D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

Nick met Melinda at a charity auction in Seattle. A security firm was auctioning off the estate of a serial killer and donating the proceeds to his victims’ families. Unfortunately, most of the killer’s possessions were vending machine toys, old romance novels, and eerily realistic ceramic clowns. To encourage bidding, the auctioneer offered to personally deliver each item, either to the winner’s home or to the local dump.

Nick arrived at the auction, lit a cigarette, and cornered a waiter. “Excuse me. Do you see that woman sitting by herself, at the table in the corner? I would like to buy her a drink.”

“It’s an open bar, sir,” the waiter replied. “Drinks are free.”

“In that case, send her twelve.” He waited for the drinks to be delivered and then strolled over to Melinda’s table. “So, are you drunk enough to think I’m cute, or should I come back in an hour?”

“What?”

“Nothing. My name is Nick Wergild, and I’m a billionaire with a heart condition.”

They were soon engaged. Mr. Fairbanks sent a video mail, saying that he would pay for the wedding. It would be an expensive ceremony, with limo service for all the guests, a live orchestra and, at Nick’s request, an ice sculpture of a grizzly bear playing the banjo. Melinda insisted that the wedding be held in Billings, Montana, where she had been raised. Her entire family would be attending, save for her sister, who was out of the country, and an uncle who thought there might be something good on TV that day.

Nick was in the men’s room, changing into his tuxedo, when Fairbanks arrived. As Nick had requested, the limo driver announced his arrival with two sharp blasts of his horn. Hurriedly, Nick pulled on his jacket and rushed outside, meeting Fairbanks in the church’s small, gravel parking lot.

“So, Fairbanks, we meet at last.”

“Nicholas, my boy, we’re about to be family! Please, call me ‘Sir.’”

“Actually, that’s the problem. I’m not getting married at all. This was just a ploy to bring you out of hiding.” Nick reached into his jacket and drew his laser stunner, aiming the black, metal tube at Fairbanks’ head. “A lot of people are dead because of you, people whose families have waited a long time for justice. Also, there’s a reward and I could really use the cash. Turn around and put your hands on your head. You’re coming with me.”

“My god,” Fairbanks moaned. “You’re leaving my daughter at the altar? She’ll be heartbroken! Or she would have been, if she weren’t marrying you for your money. Of course, if you’re really a manhunter, you don’t have any… But still, I imagine she’ll be disappointed. Probably. I suppose.”

“Forget about her,” Nick said, locking Fairbanks in handcuffs. “Get in the car. I have to take you back to Vancouver to get my reward.”

“Canada?” Fairbanks gasped. “Can’t you just shoot me?”

“Oh, god, no. The good Vancouver, in Washington.” Nick shoved his prisoner into the rental car and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Get comfortable. It’s going to be one hell of a long drive.”

“Can I listen to the radio?”

“No. Be quiet or I’ll make you ride in the trunk.”

Nick took a moment to punch in an address into his navigation system before continuing on his way. After taxes were eliminated, the roads became privately owned. No one wanted to drive on roads full of toll booths so, instead, most roads were funded by advertising. The ad companies soon lined the nation’s highways with twelve-foot-high, flashing billboards. If you didn’t know exactly where you were headed, it was easy to get lost. Billboards didn’t make very good landmarks. In just a few hours, what was once a billboard for “Cannabliss Cigarettes” could become a billboard for “Holy Spirit Church, Inc.”

After an hour of driving, Nick found himself in Beaver Creek. He pulled into a rest stop, parking in the grass next to the restrooms. “Come on,” he said, “I have to pollute the groundwater.”

“I don’t,” Fairbanks snapped. “Sorry about that. I know how you girls like to go to the bathroom in groups.”

“Well, that was hurtful. However, I can’t leave you sitting in here alone. This isn’t a security patrol car; you can open the back doors from the inside. That’s why I’ve been driving ninety miles an hour all this time, to keep you from opening the door and jumping. Well that, and because it’s fun. If you drive fast enough, the blood rushes to the back of your brain and you see the strangest things…”

Nick dragged his prisoner into the restroom, handcuffing him to a pipe hanging from the ceiling. He stepped into a stall and sighed, exhausted. The restroom hadn’t been cleaned since the early Mesozoic Era. Thousands of travelers had passed through, leaving behind various smells, stains, and bodily fluids. Just above the toilet paper dispenser, someone with a red marker and shaky handwriting had written “Are you paranoid, or is that just what they want you to think?”

He read graffiti for a while, chuckling at the dirty limericks. Suddenly, filthy, brown water seeped under the stall. Opening the door, he found that the water pipe was broken and Fairbanks was gone.

“Oh, holy hell.”

He rushed outside just in time to see Fairbanks dash across the highway, artfully dodging speeding cars. Nick chased after him, holding traffic at bay with his badge and laser stunner. Horns blaring, motorists greeted him with obscene gestures and hurled fast food containers.

Fairbanks ducked into a large, Victorian house. The building had crimson lights hanging from the porch and a flashing neon sign identifying it as “Aphrodite’s Temple,” a brothel. By the time Nick made it inside, Fairbanks had vanished.

The walls of Aphrodite’s Temple were dark wood engraved with scenes from the Kama Sutra . The floors were marble tile covered with shaggy, burgundy rugs. An ornate chandelier swayed gently; apparently some guests upstairs were shaking the floor. Near the door, a video screen on the wall was playing a documentary on the history of the brothel.

“…since the days of government, when prostitution was illegal. However, the women of Aphrodite’s Temple were able to get around the law. Customers were given sex for free, but charged three hundred dollars to leave without cuddling.”

The front hall was an immense, two-story passageway with a desk at the far end manned by an AutoGreeter. The Schlock Products™ AutoGreeter was a low-end variety of mechanical receptionist. The top half of the machine looked like a well-dressed, young woman, but the bottom half resembled an abstract sculpture thrown together from surgical tubing, transistors, and old air conditioner parts. An AutoGreeter was supposed to be capable of the same variety of facial expressions as a real human, but this one could only manage two: “smiling” and “mild stroke.”

“Hello,” the android chirped, “and welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple! May I show you our menu? We have very pretty girls!”

“No thanks,” he said, scanning the room. “I’m just looking for someone. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple!” the android repeated. “May I show you our menu? We have very handsome boys!”

“I’m looking for a man in handcuffs,” Nick explained, annoyed. “Did you see which way he went?”

“Handcuffs are on sale in our gift shop! Welcome to Aphrodite’s Temple! Would you like to see our menu? We have boys that look like pretty girls!”

Nick stormed past the malfunctioning machine. The hallway ended in double doors. Pushing his way through, he found himself in a small kitchen. A large, steaming roast was sitting atop a doily-covered counter. A plump, white-haired woman in a floral print apron was pulling a pie from an oven. Needless to say, he was stunned. It was like finding a Norman Rockwell painting hanging in an outhouse.