“Wait,” asked Nigel. “Are you saying you actually know where there’s a gigantic bees’ nest?”
The Apalachicola
Dry leaves crunched as the tires of a silver sports car rolled slowly along the edge of a forest.
“Here we are,” said Serge. “Your final Route 66 stop of the day. We’re getting near the end of this episode, and you know what that means? . . . Not even a guess? I’ll tell you! The climax!”
Serge grabbed some typed pages from the glove compartment. “I can’t thank you enough for being so gracious back at the house and signing a few forms. Sorry, the lawyers. These are simply required to give Aunt May’s relatives power of attorney over your bank accounts in the unlikely event you become incapacitated.” He flipped pages to make sure every signature line was filled. “Yep, all in order. That’s the last step before we begin the big contest. And who, might you ask, are the lucky contestants? Only you! Isn’t that great? Significantly increases your chances. So let’s get on with the show and meet today’s judging panel, which is me!”
Preston remained still.
“What? Overcome with emotion? That’s normal. Let me give you a hand.” Serge walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Preston’s head slowly turned as movement began returning to his legs.
“Perfect timing: The drug is starting to wear off.” Serge helped the young man to his feet. “It has a fast taper, and you should be feeling like new in no time. The ability to speak is the last to return, so don’t sweat that part.”
Serge guided Preston through baby steps, then grabbed him by the shoulders and carefully leaned him against the front bumper. “Good, you didn’t fall over. Now don’t go anywhere.”
The lid of the trunk popped and Serge unloaded his gear. He slammed it closed and looked toward the front of the car. Nobody there.
Serge scanned the forest and spotted the captive trudging away off balance like a primitive robot. He quickly caught up to Preston. “No, no, no, the contest is over there.” Preston whimpered as he was turned around and marched back.
“Now have a seat,” said Serge.
Preston defied him by stiffening his legs the best he could.
“I insist.” Serge kicked out his feet, and Preston fell in a bed of wet leaves.
The forest filled with the sound of a mallet pounding tent stakes. Thick braided rope went around the hostage’s wrists and ankles. Serge tied the last knot in a clove hitch, leaving Preston spread-eagle on his back.
“Did you realize chicks waste this stuff by making magazine baskets?” Serge connected wires and cables. “And here’s another minefield that women plant for us. You know how they’re always nagging us to wash our hands? And then you comply and she screams, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ You tell her you’re getting dirt off your hands like she wanted, and she yells, ‘You’re using the decorative soap!’ And I say, ‘It’s soap.’ And she grabs this starfish out of my hands. ‘You ruined it!’ ‘What am I supposed to use?’ ‘Soap!’ So I start reaching for other bars. ‘No, not the frog! . . . Not the flower! . . . Not the heart! . . . Not the strawberry! . . . Not the cupcake!’ Then I finally see an actual bar of soap. She says, ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s a decorative polished quartz shaped like a bar of soap.’” He grabbed the posthole digger. “Relationships are all about power.”
Serge finished digging his hole and made a couple quick trips to retrieve the rest of his gear from the car. He cheerfully narrated while finishing the assembly. It was the same explanation as he had given Willard and Jasper. With one exception.
Serge held a final item in front of Preston’s face. The captive thrashed with wild eyes.
“Open your mouth.”
Preston shook his head and gritted his teeth.
“Don’t be scared,” said Serge. “Most people are freaked out by this, but that’s mainly because they’re already crapping their britches about having to get a root canal. This is just an oval of hard rubber that dentists use to keep a patient’s jaw sufficiently wide so they have room to work and don’t make costly errors that could affect your smile. It’s a safety device. Now open.”
Teeth clenched tighter.
“Have it your way.” Serge grabbed the hammer and lightly tapped the middle of Preston’s lips, drawing a trickle of blood as they cut into his teeth. “That was just a test. The next one will affect your smile . . . Okay, you leave me no choice.” The hammer rose in the air.
The mouth sprang open.
“I knew you were reasonable.” Serge fit the jaw-spreader snugly in place. “It’s a little uncomfortable at first because your mouth is propped so wide you can’t open it any more to spit the thing out. But that’s just another safety feature.”
Large eyes stared up from the forest floor in the terror of not knowing.
“I’ll bet you want to know!” Serge grabbed his laptop and sat cross-legged next to Preston. “But first there’s something I want to know. How can a young, healthy person take complete advantage of an infirm senior citizen? The only conceivable conclusion is that certain people view anyone more vulnerable than them as livestock . . . I know, I know, it’s hard to wrap your head around that conceit, and yet the syndrome is almost an epidemic in our culture. It was impossible for me to fathom as well, until I had an epiphany! You know what made me finally figure it all out? Colonoscopies and psychopaths. It’s so obvious that I feel stupid not making the connection earlier. Ever meet a psychopath?” Serge shook with the creeps as he tapped the computer’s keyboard. “I never, ever want to! But I saw this documentary that said I’ve probably already rubbed shoulders with them many times. When you say ‘psychopath,’ most people think of Manson or Son of Sam, but the vast majority aren’t criminals. Many are actually high-functioning success stories. For example, take a doctor who’s a psychopath. It might give him a God complex and fearless, interpersonal detachment to perform world-class brain surgery with as little nervousness as if he were clipping his fingernails. Or a hedge-fund trader, corporate raider, tobacco lobbyist, or CEO who uses overseas factories so deplorable they’re forced to fence in the rooftops because workers would rather jump than make another fucking game box.” Serge dramatically held an index finger over the return key. “Ready for your contest?”
He pressed it. The hostage’s eyes darted erratically as the ground beneath him began to hum.
“Anyway, the documentary said that one or two percent of the total population are psychopaths. Apparently the gold standard of figuring out which neighbors to keep an eye on is something called the Hare PCL-R test. I took it online, and I got a great score! Then I found out that a great score is not good. Maybe I should have studied harder. Oh well, ever heard of waterboarding? Your contest today is a kooky new variation I dreamed up that I like to call ‘earthworm boarding.’” Serge clapped his hands like they do in kindergarten. “Same principle, except all my procedures have a bonus round that mercifully provides the possibility of escape. So obviously the psychopath test I took was flawed . . .”