Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  He ran around the inside of the RV, doing a Charlie Brown nose-in-the-air dance.

  The others gave him a weird look. Pimento picked up the newspaper Escrow had dropped. On the bottom of the page, a story about an impostor who had appeared before an audience of retirees at Vista Isles East, pretending to be from the Tatum camp. The headline: SENATE INVESTIGATES SENIOR-GATE.

  “What is it?” asked Marlon, Escrow dancing with a broomstick in the background.

  “He finally got his -Gate.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Pimento reviewed the rest of the headlines. “Everyone is going big with Sirocco’s execution tonight at Starke. The Times, the Sentinel, and the Herald are all leading with it—everyone except the Tribune, which is leading with the WWF Raw Is War! show tonight at the Ice Palace…. Oh man, we have to go! Wrestling rules! Can we?”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Marlon. “You know how many people watch that show? They always introduce local notables on the air….”

  “It’s probably some of the best exposure we can get,” said Pimento.

  “Kind of surprised Tatum didn’t think of it first,” said Marlon.

  The midday news cut to a commercial on Pimento’s little TV. It was a campaign ad for Gomer Tatum.

  “Turn it up,” said Marlon.

  Tatum appeared on the screen in dark sunglasses and a sequined cape. He had a walking cane topped with a carved ivory skull. On his arm was Jackie, looking hot in a bustier and Xena the Warrior Princess outfit.

  Tatum pointed at the camera. “I want you, Conrad! Tonight! Ice Palace! Lights-Out Cage Match! No-Time-Limit Gubernatorial Smackdown for the Whole Enchilada!”

  “So this is where we’ve evolved,” said Marlon.

  “Actually,” said Pimento, “it can’t help but add dignity to the process.”

  Marlon drove over to Ybor City for lunch. He looked up and down Seventh Avenue.

  “Where’d the Silver Ring go?” he said. “This country’s falling apart.”

  They decided on Carmine’s instead. Marlon didn’t realize how tired he was until he sat down. He sank heavily into the chair like a sack of mercury, and he ordered crab cakes and Cuban coffee.

  It was near the end. Events were starting to back up and overlap. The polls fluctuated by the minute, Marlon averaging a two-point lead with a three-point margin of error. Sirocco’s execution was tonight. Tomorrow the polls opened. Marlon and Tatum were beyond fatigue, both running on fumes now, ready to drop—Marlon from an incredibly ambitious pace, Tatum from a cardiovascular system laboring like turbines at Hoover Dam.

  They were both marathon runners in the twenty-sixth mile. They had entered the stadium, reeling and staggering, and the crowd shouted them on. Marlon’s brain montaged through the last weeks, all the people he had met across over the state, all the differences and the common ground, the cultures morphing as he moved from region to region. The southerners in the north part of the state, the northerners in the south. The inland crackers, the outlying migrants, the Latins, the Jews, the Irish, the Germans, the blacks. The old migrating for their health, and the carpetbaggers migrating to feed on the old.

  Marlon was tired and depressed. He had started thinking dangerously—that he could actually make a difference. He regretted being so cavalier at the beginning of the campaign. He just had to win.

  ESCROW anxiously awaited the lab report on Pimento’s fingerprints. The suspense was making him a head case.

  He had extra worries about Pimento that he had never shared with anyone.

  Escrow locked himself in the RV’s tiny bathroom with Pimento’s personnel file. He opened it.

  It was completely empty except for the results of the drug test and a new document, a single sheet of paper. Nobody had discovered it until two months ago, when Escrow went snooping into Pimento’s background, trying to learn his real name.

  The fingerprints were taking forever. Escrow decided to read the document again—maybe he had overreacted the first time he saw it and nearly passed out.

  The piece of paper was Pimento’s new-employee questionnaire, to be used for the in-house newsletter to introduce recent hires.

  It had a sentence of instruction at the top, and the rest of the page was left blank for the employee to complete: “In your own words, describe who you are, so that your new colleagues can get to know you better.”

  Beneath the typed question were stanzas neatly printed in No. 2 pencil.

