D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

“I, ah… I was just angling for tickets to her show. I guess she doesn’t give away concert tickets to the volunteers, if she wants her relationship with Scunner Consulting to remain a secret. Thank you for your time, and the coffee.”

Back at home, Nick put a few coins in his mouth, trying not to think about where they might have been. He filled a large plastic bag with ice and, holding it against his jaw, put in a transmission to TouchItsSoft, the makers of Quick-E Backup Pro.

A woman with dangly, plastic earrings appeared over his transmitter. “Hello, this is TouchItsSoft,” she said. “How may I help you?” Her voice had the practiced quality of a foreigner who had studied to sound American.

“Yef,” Nick mumbled, “I’m Donald Canard.” TouchItsSoft had millions of customers, so there was virtually no chance of anyone knowing what Donald looked like. “I fink I gave fomeone my paffword by miftake.”

“I’m sorry?” the woman said. “I’m having trouble understanding you.”

“I juft had jaw furgery,” Nick muttered. “I waf in a bar fight wif Nick Wergild, and he broke my jaw. He’f one raging, macho hombre.”

“And you accidentally gave him your password?” the woman asked, bewildered.

“Juft change my paffword, pleaf.”

“No problem, we can change your password for you. Just tell me your original password, please.”

“My original paffword? Its mmmgghh.”

“What was that?” the woman asked, straining to sound patient.

“My paffword is mmmgghhh.”

“Why don’t I just look that up for you, sir?” the woman suggested, obviously tired of the conversation. The clacking of fingers tapping a keyboard. “Alright, your new password is ‘PenguinsAreDelicious.’ If you need anything else, feel free to call. After your jaw heals. Goodbye.”

He switched on his computer and logged on to TouchItsSoft’s website. Moments later, he had copies of every file on Donald’s computer. There were flight simulator games, newsfeed articles on aircraft, airport-themed pornography, and other related material. Finally, came across a hidden folder. Inside were files labeled “Hand to Mouth legal records,” “Renée’s credit reports,” “processing human flesh,” and more. Records from the restaurant, and information only Renée would have known. He copied all the files to his computer, as well as a folder of photos.

“So, Donald paid Gordon for information about the restaurant. Gordon told him about Renée and Clayton. Donald paid Clayton for Renée’s extra keys, broke into Renée’s apartment to look for dirt on the restaurant… She caught him snooping, so he killed her.” He laughed, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I’ve got you, you son of a bitch! I just need a little more proof before I turn you in.”

Nick’s clock radio woke him early the next day with a song called “Defenestration Fascination” by Sylvester P. Nettling. He was famous for his bluegrass interpretations of old disco songs. They were simple arrangements, just a ukulele, an ocarina, and Sylvester’s singing, which sounded like a drug-addled chipmunk with anger issues. He was big in Japan. Nick bolted upright and tossed the radio out the window. After a quick shower, he headed for Renée’s apartment.

Checking his rearview mirror, he changed lanes and pulled off the highway exit. A black van pulled off at the same time, just a few car lengths behind him. “It must be a security van,” he thought. “It has a MotoStoppa dish on the front.” The Schlock Products™ MotoStoppa3000 could short-circuit a car’s computer with a blast of microwave energy. This disabled the engine, but left the driver able to control the vehicle enough to bring it to a safe stop. It was a useful device if you needed to end a high-speed chase, clear your way through rush hour traffic, or catch up with the ice cream man.

Smoke poured from his air vents. All the warning lights lit up at once, then immediately burned out. Finally, the engine died. He pulled the car to the side of the road, gliding slowly to a stop.

He grabbed his laser stunner and jumped out of the car. “You’re not with the security patrol,” he called to the van. “They would have ordered me to pull over first. Or shot out my tires. Who are you guys? Is this about my student loans? Let me assure you, there’s no need to break my legs. I jog every morning, so my knees could go out as early as next Thursday.”

The van’s doors opened and two men stepped into the street. The first was a bloated chimp with a ponytail and a t-shirt featuring characters from a thirty-year-old comic book. The second was a tall, sallow worm who wore an orange and black jumpsuit. It was a replica of the uniform worn by the cast of the hit television show Lesbian Vampire Space Pirates. Nick aimed his laser stunner at the fat one and fired. Nothing.

The thin man giggled, pointing to the microwave dish bolted to the van. “It fries electronics, idiot.”

The fat one reached under his shirt, momentarily exposing his globulous, furry belly. He pulled a shockingly large revolver from his waistband, aiming it at Nick’s head. “However, this is fully operational. Stanley, shove the manhunter in the back of the van.”

“Hold on,” Nick said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather fight hand-to-hand?”

The fat man cocked his gun. “What are we, Amish?”

“Oh, I see. You’re afraid! I don’t blame you. I’m a black belt in Tong Sui , Bak Choi, and Dim Sum. ”

“Those are Chinese foods.”

“What’s your point?”

The men decided it was probably best to just ignore him. The skinny one, apparently Stanley, pulled Nick’s hands behind his back and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. He shoved Nick in the back of the van. They made a quick u-turn and sped down the highway, driving for what felt like hours.

The stench of fried circuit board drifted from Nick’s jacket pocket. His transmitter. With a groan, he realized that he had lost all of the data in its memory: clients’ contact information, notes on his cases, pornography, all gone.

He struggled and stretched until he could reach the handcuff key in his pocket. It didn’t fit. Catching a glimpse of the handcuffs, he saw that they were engraved with the logo of a Japanese security company. “Well, no wonder that didn’t work. The hole’s the wrong shape. And these cuffs probably require a key with an immobilizer chip, like a ‘hotwire-proof’ car or a little girl’s diary.”

At last, the van squealed to a stop. The fat one grabbed Nick by the arm and yanked him out of the van. They were standing in the parking lot of a large, dilapidated building. Other than the van, the lot was empty. “An abandoned warehouse?” Nick laughed. “What happens now? You give me a pair of cement shoes and make me sleep with the fishes?”

“Quiet, jackass,” the fat one growled.

Stanley grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “It’s my turn with the gun, Eric.”

“I bought it!” he protested.

“With our money,” said Stanley.

“Fine, whatever. I don’t care.” Eric handed Stanley the gun. Stanley prodded Nick in the back with his weapon, pushing him up a short flight of stairs and through a small door. The door opened to an immense room, apparently the warehouse’s loading dock.

The floor was cracked cement covered in oily stains and ancient chewing gum. In one corner of the room sat an immense, complicated-looking array of computers, a collection of printers, a Tesla coil, and several large boxes that didn’t appear to do anything but flash their lights and beep. On the far side of the warehouse lurked an immense, wooden contraption, apparently some sort of catapult. It had a large, canvas sling on one end and a gigantic, iron counterweight on the other. It looked large enough to throw a car.