by Mark Nutter
The centerpiece was a rocket, fifty feet tall.
“Wow,” I said.
“I know,” said Dr. Glasses. “I built it myself, and I control it from this command center.”
He indicated a switch on the wall labeled On/Off.
“It seems very... simple,” I hazarded.
“That’s because it is simple. What do I look like — a rocket scientist?”
This time he only laughed for seven or eight minutes.
He led me to a rickety elevator and we rode it all the way up. There was a hatch in the capsule at the top of the rocket.
“In you go,” he said.
I hesitated.
“Shouldn’t I have some sort of suit or breathing apparatus?” I asked.
“That would be cheating.”
“How so?”
“It would adversely affect the data.”
The doctor took off his glasses and cleaned them with a carpet remnant, then said, “I need to know how long you can live while floating in deep space without oxygen.”
“Ah.”
I hesitated some more.
“And there’s a line connecting me to the spacecraft so I can return, right?”
Doctor Glasses shook his head.
“Also cheating.”
He grabbed me by my shoulders.
“I’ve made such remarkable progress — sorry, what was your name again?”
“Tom.”
“Tom! So far every animal I put in the capsule died. Success! Now it’s time for a human.”
I really needed the job, but I still had questions.
“How will you get test results if I just float out there until I die?”
“Mr. Pickles will observe you. Then he’ll fly back to Earth with the data.”
A chimpanzee in a space suit climbed up the side of the elevator. I recognized him as the chimp who was supervising the other chimps. He shook my hand, then took his place behind the capsule controls.
I wasn’t sure about this. Was it a good idea? Then I remembered something from the “Get That Job!” weekend: never try “gaming the system” by doing less than what was required. For a moment I wondered if Leo DiPaolo wasn’t “gaming me” when he charged me $3,995.00, but I let the thought pass.
I climbed into the capsule, thinking once we were in space I could punch the monkey unconscious and steal his suit. I didn’t realize Mr. Pickles could pilot the capsule with his left hand while using his right hand to jab me in the neck with a hypodermic needle.
Before I fell asleep I felt gravity push me back into my seat. Dr. Glasses had thrown the switch.
When I woke up I was floating in space. It was really cold and I couldn’t breathe. In my last few seconds of life I glanced at back at the capsule and saw Mr. Pickles making notes on a clipboard with his left hand and eating a banana with his right.
***
So that’s how my body died.
But some part of me lived on in the vastness of space. A soul, or brain waves, or something. The me that lived on was huge. I was part of a billion galaxies. I met the souls or whatever of other beings who died, men and animals, including a horse who had worked for Doctor Glasses and swore he never would again.
I never expected to become part of infinity, and to experience time from its beginning to its ultimate end. But here I am.
I can’t recommend Leo DiPaolo’s weekend highly enough.
Kidnapping Is Not For Everybody
“You’re free to go,” I told her.
“What?” She was shocked. “But you haven’t finished chaining me up. You did one wrist, that’s all.”
“Don’t you want to leave?”
“Of course I want to leave. But — why?”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
It was strange, especially after all the time and money I invested turning my basement into a dungeon. Not an S&M, B&D dungeon, mind you. I wasn’t into kinky stuff. I just wanted a place to keep the person I kidnapped.
I didn’t want anyone to know what I was up to, so I had different contractors do different parts of the dungeon: the chains were done by a guy from the Chains Depot, Mr. Soundproofing did the soundproofing, the closed-circuit cameras were done by the Closed-Circuit Camera Crew (one guy, what a rip-off). I polished the surgical table myself, because the Surgical Table Polisher was booked through the end of the year.
You may be wondering what I was doing with a surgical table, if I wasn’t into kinky stuff. It was an impulse buy. They say you shouldn’t go to a grocery store when you’re hungry. Likewise you shouldn’t go to a surgical supply store when you’re furnishing an empty dungeon. I was guilty of both, and ended up with a fancy surgical table and fifty pounds of Cheese Curls.
I spent a lot of time doing research, looking for a young single woman who lived alone and walked down dimly-lit alleys. Finding the woman wasn’t so hard. Finding a dimly-lit alley was a challenge. As soon as I’d find a dark alley I liked, they’d install bright security lamps, probably in response to my skulking around.
I finally found Joanne. She would do this little dance down the alley to avoid the safely-lit spots, her version of stepping on a crack to break her mother’s back. I admired her spunk.
“You’re sure you want to let me go?” said Joanne.
“Yes. Please don’t take it personally.”
I freed her wrist.
“You want me to show you the way out?” I said.
“Yes, Randall, I’d appreciate that. I had a hood over my head when you brought me down here.”
“Right.”