  Please allow me to introduce myself,

  I’m a man of stealth and waste

  I’ve been around for a long campaign,

  stole many a man’s vote and slate

  And I was ’round when Gary Hart

  fought the Herald and took the bait,

  Made damn sure that Donna Rice

  Hopped on his lap ’n’ sealed his fate

  Pleased to meet you. Help me guess my name.

  But what’s puzzling you is how I never face the blame.

  I stuck around St. Petersburg

  when the benches had fresh green paint,

  Killed the next drug czar’s service tax,

  And Martinez screamed, “Hey, wait!”

  I rode a float,

  ’sposed to look like a boat

  When the Orange Bowl raged,

  “Can I buy your vote?”

  Pleased to meet you! Help me guess my name!

  But what’s puzzling you is how the voters got so lame!

  I watched with glee (Hoo-Hoo!)

  all the duplicity (Hoo-Hoo!)

  as the lies piled up (Hoo-Hoo!)

  in the primary (Hoo-Hoo!)

  I shouted out (Hoo-Hoo!)

  “Who killed the Everglades?” (Hoo-Hoo!)

  When after all (Hoo-Hoo!)

  It was you and me (Hoo-Hoo!)

  Let me please introduce myself (Hoo-Hoo!)

  I’m a man of stealth and waste (Hoo-Hoo!)

  And I made ads for nominees (Hoo-Hoo!)

  who sold their souls before they reached Palm Bay (Hoo-Hoo!)

  Just as every citizen’s a criminal (Hoo-Hoo!)

  And all the candidates saints (Hoo-Hoo!)

  As heads is tails, I’m with the Governor (Hoo-Hoo!)

  And I’m in need of some restraint (Hoo-Hoo!)

  So if you meet me, see the irony (Hoo-Hoo!)

  the hypocrisy and the hate (Hoo-Hoo!)

  Use all your well-learned politics (Hoo-Hoo!)

  or I’ll lay your vote to waste….

  Escrow hit his head on the towel rack as he passed out.

  36

  TAMPA’S ICE PALACE was packed to the rafters. People waved homemade signs and wore T-shirts of their favorite wrestlers.

  Marlon and his entourage were sitting in the front row. Pimento’s seat was empty. Escrow looked around. Where the hell was he?

  The crowd erupted when a ring announcer in a tux finally appeared.

  “We’re about to go live on the USA Network, so I want everyone to get ready to give the country your biggest Tampa welcome!”

  Viewers at home watched a campaign commercial showing small children playing in a field of daisies, families filing into a country church, a grandmother serving the Sunday ham. The ad was for casino gambling.

  The commercial ended and viewers nationwide were taken inside the arena, where the camera panned over thousands of cheering people.

  A microphone descended from the ceiling, and the ring announcer grabbed it.

  “Welcome, America, to the Ice Palace in Tampa, Florida, for Monday-night Raw Is War!”

  The crowd went bonkers.

  “We have an extra-special surprise in store for you. We’ve already seen Jesse Ventura leave the ring and successfully defend his title at the ballot box. Tonight, we’re going to take it a step further. We may see the nation’s first governor’s race actually to be decided in the ring.”

  A cell phone went off in the front row. Escrow answered it.

&nb
sp; “This is Major Banks with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. I’m calling back with the results of that fingerprint sample you sent us. Mr. Escrow, where did you get the sample?”

  “Routine security check.”

  “Do you know where this individual is?”

  Escrow glanced at Pimento’s empty chair. “No idea.”

  “Whatever you do, stay clear of this guy. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to apprehend him. Don’t even let local police try. He’s way too violent. If you know where this guy is, we’re standing by with a specially trained commando unit.”

  Escrow lost all color. “Who is he?”

  “He’s wanted in connection with a string of grisly murders in south Florida. Unarmed, he took out a three-man hit squad all by himself.”

  Escrow trembled. “Are you sure you have the right person?”

  “Lean, six feet tall, ice-blue eyes? Short hair starting to gray on the sides?”

  Escrow felt faint.

  “We lost his trail in Cocoa Beach a couple years back. What makes him so dangerous is that he’s borderline genius and totally insane. He can appear perfectly normal for weeks and function at high levels of society, even excel. Then—BAM!—he snaps and we’re bagging bodies for days….”

