Casket for Sale, Only Used Once

by Jeff Strand

  "Right." No sense lying.

  "Good man. Then I'll let you pinch off your left pinky." He handed me the wire cutters while Witch kept her gun pointed at my face. "Open the jaws."

  His expression made it clear he wasn't playing around. I was feeling utterly sick to my stomach, but I opened the jaws of the wire cutters.

  "Put them over your finger. All the way down at the bottom."

  I wondered if I could slam the wire cutters into Goblin's face without being shot by him, Witch, and/or Troll. It seemed unlikely.

  "I'm not cutting off my finger for you," I informed him.

  "Oh, I think you will. And your family is going to hear the screams." He jiggled the walkie-talkie.

  "Forget it. I'm not doing it."

  "Hmmmm ... bullet to the face, or missing pinky? I think you'll make the right choice. I'm going to give you until the count of ten. And though you probably remember this from the countdown to the Molotov cocktails in the camper, let me be perfectly clear, Andrew: I'm not the kind of person who will say nine-and-a-half."

  I believed him.

  "So let's get started before it's already time for you to cut a second finger off. Ten ... nine..."

  The psycho was absolutely serious. If I didn't chop off a finger, I'd get shot in the face.

  "...eight ... seven ... six..."

  I put the jaws of the wire cutters over the little finger on my left hand.

  "...five..."

  I looked Goblin straight in the eye. "I'll kill you for this."

  "...four..."

  I began to squeeze the handle of the wire cutters. A drop of blood pooled on the blade.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I TYPE USING HUNT-and-peck anyway, but losing a finger is a pretty big deal. I winced, sucked in a deep breath, and then...

  ...the wall of the store exploded.

  Well, it didn't really explode, not the way the camper exploded. It's more like it broke apart, sending merchandise flying everywhere, as a direct result of the green truck plowing right through it.

  Roger was behind the wheel. Samantha was next to him.

  A whole bunch of things happened at once, but to be completely honest, I couldn't tell you exactly what they were. I could vaguely sense Troll ducking for cover, and Charlie diving to the floor, and Witch swinging her gun in the direction of the truck, and Goblin nearly getting hit in the face with a jar of baby food.

  For myself, the surprise of having a large truck suddenly burst through the wall of the store just in the nick of time to save me from being forced to slice off my pinky caused me to tense up and squeeze the handles of the wire cutters, slicing off my pinky.

  "Oh," I said, because sometimes that's all that really needs to be said.

  My little finger dropped onto my lap.

  Now, I think I've established that I'm not the finest strategist in the world. However, even in my state of shock I knew to take advantage of this situation. I stood up, scooping up my severed finger as I did so, and threw a punch at Witch with my five-fingered fist.

  It was a good one.

  I rushed toward the truck, which Roger was backing out of the very large hole he'd created in the store. Troll swiped at me with his knife and I felt the blade swish next to my back. As I ran past the passenger-side door, Samantha threw it open, bashing Troll in the chest. She slammed it closed again and I leapt into the truck bed.

  I heard a gunshot and the sound of shattering glass. I took a split second to think about how much my finger stump hurt. I was bleeding all over the place, but at least it wasn't my truck to clean up.

  The truck pulled out of the store. For an instant I thought I was home free, a pleasant if laughable idea that vanished as soon as Witch jumped into the back of the truck with me.

  I dove at her, knocking her off her feet. She punched me in the face approximately as hard as I'd punched her, which was pretty damn hard. Then she swung her gun at me, but I deflected it by grabbing her wrist with my incomplete hand, pinning my severed finger between them.

  We struggled, me on top, both of us gritting our teeth hard enough to do serious enamel damage. Then severed pinky blood squirted her right in the eye. She cried out and rubbed it while sharing her unladylike vocabulary. I used my other hand to try to wrench the gun out of her grasp, but she wouldn't let go.

  We were speeding down the dirt road toward Wreitzer Park, a wise decision since the other direction was sort of blocked by an exploded camper and a couple of wrecked trucks. Over the tailgate I saw the other green truck following us, about a hundred feet behind. The road curved and I lost sight of it.

