Jeff Strand - A Bad Day for Voodoo

I continued to wait.

You didn’t see a lot of tumbleweeds in Florida, so none blew through the empty street, but it would have been appropriate.

Still waiting.

Still waiting.

Still waiting.

At least the excruciating pain was keeping me from getting bored.

Where was he? Was he waiting for me to bleed to death so he could just swoop in and grab the suitcase? What a tacky approach. I simply couldn’t respect that. And if I was going to bleed to death, it was going to be within the next two or three hours, not the next two or three minutes, so Zeke had a long wait ahead.

Still waiting.

Repeat last sentence.

And then, finally, a taxi came around the corner. I assumed it was Zeke, but until he got closer.Okay, yeah, it was Zeke. He pulled up right next to me and then shut off the engine.

He very slowly got out of the car, closed the door, folded his arms in front of his chest, and nodded at the suitcase.

“You got the money?”

“Every penny.”

“That better not be filled with pennies.”

“It’s not.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“A friend.”

“Which friend?”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“Name him.”

“Bob.”

“Bob who?”

“Bob—” Don’t say Barker! Don’t say Barker! “—Anderson.” Bob Anderson was in a couple of my classes, and the chances of him giving me any money were the same as the chances that he’d give me a blood transfusion that drained him completely dry, but Zeke didn’t know any of my friends.

“What does Bob Anderson do for a living?”

“He’s sixteen. He works at Burger King.”

“Then where did he get ten thousand dollars?”

“His parents.”

“Why would his parents give him that much money to give to you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him for his cover story.”

“If his family is so rich, why is he working at Burger King?” “To build character.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Bob Anderson.”

“You said Bob Henderson before.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Are you trying to poke holes in my story? That’s fine. I understand that, but let’s get this done so we can all go home. I’m sure you have better things to do, and I’d kind of like to get to a hospital, so let’s quit wasting time and make this deal happen!” I was trying to sound like a tough guy. You’d have to get somebody else’s opinion on my level of success.

Zeke tilted his head. “Wow. I really did mess up your ear.” “Yep.”

“Or did you do it yourself? You scamming me? You cutting up your ear to make me think it’s voodoo?”

“Is this really the way you behave?” I asked. “I mean, is this the way you spend your nights, trying to drive people to the brink of madness? Am I on one of those hidden-camera shows? Are you trying to get millions of hits on YouTube? Seriously, dude, what’s your deal?”

He frowned. “I’m new to this.”

“Well, you suck at it.”

“Got any Red Bull?”

“No.”

“Okay. Set the suitcase down at your feet and then open it.”

I didn’t much want to do that.

Zeke smiled. “If you’ve got anything you want to confess before you open it, now’s the time to speak up.”

“The money’s there,” I said.

“Good. Then we’ll have no problems. If I see anything in there but cash, it’s all over for you. Set it down. Now!”

And then.. .I came up with a plan.

It was not a brilliant plan. You’re not going to think that I’m some sort of plan-making genius. But I realized that maybe, just maybe, I might make it out of this.

I quickly reviewed my plan for opportunities for disaster. There were lots of them. Still, I had to do something, and this was the best I could come up with. If I died, well, at least I died while making an effort not to die.

Zeke’s tone quickly changed from annoyingly suspicious to angry. “I said, put it down!”

I wiped a big smear of blood from my head onto my palm and showed it to him. “I’m bleeding out of my head because of you. You’re lucky I can even stand. Give me a break, okay?”

I leaned down, making a medium-sized show of the effort it took to crouch down. I set the suitcase on the cement and then began to wobble.

“Dizzy spell,” I said. “Hold on a second.”

“You don’t have a second. Open the suitcase.”

I coughed a few times, then wiped my forehead as if I were sweating and then said, “Oh God,” and collapsed.

“You faking it?” Zeke asked.

I didn’t answer.

“I know you’re faking. I’m not that stupid. If you’re faking, I’ll kill you.”

Because it had already been established that he was going to kill me if the suitcase didn’t have his cash, this threat did not encourage me to reveal my ruse.

“I can wake you up, no problem,” said Zeke. “You want me to twist this doll’s arm around a few times? That what you want?

How about just the wrist? How about a twist of the wrist and then I keep twisting until its entire arm looks like a Red Vine? You cool with that?”

I wasn’t cool with that at all, but I didn’t say anything. This was my only chance. (I told you it wasn’t a brilliant plan.)

Here’s the psychology I was hoping for: Zeke was not a bad guy at heart. He was no sweetheart. He wouldn’t be winning any Best Person Ever awards, but deep inside, he tried to be a decent human being. But he was struggling financially, and the opportunity presented to him by the voodoo doll along with his natural fury over the fact that we couldn’t pay our fare was too much for him to resist.

Yes, he was the kind of jerk who would make my ear explode. But that was from a distance. When he did that, he couldn’t see the results of his nonhumanitarian behavior. Could he really turn my arm into a mangled mess with me right there in front of him?

It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know the guy at all. Maybe he could turn my arm into a mangled mess with me right there in front of him. Maybe with a great big smile on his face. Maybe he’d buy some balloons afterward.

I remained motionless.

I heard the door to the cab open and then close again.

“I’ve got the doll in my hand,” Zeke informed me. Was that hesitation in his voice? Was he discovering the kindness in his heart?

“I’m going to twist it,” he reminded me.

I remained motionless.

“You’re not going to like it when I twist it.”

I suddenly felt as if I needed to hiccup. That was kind of weird, because I’d never felt as if I needed to hiccup before. I always just hiccupped. The body does odd things in moments of severe stress.

I resisted the urge to hiccup.

The other thing I hoped was that Zeke would decide that the injured teenager lying on the sidewalk did not pose a threat. I sure didn’t feel like a threat. If I were Zeke, and I saw me lying there looking the way I looked, I would’ve just strolled on over and grabbed the suitcase.

“I mean it,” said Zeke.

Oh yeah, he was totally hesitating. I had him exactly where I wanted him. I was the king of faking unconsciousness because of blood loss.

As I heard his footsteps, I silently summoned every ounce of strength I had. It wasn’t many ounces.

“You’re about to feel a lot of pain,” he told me.

And then I did.

But—j oy, joy, joy—it wasn’t because any body parts were going kablooey or detaching themselves. He was stepping on my hand. Hard. It hurt bad enough to make me wince and give away that I was faking, but not bad enough to keep me from grabbing the suitcase and bashing it into his knee.

He let out such a loud bellow that you would’ve thought half of the poor guy’s ear had exploded. I swung the suitcase back the other way, connecting with the same knee.