  Escrow was trying to get his jaw to work.

  “Hello? You still there?”

  “Uh…I’m here. What’s his name?”

  “Serge A. Storms. You’ll call us if you ever see him again?”

  “You got it.”

  Escrow closed the phone and slipped it back into his coat.

  “Are you all right?” asked Marlon. “Geez, you look awful!”

  “I think I got a bad sausage.”

  “For a second I thought you were having a heart attack. Look—you’re all flushed and clammy. You’re soaked right through your shirt.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He was not okay. He was suffering a monster anxiety attack. How could I have done this? he thought. As soon as it gets out, there goes the election! Guess who they’ll all blame? Me! They’ll gang up like they always have!

  He squeezed his fists in self-anger and crunched his eyes shut. I’m such a dipshit! I’ll be featured in political science textbooks. My name will live in infamy. I’ll have to be buried in an anonymous grave so the Young Republicans can’t dig me up and pee on my bones.

  Okay, you’re completely freaking out now. Calm down. Calm down. That’s better. You’re looking at this completely wrong. All that unthinkable stuff will only happen if someone finds out. And if you keep your mouth shut, how will anyone ever know? Pimento’s been acting perfectly normal up to now. Sure, the governor will be in danger, but just for another twenty-four hours. After that, it won’t matter. In fact, I’ll be the hero, the chief of staff who held the rudder steady through the storm, then single-handedly drugged and apprehended the incredibly dangerous fugitive the day after the election. He made a mental note to get hold of some drugs to dissolve in a beverage. He smiled. All Escrow had to do now was cross his fingers and hope Pimento could hold it together one more day. Piece of cake. Speaking of the devil, where was he, anyway?

  Marlon looked up. “Dad?”

  Dempsey Conrad was moving down the aisle with six men in satin jackets, BRIDGES TO BABYLON ’97 WORLD TOUR. They took the row of seats behind Marlon.

  “I told you no security,” said Marlon.

  “What security?” said Dempsey. “We’re wrestling fans. Isn’t that right, guys?”

  Outside, a 1931 Stutz Bearcat roadster pulled into the Ice Palace parking lot. Von Zeppelin got out with a long leather pouch.

  Inside the arena, giant rock concert flashpots exploded, and Gomer Tatum emerged from behind the curtains with Jackie at his side. They strutted down the gangway to the ring. “Bad to the Bone” boomed from the sound system. Overhead, the Jumbo-tron played video clips of Tatum debating in the legislature, interspersed with footage of burning skyscrapers, earthquakes, hurricanes, mushrooming H-bombs, and a biplane flying into the side of a barn.

  The crowd cheered wildly as Tatum handed Jackie his cape and started bouncing around the ring.

  The announcer then introduced Marlon Conrad in the front row. Marlon stood and received his own standing ovation.

  As rehearsed, Tatum snatched the microphone from the ring announcer. “Get in here, you coward!” he yelled at Marlon.

  The crowd let loose again. Yeah, Marlon, get him!

  Marlon just kept smiling and waving.

  “Girlie-man!” yelled Tatum. He held the ring ropes open for Marlon to climb in, but Marlon shook his head no. The audience started to boo. Tatum began prancing around the ring, whipping his arms in the air, inciting the crowd to boo more.

  “This was a mistake,” Escrow whispered to Marlon. “We’ve been ambushed. This is exactly what he wanted.”

  “Relax,” said Marlon.

  The ring announcer took the mike back. “We’re very disappointed in our governor. It looks like we have a new champion by default!”

  Tatum had started climbing out of the ring when the announcer spoke up again. “Wait! What’s this?”

  Everyone turned to see someone bounding down an aisle on the far side of the arena wearing a white silk boxing robe.

  “Holy Jesus!” said Escrow. “This can’t be happening!”

  Marlon and Elizabeth broke up laughing.

  The announcer held the ropes open, and Pimento jumped into the ring and started doing the Ali shuffle. The crowd went wild.

  The announcer covered his microphone and leaned over the ropes to Marlon. “Who is this guy?”

  Marlon was still laughing. “My press secretary.”