  The gun, now slippery with blood, popped free of both our grips. It slid down the bed of the truck and smacked into the tailgate.

  I got in another really good punch.

  So did she.

  The truck hit a bump, causing Witch's head to bounce up, and then strike the truck bed. Sadly, the hit wasn't hard enough to do anything but piss her off even more.

  "You fork!" she screamed. I'm pretty sure that's not what she meant to say, but that's what came out.

  Then my finger slipped out of my hand and dropped into her open mouth. Witch did not take this well, gagging and choking and frantically trying to spit it out.

  Holy shit, she's going to swallow my finger. I was horrified. Surgeons might be able to reattach the digit, but not if it went through her digestive system!

  I could see my pinky at the back of her throat. I reached inside her mouth with my good hand, trying to pinch it between my index finger and thumb.

  Witch bit down.

  I cried out and tried to tug free. I couldn't.

  Then I clamped my bloody hand over her neck, pushing my thumb into her throat until she let up with her teeth. I pulled my fingers free, but my severed pinky was still in her mouth.

  We exchanged another couple of punches.

  Witch closed her mouth and I could see her jaw working. She was chewing on my finger. This time I clamped my fingers over her nose, trying to force her to open her mouth to take a breath.

  The truck took a sharp turn, and I lost my balance and tumbled off of Witch. She sat up, spat out my finger, and picked it up. Then she cocked her hand back as if preparing to fling it out of the moving vehicle.

  I grabbed her hand and squeezed tight to make her drop it. She pulled free and elbowed me in the gut, but I tackled her again.

  Her forehead bashed against the side of the truck, hard.

  She fell over, unconscious.

  I picked up my finger and wiped it off on my pants. Despite a few tooth marks, it seemed to be in relatively good shape, at least by severed finger standards. I shoved it into my pocket then scrambled over to the tailgate and retrieved Witch's gun.

  Both Witch and I were completely covered in blood, and now that the fight was over I had to admit that I was feeling more than a little dizzy. I crawled to Witch, giving a halfhearted smile to Samantha, who was watching me through the rear windshield ... and removing her shirt.

  Was this supposed to be a reward for vanquishing my foe?

  Samantha reached out of the open passenger window and handed her blouse to me. "Wrap up your hand!" she shouted over the sound of the engine.

  I took the shirt from her and bound my injured hand as tightly as I could.

  We turned onto a longer stretch of road, and then the other green truck came back into view, close enough that I could see Goblin, Troll, and Charlie inside.

  I wondered if they'd be so kind as to let me borrow a cooler in which to store my finger.

  Now the dizziness was becoming a real concern, along with a sudden nausea. At least Roger was the one doing the driving. Perhaps I could take a short nap ... ?

  As we rounded a corner, the brakes squealed.

  The tires burst.

  And as we careened off the side of the road, I saw we'd driven over one of those "Severe Tire Damage" things with the spikes. The truck took out quite a few bushes and assorted plants before smashing into
a tree.

  We had to get out of there. Run into the woods as fast as we could and try to...

  Nope. With Samantha's mangled foot, we weren't going anywhere. It wasn't like we could outrun them with Roger carrying her.

  Damn.

  The other green truck came to a stop right before the tire shredder. Behind me, I heard Roger roll down his window. "So now what?" he asked.

  I hoisted Witch's unconscious body into a sitting position and pressed the barrel of the gun against the side of her head.

  Goblin and Troll got out of the truck, about thirty feet away from us. Goblin sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "We're playing the hostage game again, aren't we?"

  "Uh, yeah," I admitted, sheepishly.

  "You have got to be kidding me."

  "So, you know, if you come any closer I'll kill her and all that, and I want you to let my wife and kids go."

  Goblin looked at me, looked at the ground, looked at Troll, sighed deeply, and then looked at me again. "You know what? Fine. That's fine. This isn't worth it anymore. We quit."

  "You quit?" I asked, surprised.

