Nuclear Jellyfish

MINUTES LATER

The Javelin parked at the front porch, and the husband was forced into the house at gunpoint.

The man clenched his eyes shut. “I can’t look.” Serge jabbed him in the back. “Look!”

The man opened his eyes to a slit. Thoughts of dread turned to puzzlement. Eyelids went up the rest of the way. No trace of his wife, no expected blood trails, not the least sign of a struggle. In fact, the whole house looked in perfect order. The only thing out of place were two brand-name shopping bags on the coffee table. Hardware and toy store. “What’s going on?”

Serge shoved him into the middle of the room. “I didn’t do your wife.”

“Oh, so this was a ripoff … Well, that’s fine. I’ll give you the rest of the money. Just don’t hurt me.” “This isn’t a ripoff.”

The man’s confusion returned. “Then what is it?” “I came to protect your wife.” Serge pulled handcuffs from his back pocket.

The man’s legs began to buckle. “You’re an undercover cop?”

“Worse,” said Serge, fastening the bracelets behind the man’s back. “Undercover citizen.”

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “Like that song ‘Undercover Angel.’”

“Not like that song,” said Serge. “I hate that song. And now it’s playing in my head.”

“Sorry.”

Serge seized the man by an arm and dragged him toward a spacious closet. “I took the liberty of doing a little remodeling while I was here.” He opened the door.

The man looked inside. Now he was totally baffled. Two wooden chairs faced each other, both reinforced to the floor with aluminum bracket-straps used for roofing trusses. Must have been a hundred penny nails and galvanized screws. Atop the chair nearest the door was some kind of unidentifiable customized mount fashioned from a miter box and bench vise.

“It was a tight fit, but I knew it would work,” said Serge. ‘“Measure twice, cut once,’ save yourself a world of headaches.” t

“What’s it for?”

“You!” said Serge. “I put in a lot of work, always treat my clients right…‘Undercover Angel’! Coleman, it’s still playing!”

“Said I was sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just switch channels in my head to the Rock Vault.”

“What’s the Rock Vault?” asked Coleman.

“When most people don’t have a sound system, they go: ‘Shit, no sound system.’”

“Not you?”

Serge tapped his temple. “Every song already stored for easy access. Let’s listen to something!”

The horn from a Florida East Coast locomotive blared in the distance as it clacked down tracks along the Old Dixie corridor.

“I know,” said Coleman. “How about ‘Train, Train’?”

“Blackfoot.” Serge nodded his approval. “Another excellent band of Florida’s native sons.”

They began bobbing their heads in silence. The husband thrashed in wild panic as the extent of his captor’s insanity became clear. He was bound securely in the chair at the back of the closet.

“And you have two kids!” Serge grabbed a thick roll of duct tape off the opposing seat. “You were going to take away their mom.”

“I was just about to call it off. I swear! Praying at the bar that you’d come back and say something went wrong so I could-“

Serge sealed yet another in a long career of taped mouths. It was a toss-up: whether the man was more or less terrified by not having any idea what was in store.

“Here’s what’s in store…” Serge slowly pulled a long string from his hip pocket like a magician. “The gravy on my project is this special mount atop the other chair. That’s where the gun goes. I’ll tie this string to the trigger, then the other end goes around the closet’s inside doorknob, which I’ll tighten from the outside with the door a few inches ajar, giving it just enough slack for a quick, ten-pound pull when someone opens it. Hold still-be right back!” The door closed.

The man desperately wiggled in the darkness, muted screams under the tape. Light hit his face as the door opened again. He got a brief glimpse of a black handgun before Serge leaned around the front of the opposing chair, blocking his view. Finally the pistol was clamped firmly in the vise, string around the trigger. Serge stepped back with a big smile. “What do you think?”

The husband’s hysteria went off the scale, but the roof brackets more than held. Then he suddenly became still as he stared at the vise. It didn’t look like a regular gun. And it had an orange plastic safety tip, like a toy. He leaned for a closer view. It was a … cap gun} He stared up at Serge with knotted eyebrows.

“What?” said Serge. “You didn’t think I was actually going to use a real gun? I just wanted to teach you a lesson …” He looked down at a puddle around the man’s feet.

“… Which I believe you’ve learned in spades. Excellent student!” Serge grabbed the edge of the duct tape.

The man yelled in brief pain as the strip ripped free. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry about that,” said Serge. “But those are the lessons that stick best …” He noticed his watch: 5:15. “Wow, that late? Don’t mean to be rude and dash off, but I have to get somewhere.” He tore another long stretch of tape and held it in front of the man’s mouth.

“What are you doing? I learned my lesson.”

“Remedial tutoring.” Serge wrapped the mouth again. “Be right back.” The door closed.

The man listened. Quiet. Then heavy footsteps and Serge talking to himself: “Damn, this thing weighs more than it looks.”

The door opened. “You’ve got great taste. I am definitely going to have to get me one of those Brahman grills first chance I get!” He reached down and hoisted a squat, roundish metal tank, placing it on the empty chair facing the man. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow your propane. Hear they’re pretty cheap to refill.” Serge twisted the tank’s valve all the way open. A quiet hiss. He started closing the door, leaving a three-inch gap with the frame. He reached inside for the string hanging from the trigger of the cap gun and tied it around the inside doorknob.

“Toodles!”

The closet door closed.

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