Except for the me dying part.
But then again, maybe me dying or not dying isn’t where the suspense is coming from. Maybe the last thing I say could be something like, “Mmm, I want a candy pleeze nursey get me a candy” because I’d been lobotomized.
That’d be a shocker of an ending.
Wow, I’m cold. Why am I so cold?
Right. Naked.
I felt my ass mound again, to make sure it was real and not some dream.
It was real. Unless, in the dream, I thought it was real.
In a dream you can die in first-person narration because; dream logic.
Maybe that’s what the afterlife is. An endless dream, where consciousness exists outside of the body because all particles have entangled pairs somewhere else, which means there is in all likelihood a complete copy of your brain, and your consciousness, somewhere in the universe, right now.
Google that shit. It’s real.
“What are you doing out of your room?”
“I wanted to see my ass.”
“You’re becoming more trouble than you’re worth, Mr. McGlade.”
“I hear that a lot,” I told Dr. Plastic Schlimm. “Are you real?”
“I’m very real.”
“What is that?” My voice sounded echoey and far away and I slurred a little.
“It’s an ice pick.”
“Is it real?”
“It’s very real.”
“Where do you even buy an ice pick these days? Who needs an ice pick? All the ice you get already comes in little tiny cubes. That an antique?”
“Amazon. Four dollars and forty-nine cents with free shipping.”
I shook my head, that fact so mind-blowing it made me dizzy. “How does anyone make money off of that? You ever really think about retail and capitalism and how any of it works? Some manufacturer made that ice pick, and they had to buy materials and pay salaries to workers. Plus they have to pay to rent the factory, pay for utilities, pay for shipping to the retailer.”
Plastic came closer. Probably so he could hear me better, because I was so fascinating.
“Then the retailer also pays employees, pays for the warehouse, and even pays for shipping. And then everyone involved in that process makes enough money to pay for their own food and shelter and insurance and they have enough left over to buys things they want, like ice picks. All for less than five bucks.” I blinked. “What’s the ice pick for? I don’t see any ice.”
“I’ve decided to give you your lobotomy now, rather than wait. I’m going to shove it into your brain, above your eyeball.”
“I thought you needed a hammer to do that.”
Plastic lifted his other hand. “I have a hammer.”
“How much did that cost?”
“I got it years ago. I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
“If I bought a hammer and I used it I’d say, ‘Nailed it!’ every time I used it. Because I’m funny.” I laughed at my own joke. “I’d also say, ‘Stop! Hammer time!’ I’m sad MC Hammer lost all his money.”
And I was sad. I knew how that felt. Going broke sucks.
Why was it so damn cold?
Hey, I was naked.
Why did I have a poop bag on my chest?
Dr. Schlimmstic moved up to me with the hammer and ice pick in what appeared to be a threatening manner. I didn’t like that, so I told him to stop it.
“Stop it.”
See? That’s what I said.
“Why don’t we go back into your room so you don’t rip your stitches?”
That seemed smart. I didn’t want to rip my stitches. “Okay. But I don’t like your ice pick. Put that away.”
He listened to me, which I liked. Doctors needed to listen to their patients.
“Wait!” I stopped, realizing the obvious as realization hit me so hard I threw my hands over my head in obvious realization. “I still need a mirror.”
“I have a mirror,” Dr. Plasschlim said.
“Is it a real mirror or one where Japanese ghosts pop out for a jump scare?”
“It’s real.”
Good. Those Japanese ghosts freaked me out.
I felt my doctor’s comforting hand on my shoulder and he led me back to my hospital bed.
“Someone broke the doorknob,” I noticed.
“It’s okay. Get into bed and I’ll bring you the mirror.”
He helped me into bed—what a good doctor Dr. Doctor Guy was—and he went into a closet and wheeled out a nice big mirror.
“Here you are, McGlade. Look what I’ve done.”
I turned onto my side and looked and saw some pudgy guy who had his ass cheeks sewn together.
Hilarious.
I reached out to touch him, but he was flat and cold, like a mirror.
Dr. Whoever kindly put my IV back in, and gently turned me onto my back.
“I’m going to tie your hands to the bed so you’re more comfortable.”
“Sounds nice.”
He went to the closet and found two pairs of handcuffs.
Dude had a lot of handcuffs. Kinky.
He cuffed my hands, and then took an ice pick out of his pocket.
So odd. Who uses ice picks these days?
I wondered where he got it. And what it was for.
“Hold very still, Mr. McGlade. I don’t want to poke you in the eye.”
“I don’t think I want that. Is it gonna hurt?”
“It will only hurt for a second,” Plastic said, sticking the ice pick up under my eyelid.
And then I realized what was actually happening and tried to stop him, but somehow he’d managed to handcuff me to the bed.
“Don’t!” I cried out.
And then I died.
Heh heh. Kidding.
But I really want a candy pleeze nursey get me a candy.
Heh heh. Kidding again.
But some candy would be sweet.
Heh heh. Candy pun.