  "Yeah, we quit. I want to forget this ever happened. We won't hurt your wife and kids. You can even keep the truck, for all I care. Just give us Witch back and get the hell away from us. We won't follow you."

  He looked totally serious. Were bad guys allowed to just give up like that?

  "How do I know I can trust you?" I asked.

  Troll grinned. "We could pinky swear. Oh, wait, I guess not."

  Goblin glared at him. "You think this is funny? Does it amuse you to screw up so badly? Because from where I stand, it's pretty damn humiliating."

  Troll shrugged. "Whatever."

  Goblin returned his attention to me. "So what do you think? Let's just put this all behind us."

  "Sounds good to me. But I want my wife and kids back with me first."

  "Gee, you think?" Goblin asked, rolling his eyes. He pressed a button on his walkie-talkie. "Momma Bear, are you there?"

  "What did you do to my husband?" Helen demanded on the other end.

  "Nothing, he's fine. Look, we're just going to call this whole thing off, if that's okay with you. It was a bad idea from the start, and we're all going to cut our losses."

  "Let me talk to Andrew."

  Goblin extended the walkie-talkie toward me. "Do you want me to toss it to you?"

  I couldn't very well catch it with one hand wrapped up in bloody cloth and the other holding a gun to the head of an unconscious psycho. "Uh, no. Roger, you wanna catch the walkie-talkie for me?"

  "Have him throw it by the side of the truck."

  "It'll break," said Goblin.

  "The dirt doesn't look all that hard over here."

  "This is a fragile piece of equipment," Goblin insisted. "If I throw it on the ground it might break or the settings might get all messed up and you won't be able to talk to her and we'll never get this resolved."

  "Okay, okay, fine." Roger got out of the truck. "Throw it."

  Goblin tossed the walkie-talkie over to him. It nearly bounced out of Roger's hands, but he managed to keep a hold on it without looking like too much of an idiot. Then he climbed into the back of the truck with me.

  "Here, I'll handle her," he said, trading me the gun for the walkie-talkie. He kept Witch propped up with the gun to her head.

  "Helen?" I asked.

  "Andrew! Are you okay? What happened?"

  "Nothing, this whole thing was just a big misunderstanding. They actually wanted to try to interest us in a multi-level marketing scheme, but they got mixed up and tried to kill us instead."

  "Andrew, don't joke."

  "Sorry. I think we're okay now. What I need you to do is very carefully lead the kids toward the road. Watch out though, because there are some booby traps out there."

  "Believe me, I know."

  "How far are you from the road?"

  "I'm not sure. Not too far, I hope."

  "Let me know when you can see the road, but don't show yourself," I told her.

  "Okay. I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  I extended the walkie-talkie toward Goblin, and then, on second thought, drew it back. "Can I keep this for now?"

  "Yeah, sure, whatever."

  Charlie got out of the truck, apparently satisfied there wasn't going to be any upcoming additional violence. "You're going to pay for what you did to my store," Charlie shouted, pointing accusingly at Roger. "You don't just drive a truck through a man's place of business and expect to get away with it! You'll be cleaning up my place, and you'll be doing it without any fingers on your hands, I promise you that!"

  "Shut up, Charlie," said Troll.

  "I don't have to shut up! That store is my livelihood! It's bad enough that I've got you shoplifting all the damn time and I have to watch your unnatural perversions, but now my store is ruined! Did you miss the truck breaking through the wall? Did you see how much merchandise was damaged? You think I get that stuff for free? You think some delivery guy just stops by and says 'Here you go, compliments of the house,'? You think I don't have bills to pay? Debts to settle? Pets to feed?"

  Goblin pointed his gun at Charlie's head. "Okay, I'm not in the mood for you right now. Shut up."

  "You shut up! You think what you're paying me to help you guys out is going to cover the damage to my store? I'm tired of this! This is horseshit! Hell, I probably won't even be able to get it fixed because you whack-jobs will kidnap and murder the laborers! Screw you all!"

