let’s do it.”

He walked over to a shelf and picked up a very large drill. I’m not really a drill expert, but this one looked more than sufficient to create a hole in my head. I hoped it would go the chainsaw route and refuse to start, but one quick push of a button and the bit began whirring in a menacing, your-skull-is-toast kind of way.

I repeated the variation on the f-word, which actually made perfect sense in a mindset of pure terror. And somehow I’d managed to contort my wrist into a position where I couldn’t move it anymore. My morale was not high.

Small Looney laughed, picked up the chainsaw, and walked over to join his buddy.

“Okay, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said, as Large Looney brought the drill slowly toward my face. He obviously appreciated the fine art of suspense.

“What about the statement?” asked Small Looney.

“Forget the statement. Let’s just kill him.”

“No, no,” I said. “I’m terribly curious about the statement. If you went to all the trouble to write one up, it seems like a waste to-”