by Strand, Jeff
"Cuddly is good. So how much trouble will you get in if you don't kill me?"
"I'm not sure. Not too much. He was only paying me fifty bucks."
"Fifty bucks? Fifty?"
"Yeah."
"My life is only worth fifty dollars? Are you kidding me?"
"Is that low?"
"Of course it's low! Holy crap, I was thinking you were making at least five figures, probably six!"
"I made seven dollars an hour at Wal-Mart."
"I can't believe you would kill me for fifty bucks. That's just insulting. Who hired you?"
"Todd McBride."
"I don't even know him. But people try to kill me every once in a while. It's just part of being me. But . . . fifty bucks? You'd pay an exterminator more than that to kill some bugs! Perhaps you should leave."
"Yeah."
"Sorry this didn't work out."
"Me too. I'll resign in the morning. I didn't really want to see sliced flesh anyway. Do you have any of those juice boxes left?"
"I think there's one in the fridge."
"Thanks."
"Don't take the cherry one."
"Okay."
Victor wandered into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator. I heard him leave, and I sat on the recliner for a while, more than a little annoyed. I couldn't even get back into my book.
Still, at least I was alive. And I'd helped Victor realize that the life of a killer-for-hire wasn't for just anybody with access to a bladed weapon. So the evening wasn't a total loss. In fact, since I now knew that my lightning fast reflexes needed to be honed, I had fodder for self-improvement.
If you really thought about it, it was a very worthwhile experience.
I returned to the novel, feeling good.
Then Helen came home and I got in trouble because I forgot to clean up the grape juice on the carpet. So the rest of the night sucked.
TRUE HERO
"You're a true hero," said the reporter in the blue suit, and everybody else at the press conference nodded.
Ted scratched at the bandage on his cheek. There would definitely be a scar, though not as bad as the anticipated scars on his chest and arms. The killer had been nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil by the media; he didn't actually spin in circles, but he attacked his victims with the berserk nature of the cartoon character. Ted had been cut six times, twenty-eight stitches' worth, before he knocked the knife out of the killer's hand.
Then he'd bashed the Tasmanian Devil's head against a tree, twice. As the killer of six (that they knew of so far) fell to the ground, Ted felt the moment where, if this were a horror film, the audience would be shouting, "Kill him! Kill him!" at the screen.
Ted hadn't killed him. This not only gave him a clear conscience for not having taken the life of a fellow human being, no matter how wretched, but also allowed the police to save another little girl who was still in the Tasmanian Devil's basement.
"So what were you thinking when you saw him abduct Millie?"
"You know, it's kind of weird," Ted told the reporter. "She wasn't screaming or pulling away or anything." The Tasmanian Devil had told six-year-old Millie that her parents were in a car accident and that he was a police officer here to take her to the hospital. He had done this in the "only a few seconds," that Millie's babysitter claimed to have been distracted, flirting with a boy at the park. "It just felt wrong. I didn't see any harm in following the car, maybe for a few blocks or so."
He had, in fact, followed the car onto the freeway and tailed it for about ten minutes before deciding to make a call. "I still really didn't think anything was wrong, but I figured, what was the worst case scenario? A 911 dispatcher gets mad at me for wasting a few minutes of his time? So I called the cops."
When he found out that a young girl matching her exact description had just been reported missing from the park where he'd seen her, Ted had almost rear-ended the kidnapper's gray sedan in his effort not to lose it. He followed him off the next exit ramp, and followed him closely through several more turns, taking them further and further from anyplace Ted was likely to receive help.
The kidnapper knew he was being followed, no question, but if Ted tried to be discrete about the pursuit, he might lose him.
Finally, the Tasmanian Devil pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the car to see what the hell Ted wanted. Though Ted couldn't deny that there was a slight urge to lock himself in his own vehicle and hope that the police showed up soon, he immediately worked up his courage and got out of the car to confront the kidnapper. If he'd known that the man was also a serial killer, he might not have done this.
Or he might have. There was no way to know for sure.
The kidnapper let out a terrifying howl and then charged at him, knife raised. Before Ted could really even process what was happening he'd received a vicious slice across the chest, and he got several more slashes as he raised his arms to defend himself.
Ted felt the fear but not the pain, and somehow he got in a punch that struck the killer's wrist, making him drop the knife. Two adrenaline-fueled bashes against a tree later, and the killer was no longer a problem.
"That's amazing," said the reporter.
"Thanks."
"I mean, you put yourself in the path of a knife-wielding maniac to rescue a girl you didn't even know. What kind of upbringing did you have to make you so selfless and heroic?"
Ted chuckled. "I appreciate the compliment, but really, anybody would have done what I did."
The room full of reporters considered that.
"You know," said a blonde female reporter in the front row, "he may be right. A little girl driven away by a psycho killer? Would anybody really just let her go and not do anything?"
"I wouldn't," said another reporter.
"I wouldn't, either," said a third.
"It was brave, for sure," said the blonde reporter, "but I tend to agree with Ted: in this situation, I don't think many people would just shrug their shoulders and let Millie be taken off to be butchered. It was a fine thing he did, an honorable thing, but probably not too far out of line with what anybody else would have done in those circumstances."