I led Joanne up the stairs and out of my house. I made myself a cup of tea, sat at the kitchen table and thought, what was wrong with me? I must have wanted to take somebody prisoner really badly. I mean look at all the trouble I went to. I think maybe I bought into a stereotype. Every day we’re bombarded with images of men kidnapping women and how “cool” that is. They’re really just trying to sell us something, probably chains.
I began to question my motivation. I needed to talk to somebody about this.
I kidnapped a therapist.
“So midway through chaining Joanne up — she’s the young woman I was telling you about.”
“Uh huh,” said the therapist.
“I sort of lost interest.”
“And how did that make you feel?” I freed one of the therapist’s hands so she could make notes.
“Sad. Frustrated.”
“Kidnapping a young woman didn’t fill the emptiness in your life that you hoped it would.”
“No, it didn’t. What do you suggest?”
“Think outside the box.”
I kidnapped a business man.
“What is this?” spluttered the paunchy middle-aged man when I took his gag off. “Why am I chained up?”
“I want ten million dollars,” I told him.
“I don’t have ten million dollars.”
“Don’t lie to me. Your wealthy family is going to pay the ransom. If they don’t, I’ll — buy more equipment. The guy who sold me the chains said he can get me a deal on some tools.”
“But — “
“You see that table? Isn’t that table scary?”
“But — “
“I want to make a video of you crying, saying you’re okay, you haven’t been hurt, you’re being fed — what would you like for lunch?”
“Just a salad.”
“That’s all?”
“I want to lose a few pounds.”
“I made lasagna.”
“Oh man, sounds great. I wish I could.”
“I’ll freeze some and you can have it later, after they pay your ransom.”
“Thanks. What I wanted to say was, I don’t have a family, wealthy or otherwise.”
; “You can’t lie your way out of this.”
“I’m not lying. My parents were poor. I have no family. I live alone.”
He sounded like he was telling the truth. I sat down on the surgical table and thought.
“No family, living alone.” I slapped myself on the forehead. “These are things you look for in a female kidnap victim, not a ransom victim.”
“That’s right,” said the businessman.
“I got confused.”
“What you want is a businessman with a wealthy family,” he suggested helpfully.
“Obviously. I need someone who doesn’t live in a dump.”
The businessman looked hurt.
“I keep it clean,” he said.
“Sorry. I’m going to let you go,” I said as I undid his chains. “Can you see yourself out?”
“When you brought me here I had — “
“The hood, right. This way.”
Well, that was another bust. The kidnap-for-ransom scenario was wrong, I realized. I was doing this for love, not money.
Here I was with this nice empty dungeon. For a moment I considered renting it out through Airbnb. Then I said, no, stay focused on kidnapping.
I kidnapped a middle-aged woman who offered no resistance. A red flag should have gone up.
“Is this where I’ll be kept?!” she said, removing her hood and running down the stairs. “Oh, it’s horrible! Help me with these.”
She was trying to chain herself up. It was off-putting.
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.
“Have you ever heard of the Stockholm Syndrome? Where a captive falls in love with her captor? That’s what I have! I have a Stockholm Syndrome! Oh, I’ve got it bad!”
“That takes weeks.”
“No, it’s happening now! Feel my forehead!”
I got rid of her by giving her a fake phone number and promising to kidnap her again Friday.
I kidnapped an old high school friend, Jeff, who I bumped into on the street. Also a big mistake.
“Jeez, Randall,” said Jeff. “You’re in terrible shape.”
Jeff was still fit. I thought high school football heroes were supposed to let themselves go after graduation, so losers like me could finally feel good about ourselves. Not Jeff.
“Cut out the carbs. Start weight training. Jog two miles a day. Get plenty of sun.” He wouldn’t shut up.
I asked him to show me how to jog. He jogged up the stairs and I locked him out.
I kidnapped an escape artist. Didn’t think that one through either. He called himself Houdini Junior. I’d chain him up and then he’d vanish and reappear in a different part of the basement with a scantily-clad assistant. The first time was entertaining. After the tenth time I was yawning. I asked Houdini Junior to please vanish and reappear in a different town.
I made myself another cup of tea. I kidnapped the therapist again.
“I keep thinking the next kidnap victim will be the one,” I told her. “But it never works out.”
“You’re letting your kidnapping ambitions dominate your life,” she said from underneath the hood. “The reality of kidnapping will never equal your high expectations.”
“So what should I do?”
“There’s more to life than kidnapping. Get a hobby.”
I kidnapped a dance instructor.
“What I really want,” I told her, “is to learn ballroom dancing.”
“I can teach you ballroom dancing,” she said, and I could tell from her crimson gown with the sequins on it she knew her stuff. “Unchain me and we’ll start the first lesson.”
“I want to learn all those moves, like spins and dips.”
“Sure, just get me out of these chains.”
“Maybe some Latin dances too.”
“Unchain me and we’ll do all those Latin dances.”
“What’s the difference between a cha-cha and a rumba?”