“Freeze!”
I could only see with one eye, because the other had an ice pick shoved under my eyelid, but someone stood in the doorway.
“Hiya, Jackie.”
It probably wasn’t her.
It was probably the drugs.
But it was nice that my last coherent thought was of a friend.
Wouldn’t that have been a cool way to end this? With Jack Daniels saving me?
Then I felt pressure on my eye, intense pressure, and I hoped that the lobotomy wouldn’t be so bad, and then there was a really loud POP! and a flash of light and blood was everywhere and Jackie was pulling Dr. Schlimm’s body off of me and my doctor was missing part of his head.
“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” I said.
Then I could see again and Jack Daniels was standing over me, an ice pick in one hand, a smoking gun in the other.
Weird. Didn’t see too many ice picks these days.
Jack put her hand on my cheek. “We’ll get you to a doctor, Harry.”
“I have a doctor,” I told her. “But I’m thinking of firing him.”
“I already did,” Jack said.
“You did?”
“Take a look.”
She pointed to the floor.
Dr. Schlimm was on the floor, his brains leaking out.
Talk about losing your mind. Heh heh.
“Is he dead?”
“Still breathing.” Jack went to check on my roommate.
“This is like when I saved you from the Gingerbread Man. Remember? I shot him in the head.”
“I remember.”
But once again, like history repeating itself, or history repeating itself once again, or once again history repeating itself, I didn’t get to say my cool line.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
“Hey, Plastic! You know that subscription you have to I’m Still Breathing Magazine? You won’t need it anymore. Because, uh, you’re cancelled. I cancelled your subscription to life. Not Life magazine, that’s out of print. But life life. Becau
se you are dead as hell.”
Awesome.
And that’s the story of how I caught the devious criminal mastermind known as Plastic.
But it isn’t the big super awesomesauce ending yet. While waiting with Jack and Fabler and Presley for the ambulance to come—when did they all show up?—I was struck by a lightning bolt of lightning lucidity.
“Driver’s license,” I said.
Presley leaned over me, frowning. “He’s rambling. I think Plastic might have given him the lobotomy.”
“I shot him before he could swing the hammer. Plastic is the one with the lobotomy.”
“Jackie,” I implored. “His license.”
She nodded. “I know.”
She knew because we had a telepathic mind link and that’s why I was always able to save her ass in dangerous situations that involved big danger that was dangerous. It took her like ten hours, but she finally found Dr. Schlimm’s wallet and handed over his driver’s license.
It was the greatest thing I ever read.
I showed Jack and said, “Make it happen, partner.”
“I will.”
And I knew she would. Because; telepathy.
“You didn’t aim to kill.”
“I didn’t aim to kill.”
“Classic,” I said, because I was so happy.
And also because I farted through my chest. Weirdly cool.
Then a bunch of stuff happened, and everything got fuzzy, and I was in an ambulance.
Jack was on one side of me. Dr. Schlimm was on the other side, lying on a gurney.
“How long?’ Jack asked. “He’s not going to make it.”
“I’ll make it,” I assured her.
“I meant Plastic.”
My plastic surgeon needed some serious plastic surgery, to put the rest of his head back on. His brains were supposed to be on the inside of the skull.
But he must have had a will to live, because he kept breathing, all the way up until he stopped.
“Now we don’t have to pay him,” I noted.
But I wasn’t paying him in the first place. When Schlimm came to me, he said he wanted to sponsor my podcast. I’d get free Botox and chemical peels, and mention him during my livestream as the go to doctor in LA.
That turned out to be a clever ruse, so the pervert could sew my ass together.
But you probably know that already, because you just read it.
Jack hopped on top of Plastic’s gurney and straddled him.
“Gross, Jack. But kinky.”
She began to do chest compressions on him, putting her whole body into it.
“How long!”
“Two minutes!” said the driver.
When did Fabler become an ambulance driver? I wasn’t paying extra for that.
“Where’s Prim and Grizzly?” I asked Jackie.
“They’re still at Plastic’s, waiting with his other victim,” Jack said between huffing and puffing, “and for the police to come and take Cissick.”
“I caught Cissick, too? I’m awesome.”
And that’s the story of how I caught the devious criminal mastermind known as Plastic.
Then I passed out.
Apparently it is possible to pass out in a first-person narrative.
PHIN
I weaved through the parking lot, looking for Herb’s car, and found him changing a flat tire.
We embraced.
This time I didn’t push him away, even though my ribs were crying. I hugged him and waited for the news.
“Pasha’s in surgery. I told them I was her brother, so they’d talk to me. She lost a lot of blood, but she should make it. Now you tell me something good.”
“Hugo’s dead.”
It hadn’t felt real until I said it out loud, and when that moment hit me, I almost dropped to my knees.
My friend held me up.
“Thanks so much, Herb. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Of course. You’re family. How about Tequila? Chandler?”
“We’re all okay. Hurt, but we’ll live.”
After the embrace, I called my wife. My vision was blurry, and I realized I had tears running down my cheeks.