"I hadn't really thought about that," said the reporter who'd called Ted selfless and heroic. "Still, yeah, I can see your point. I'm sitting here thinking 'What would I have done if I were Ted?' and the answer is 'Well, I would have followed the car.' Who wouldn't? I wasn't sure about whether I would have actually gotten out of the car, but what would have been the alternative? Would I have just sat there watching him kill her?
Of course not. I would have gotten out just like Ted did and gone over there to stop him. Unless you're a total piece of crap, it's the only choice."
"When you really think about it," said the blonde reporter, "it's all about being in the right place at the right time. In just the same way that anybody could die a tragic death by standing underneath a falling safe at the wrong time, anybody could save the life of a little girl by being near a park at the right time."
Ted cleared his throat. "Yes. There's lots of potential bravery in the world. It was a pretty big knife, though."
"It's almost like he got lucky," said the reporter in the blue suit. "I wouldn't mind standing up there where Ted is, having everybody tell me how great I am. It's not my fault that I don't drive near parks where serial killers do their hunting."
"I disagree," said an elderly reporter. "It's possible that you drive past serial killers all the time, and you just don't notice. Let's not forget that it was Ted's gut instinct that led him to follow the vehicle. I'm not sure I agree that everybody else would have done that. I think most people would have said 'Oh, that must be her uncle,' and gone on with their day."
"Thank you," said Ted.
"But I still think there's a pretty big element of luck in there," said the blue-suited reporter. "I see kids getting picked up by their parents every day. I bet Ted does, too. If we stopped to follow every one of those cars, we'd never get anything done.
He said himself that he only called the police because he figured, worst-case scenario, the 911 dispatcher would be pissed. He made the right decision, and more power to him, but if everybody called 911 every time they had a hint of an uneasy feeling, the lines would be jammed and people's homes would burn down because they couldn't get through in real emergencies."
"Oh, now you're just being ridiculous," said the elderly reporter. "Are you really accusing this heroic man of preventing firemen from saving homes?"
"No, I guess not. I apologize. I spent the morning interviewing doctors at the burn ward, and it bummed me out. Have you ever been to a burn ward?"
The elderly reporter shook his head.
"Don't go. I mean, if you have relatives who get severely burned, you should definitely go visit them, of course, but don't go just to do a news story, because it's really horrific and depressing."
"Noted," said the elderly reporter.
"I think we're getting off-topic," said the blonde reporter. "What we're supposed to be discussing is the fact that, like Ted said, anybody would have taken down the Tasmanian Devil given the opportunity."
"I'm not sure I agree with that," said Ted.
"It's what you said."
"I know, but I didn't mean it quite like that. He did slash me with a knife. Several times."
"Which I guess brings up another question," said the blonde reporter. "Should we hold people in high regard just because they don't bleed to death as quickly as other people? I can say with no shame whatsoever that if you cut me six times, and cut Ted six times, I'd die first. Does that make me a less admirable person? Sure, Ted subdued him while I probably would have been stabbed to death, but does that make Ted more of a hero?"
"Well, yeah, sort of," said Ted. "Traditionally, the person who stops a killer is considered more of a hero than the person who gets murdered by one."
"But is that fair? You have a clear size advantage over me. That isn't my fault."
"No, it's not, but that shouldn't be held against me."
"Nobody is holding anything against you, Ted. I don't see why you're suddenly being so defensive. Not one of us has said that you're a bad person."
Ted pointed at the reporter in the blue suit. "He accused me of clogging up 911 lines!"
"No, no, no, that's not what I said. I said that your behavior, multiplied, could lead to that. I didn't accuse you of doing it, personally."
"Why are we demonizing this man?" asked the elderly reporter. "We hold sports figures like Babe Ruth and O.J. Simpson up as heroes — not so much O.J. Simpson anymore, so I withdraw that example — for being in prime physical condition. Is Michael Vick less of a hero because he's a strong guy? What about Lance Armstrong? You say that anybody would have saved Millie from the Tasmanian Devil, but I counter that anybody would become a sports star, given the opportunity."
"That's dumb," said another, non-descript reporter. "It takes years of training to become a professional athlete of that caliber. It doesn't take years of training to stop a serial killer."
"Unless you're in the FBI," said the blonde reporter. "Then it does."
"Is FBI training really years? I thought it was more like months."
"Twenty weeks at the academy," said the blue-suited reporter.
"Oh," said the blonde reporter. "I was thinking of field experience, though I guess technically we're always learning, all the time, no matter what our job."
"I bashed a goddamn serial killer against a tree!" said Ted.
"If there had been trees handily available to his victims, perhaps Ted would never have been given the opportunity to demonstrate his quote unquote heroism."
"No, that's not right at all," Ted insisted. "He was a madman who preyed upon innocent little girls! They couldn't have stopped him! Millie was six years old! She wasn't going to be bashing any psycho killers into any frickin' trees!"
The blonde reporter shrugged. "So we should be kissing up to you for not being a six-year-old girl?"