“Unchain me and I’ll show you.”
I removed her chains. She spun, leaped into the air, kicked me in the chest, knocked me to the floor, and tangoed up the stairs to freedom.
I felt like I needed some tender loving care.
I kidnapped my mother.
“My goodness, Randall, look at all this,” she said. “It must have been expensive.”
“I wanted it to be nice, Mom.”
“But how much did it cost?”
“A lot.”
“You were always foolish about money.”
“Mom, please just sit down next to the wall.”
“I’m going, don’t rush me, I don’t move as fast as I used to. Look at these fancy chains.”
I chained up my mother.
“Have you had girls down here?” she asked.
“Yes I have, Mom.”
“Randall, there are better ways to meet girls.”
I pulled up a chair next to her.
“Are you comfortable, Mom?”
“Of course I’m comfortable. I’m here with you, aren’t I? Seems like the only time I get to see you is when you kidnap me.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“You’re too thin. You haven’t been eating right. Unchain me and I’ll make a tuna casserole.”
“Okay.”
I unchained my mother. In lieu of comforting words, I would accept cooking.
I sat at the kitchen table while my mom bustled around, making her casserole.
Out of nowhere she pointed her wooden spoon at me.
“I want you to get rid of all that awful stuff in the basement.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Except for that shiny table. That will come in handy when you have company for the holidays.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Promise me you’ll stop kidnapping people.”
“I promise.”
We ate her tuna casserole. I felt better.
She never left. I didn’t even need the chains.
Let’s Be Felonious Out There
“What’s wrong with everybody? Have you forgotten what crime is?”
Every head in the briefing room nodded.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
The briefing room was noisy, but not the good kind of noisy, not like the old days when the air was filled with swearing and ethnic jokes.
Now all I heard was “Excuse me,” and “Please, after you,” as the officers stood in line for coffee and donuts. I was ashamed of my force.
“You’ve forgotten what crime is, and you’ve gotten soft.”
A few officers said, “thank you, Captain O’Malley.”
“That’s not a compliment!” I snapped.
I lowered my voice. “We have a situation,” I said. A few officers said “oh dear” and held their fingers to their mouths.
“Our city has been crime-free for the past three years. We did our job too well. Now the city council thinks they don’t need a force anymore. They want to close us down.”
I heard some “Gosh’s” and “Golly’s” from the crowd.
Briggs, one of our female officers, raised her hand.
“Yes, Briggs?”
“I’m sure the city council knows best, but I just have to say, and pardon me if this is out of line, but I would hate to lose my job.”
Concerned hands patted Briggs on the back, in a supportive and non-sexual way.
“It’ll be okay, Briggs,” said one officer.
“I can cook for you,” said Butler, a young officer. “I can make turkey chili.”
Others chimed in with offers to make side dishes that complemented turkey chili. In addition there were offers to wash her car, walk her dog, and paint her house.
“And I’d do the same for all of you,” said Briggs.
Now everyone was on their feet, patting each other on the back, getting each other more coffee and donuts.
“Sit down,” I said. “Nobody is going to lose their jobs. I have a plan.”
The room was suddenly silent, except for the sound of blank notebooks snapping open. Briggs wrote the date in her notebook. Her pencil lead broke.
“Damn. Oh, sorry,” she said. She crossed to the back of the room and put a dime in the swear jar.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “Since there are no more crimes, we’re going to have to commit some ourselves.”
I could hear SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH as everyone wrote “commit crimes” in their notebooks. I gave them a moment to process the information.
Butler raised his hand.
“We don’t all have to commit crimes, do we?”
“Well, no, obviously not all of you. In order to catch the offenders, a couple of us will have to be police.”
Everyone raised their hand and shouted, “Me! Me!”
I motioned for silence. “But most of you will have to commit crimes.”
Hands were lowered. The officers hung their heads.
A hand went up in back.
“What is it, Anderson?”
Anderson was the oldest member of the force and was well respected.
“As a thirty-year veteran of the force,” he said, “I’d like to be the first to commit a crime.”
“Of course, Anderson. Good for you. What crime would you like to commit?”
“I’d like to — “
Anderson closed his eyes, wrestling with an internal demon.
“I’d like to park in a handicapped space.”
The room gasped as one.
“Anderson,” I said, “you’re missing a leg. You yourself are handicapped. I’ve seen the placard on your rearview mirror.”
Anderson shrugged. “I never wanted to take a space from someone who truly deserved it.”
There was another round of supportive backslapping. Anderson was knocked to the floor, then helped back into his chair.
I wheeled a blackboard to the front of the room and picked up the chalk.
“We’re going to brainstorm,” I said. “I want ideas for crimes we can commit. Well?”
Dead silence. They were thinking hard. A hand went up in the front row. It was Daniels, a normally quiet cop.