“Phin? I was just dialing you. You solid?”
The code word we used in front of Sam, asking one another if we were okay. “Solid. You Solid?”
She couldn’t answer fast enough for me. “Solid. I got them. I got them both.”
That’s my girl. “I got mine, too.”
“Pasha? Herb?”
“I think we’ll all be okay.”
She started to sob. I started to sob. Herb also started to sob, but that might have been because someone had slashed the tire on his new Mustang.
It wasn’t Tough Guy 201. Or even 101. But I think we all did pretty good.
“I love you, Jack Daniels,”
“I love you, Phineas Troutt. Get home safe.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Tequila showed up next. He seemed embarrassed by my tears, and eagerly helped Herb with the tire.
Chandler trailed behind him, but had no interest in helping. “I’m outta here. I think I know where Hammett is going. I have to try to stop her.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“I’m just happy you didn’t shoot me this time.”
We shook hands. She also shook Herb’s hand, and gave Tequila a peck on the cheek, before blending into the night.
Amazing lady. I hope I never piss her off.
“Either of you need to go to the ER?” Herb asked, putting the flat into his trunk.
I shook my head. “The airport. I’m booking the first flight back to LA.”
“Tequila?”
He shrugged. “Hospitals are for babies.”
“How about we drop Phin off, grab a beer?”
“Sounds like a plan. You want to join us, Phin?”
Unusual to get any sort of friendly vibe from Tequila. “I gotta get home to my family. Raincheck?”
“Nope. One time offer.”
Awkward. Then he grinned.
“Thanks, Tequila. I owe you.”
“Maybe I’ll take you up on it someday.”
We piled into Herb’s car.
My various pains all began to coalesce and deepen, but I was okay with that. Pain and I had a long history.
But overriding the pain, making it seem inconsequential, was the overwhelming sense of peace I felt.
I was free. I was finally free.
For the first time in my life, no one was out to get me.
THE COWBOY
Want us to follow them?” asks Jeckle from the driver’s seat of the rental van.
The Cowboy shakes her head. “No. Circle and pick me up in five.”
She moves to get out of the vehicle, and Heckle puts his hands on her arm, holding her back.
“You want to bring your gun into an airport?” asks Heckle.
“I’ll get him before he gets through TSA. Just be ready to move. Things are going to get busy.”
She gets out, and they pull away in the rental van.
Phin has already entered the terminal. The Cowboy has the Vaquero inside her jacket pocket, her hand on the butt and her finger on the trigger.
She follows Phin up to an automatic kiosk, and waits for him to buy a ticket.
Hugo screwed up. A shame. I actually expected him to pull it off.
But there were too many variables.
Same as here.
An airport is the worst place in the world to kill someone.
But the Cowboy has no other reasonable choice. She’s been searching for Phin and Jack for so long, and this has been the first opportunity to make things right.
Kill Phin. Get his phone. Have the twins trace the numbers to find Jack.
She looks around for cops and airport security. Sees two.
Phin also sees them, and is avoiding them.
He’s fly
ing under a fake name. Lying low.
He’s also hurt. I can see him cradling his left arm.
I just need to get close enough.
Killing him will take less than a second. Head shot, two bullets. Save the other four in case I need them for the getaway.
Five more seconds to get his wallet and phone.
There will be confusion first. Then panic.
Maybe I can enhance that.
The nearer I do it to the exit, the better chance I have at getting away.
She quickens her pace, coming up behind Phin, doing a last check for security—
Bathroom. He’s going into the bathroom.
Making it even easier on me.
The Cowboy gives him a four second lead, then quickly follows him inside.
Two men at the urinals. One at the sink. Two in stalls.
She checks their shoes, spots Phin’s in the last stall on the left.
Can’t quick draw from my pocket. Could snag.
I need to take the gun out and wait.
One of the men leaves. Another gives her a dirty look, but she ignores him.
Phin doesn’t sit down. He’s not taking a shit. Seems like he’s trying to deal with his injury.
Wait? Or do it?
The man giving her the stink-eye leaves, and so does the other one at the urinal.
He leaves without washing his hands. Some people are just plain disgusting.
Before anyone else can come in, the Cowboy takes the Vaquero out of her jacket and briskly walks to Phin’s stall.
Hinges on the inside. I could try to kick it.
But if I don’t do it on the first try, I’ll alert him. He’ll fight back.
I could shoot the lock off.
But that’s wasting a bullet.
I could shoot him through the door.
That seems like the best option.
The Cowboy raises the gun to chest level and fires three times
A second later she kicks the door.
It doesn’t budge.
She shoots off the lock and kicks again, the door flying inward.
Phin is sitting on the toilet, his chest a mass of blood.
He reaches for her—
He has a knife!
On reflex, the Cowboy drills him twice more, right at his heart.
Phin flops onto the dirty bathroom floor, face-first.
Blood is everywhere.
Five to the chest. He’s dying or already dead.
Chaser Page 27