"No, but what I did was a truly heroic act, and though I sure don't need your adoration, I'd at least like some respect!"
"But you said, right there, in front of everybody, that anybody would have done the same thing. All we've done is agree with you! Show of hands: anybody who would have let Millie be horribly slaughtered by a depraved sociopath, raise your hand."
None of the reporters raised their hands.
"See? It's the truth. People are fundamentally good at heart, and you just did what anybody else would have done. Nothing wrong with that. It only becomes a problem when you're leeching time away from us that we could be using to write about truly important subjects like politics or economics."
"You know what?" said Ted. "Screw you. Screw each and every one of you." He gave the entire room the finger, then stormed away from the podium, as pictures flashed.
"What a dick," muttered the blonde reporter. "Oh well. I guess I've got an angle for my story."
CHOMP (A CAUTIONARY TALE)
"Only he who lives a life of goodness and has great strength in his heart may retrieve the sacred Jewel of Ankiorth. All others shall . . . aw, crap."
"What's wrong?" asked Bernard, adjusting his glasses and leaning closer to the golden tablet.
"It says that the dragon's head will bite your frickin' arm off! Nobody said anything about this part!" Terrance threw down his backpack in frustration. "How is it possible that we spent three years trying to find this thing and never knew about the biting?"
"That one elder did say there would be a test."
"Sure, a test, but not one where you can lose an arm, for God's sake!"
The dragon's head was carved into the side of the mountain. Each sharp stone tooth was the size of a butcher knife. There was just enough room for somebody to slide his arm into the darkness between the teeth.
Bernard read the golden tablet silently to himself. "Technically, if we've lived a life of goodness and have great strength in our heart, we don't have anything to worry about."
"Oh, well, gee, that would be awesome if we hadn't killed all of those natives, or financed this whole expedition with stolen drug money. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling particularly strong of heart at the moment."
"Now, now, let's not get bent out of shape." Bernard looked back at their three hired hands, Rusty, Juan, and Dominick. "We need a flashlight."
Rusty took a flashlight out of his backpack and handed it to Terrance, who turned it on and shone the beam into the dragon's mouth. "It curves down," he said. "I can't see anything."
"Any sparkles from the jewel?"
"No. This is bullshit."
Bernard made a fist and rapped on the stone head with his knuckles. "Feels pretty solid. I don't see any hinges on the mouth. I very much doubt that anything is going to bite our arm off if we stick it in there."
"That's it? You're going to base this opinion on the lack of hinges? Do you really care so little for your arm?"
"There's also no dried blood. If this dragon's head was biting off people's arms, wouldn't there be some blood?"
"Maybe somebody cleans it off! For all we know, some minimum wage laborer comes around every couple of months and hoses the damn thing down. We set fire to a church, Bernard! The dragon head is going to judge us harshly!"
"I am a man of science," said Bernard. "I do not believe in the ability of ancient carvings to gaze into my soul. The keeper of the jewel placed that tablet there to ward off the superstitious."
"Then you're welcome to reach on down in there," said Terrance. "People who've had their arms bitten off probably exaggerate the pain just to get attention."
Bernard hesitated. "This is absurd. I see no possible mechanism that would allow this mouth to move. It's clearly an ancient ruse, and the longer we stand here, the longer we wallow in foolishness."
"Good. I'm glad you're confident. That's what I like about you. Have at it."
Bernard turned around and gestured. "Rusty, a great honor is about to be presented to you."
"Thanks, but no."
"This is not an honor to be cast away lightly. When the history books are written, it is he who first touches the jewel who will become the name of legend."
"Sir, I was standing four feet away. I heard the whole arm-biting conversation."
"It's not going to bite anybody. That's nonsense. We have evolved far too long as a species to let such treasures elude us because of ridiculous fears."
Rusty shook his head. "Not gonna do it."
"We'll double your share."
"Let me see, zero times two is . . . ?"
"Okay, we'll give you a share. A full share of a priceless treasure."
Dominick raised his hand. "Hell, I'll do it for a share."
"Excellent. Dominick, step forward. Rusty, step back and feel ashamed."
Rusty shrugged and stepped out of the way. Dominick walked up to the dragon head.
"So I just reach in there and grab it?"
"Yes. There is nothing to fear."
"Can one of you take a picture to make sure everybody knows I'm the one who first touched the jewel?"
"We're keeping very careful notes," Bernard assured him.
Dominick cracked his knuckles, and then slowly slid his arm between the stone teeth. He slid in past his elbow and moved back and forth. "Can't feel anything yet."
"Keep going."
He slid his arm in all the way to the shoulder. "I don't feel somebody else's arm, so that's a good sign."
"This is no laughing matter," said Bernard. "Just keep searching."
"That wasn't supposed to be a joke. If I touched a severed arm, that would be pretty solid evidence that somebody else had lost an arm in here, right? Aren't you always saying we should base our actions on physical, substantiated data? Are you saying that if you were in my place, brushing your fingers against a bony arm would have no impact on your future decisions? The only reason you're not doing this yourself is because you're concerned about the potential for the dragon head to bite down, and if I'd discovered empirical evidence that it did bite down, then —"