  The announcer nodded and uncovered the microphone. He stepped back into the center of the ring.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a late change on tonight’s card…” The announcer looked over at Pimento, facing his corner and limbering up at the turnbuckle with deep-knee squats. He read the name on the back of Pimento’s robe.

  “…Representing the governor’s office, weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds and hailing from Parts Unknown, The Florida Phantom!”

  Pimento threw off his robe and spun around. He was now, under both legal and clinical definitions, completely unhinged. He wore an orange 1950s-style high school wrestling uniform with the two little straps over the shoulders, and he crouched in a menacing Greco-Roman stance.

  Jackie yelled across the ring: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Fighting for truth, justice and the American Way!” He sashayed side to side.

  Tatum was frantic. He turned to Jackie. “You said I wouldn’t have to fight! You said Marlon would refuse, and I’d only have to perform a little victory dance! What do I do now?”

  Jackie shoved him out into the ring. “Wrestle!”

  The bell clanged.

  Pimento charged across the ring, and Tatum screamed and tried to climb over the ropes. Pimento caught him by the back of his shorts and gave him a wedgie so brutal it made people queasy all the way to the third balcony. He pulled Tatum into the middle of the ring by his shorts. He grabbed him by the legs and began spinning in a circle, swinging Tatum around and around with enormous centrifugal force. He let go. Tatum flew through the ropes and crashed into a set of folding metal chairs kept on hand at ringside for wrestlers to bash each other over the head with.

  Jackie ran to him.

  “I’m hurt! I’m seriously hurt!” said Tatum.

  “Get back in there!” yelled Jackie. “It’s gonna take more than this to stop me from being First Lady!” She propped Tatum up at the side of the ring, crouched down to get her shoulder under his butt, and with a great ooooomph! sent him back onto the canvas. “Kill him!”

  Tatum stood up and was swarmed immediately. Pimento raked his eyes. He gave him a Dusty Rhodes elbow to the skull. He punched him in the stomach. He kicked him in the groin. He bounced him off the ropes and caught him in the neck with a forearm. He
gave him the atomic knee drop. He climbed up on the turnbuckle to administer the flying guillotine.

  Jackie stood in the corner, grabbing the top rope and screaming. “He’s killing you! Stand up and be a man!”

  Tatum was down on the mat—bloody, blinded, disoriented—crawling in a circle. “Jackie! Where are you? I can hear you, but I can’t see you!”

  Pimento marched around his victim in the ring, doing a Mick Jagger rooster strut. The crowd loved it.

  “Heeeee-yahhhhh!” Jackie came off the top ring rope and caught Pimento by surprise with a scissor kick, flattening him. She sat on his chest and pounded him over and over. “Don’t you ever do that to my Gomer again!”

  The referee slapped the canvas once, twice. But before Pimento could be counted out, he did the patented “body shake” that always removes an opponent before the third slap.

  Now Pimento and Jackie were face-to-face, the fallen Tatum on the canvas between them, moaning and wiping the blood out of his eyes. They started circling each other warily, both hissing.

  The rest of Tatum’s campaign staff became concerned. They were sitting in the first row, on the opposite side of the ring from Marlon, and they got up and approached the official’s table.

  “I think he’s really hurt,” said the chief of staff.

  “Nonsense!” said the ring announcer. “This is great television. Listen to that crowd!”

  Behind them: “Heeeeeeee-yaaaahhhhh!” Jackie grabbed Pimento’s head between her legs in The Vise of Death. He started turning blue. As he was about to pass out, Pimento pulled a foreign object from his trunks, hit Jackie in the nose with it, then threw it out of the ring before the officials got wise. Jackie released her hold and fought to her feet. The blood returned to Pimento’s head and he struggled to stand up on the other side of the ring. Tatum crawled and collapsed in the middle of the mat.

  Jackie was feeling her nose with both hands. “I think you broke it!” she said in a nasal voice. “It’s gonna look all fucked up! I’ll kill you! Ahhhhhhhhh!” She charged across the ring, running over Tatum’s back and mashing his face into the mat. She leaped for a flying dropkick and took Pimento down in the corner.