  Troll took out his own gun. "Charlie, I highly recommend that you give your mouth a rest."

  "All of you! Screw you!"

  Goblin and Troll both pulled their triggers at the same time. Goblin's bullet hit him in the forehead, while Troll's struck him in the nose ... or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, there wasn't much left of Charlie's head as his body dropped to the ground.

  "Shut ... the ... fuck ... up!" Goblin shouted, firing a bullet into Charlie's lifeless body in between each word. "What the hell do I have to do to get you to shut up?"

  "That may have worked," Troll noted.

  "I know the truck broke through his store! I saw it happen! We all have problems today! Give me a break!" Goblin wiped some spittle off on his sleeve. "I should've stayed in bed this morning."

  Roger and I gaped at him.

  "What are you looking at?" Goblin demanded.

  I pressed the black button on the walkie-talkie. "Helen? Still try to be careful of booby traps, but you might want to hurry."

  Chapter Fourteen

  "HOW'S YOUR FOOT?" I asked Samantha.

  "Hurts," she said. "How's your hand?"

  "Hurts."

  "Sorry."

  "Me, too."

  I avoided turning around to look at her. Something about having my best friend's well-endowed girlfriend sitting behind me wearing only a bra made me a bit uncomfortable. It seemed odd that I was bruised, battered, cut, missing a finger, covered in blood, and yet still unnerved by an awkward social situation, but there you go.

  At least I could still joke about it.

  "So, she's wearing my pants and I'm wearing her blouse," I said, holding up my wrapped hand to show Roger. "Not many best friends are as generous as you."

  Roger chuckled. "Yeah, well, don't try cutting off another finger to see more."

  I shrugged. "It might be worth it."

  "Guys, I'm right here," said Samantha, amused.

  I was keeping tight pressure on my hand and was pretty sure I wouldn't bleed to death if we managed to resolve all of this unpleasantness soon. The idea that I had my own finger in my pocket seriously creeped me out, so I tried not to think about it.

  "I know we're supposed to do a lot of macho posturing," said Roger, "but I'm really glad you're not dead."

  "Thanks. I'm glad you're not dead, too."

  "Thanks."

  "I do sort of wish Goblin and Troll were dead."

  "That's understa
ndable."

  Goblin and Troll were sitting in their truck, looking generally unhappy.

  "So how did you get the keys to the truck?" I asked.

  "We didn't. Samantha hotwired it."

  I turned around to glance at her through the rear windshield. "You know how to hotwire a truck?"

  She nodded. "An important skill in the fashion business."

  I turned back to Roger. "Wow. I'm impressed."

  "Well, she's a pretty special lady," said Roger, giving me a look.

  I wanted to say don't give me that look, but I couldn't with Samantha around. She really was a pretty special lady.

  Suddenly, sitting in the back of a wrecked truck with one of my fingers newly severed and Roger sitting next to me holding the gun to the head of an unconscious psychopath, I realized why I didn't like Samantha.

  It wasn't that she wasn't good enough for Roger. It was that she was perfect for him. I didn't dislike her. I was just scared she'd take Roger away from me.

  I was worried that instead of hanging out with me at the Java Joint on Wednesday nights, Roger would be stuck at home, hanging up laundry and giving foot massages.

  I didn't have introspective moments very often (apart from those involving television shows), so this was a rather amazing revelation.

  It was an amazingly pathetic revelation.

  I mean, I had a wife and two frickin' kids, with a third on the way, and I still found time to bum around. What was I worried about?

  "It's going to be okay," I told Roger, giving him a look, although a different look than the one he'd given me. "Everything."

  "Everything what?"

  "You know. Everything."

  Roger stared at me. "Huh?"

  "Never mind."

  "Okay."

  "So what made you decide to follow me?"

  "We thought you might need help. It happens a lot."

  "It does not."

  "Sure it does."

  I shook my head. "Actually, if I remember correctly, and I think I do, it's you who generally needs saving."

  "That's not true."

  "Which one of us got strapped to that machine that was going to chop off his arms, legs, and head?"