Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6)

by Margaret Lashley

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I woke up with a crick in my neck and second thoughts running through my mind.

  Bacterial mind control? Seriously?

  The only thing that made sense was the pot of coffee on the stove and the note Grayson had left next to it.

  In the shower. Keep eye out for Amazon delivery.

  I poured myself a cup and flopped back into the banquette that had been my beddy-bye for the night. Considering some of the dives we’d stayed at over the past eight months, the old vinyl booth wasn’t all that bad.

  And then I realized Grayson wasn’t singing. The shower was running, but his mouth wasn’t.

  Then I remembered Earl was in the back bedroom. He probably didn’t want to wake him. I tiptoed down the hall and pressed my ear against the door. Earl was snoring faintly.

  Maybe he was going to be all right after all.

  I smiled and tiptoed back past the bathroom. Just as I reached the main cabin, someone banged on the side door. I sprinted over to it and yanked it open.

  “Mornin’, Miss Pandora!” Garth said.

  “Shh!” I hissed, raising my finger to my lips. “Earl’s sleeping.”

  Suddenly, from the back bedroom, Earl bellowed out the now familiar “Cruller Holler.”

  Garth winced. “Sorry about that.”

  “Never mind. Y’all come on in.”

  “Maybe these’ll make up for it,” Jimmy said, and handed me a bag.

  “Donuts?” I asked. “Seriously?”

  I WAS FINISHING OFF my second with Garth and Jimmy when Grayson graced us with his presence. Somehow, he managed to look neat as a pin. I couldn’t say the same for me. Running on two cups of coffee and four hours sleep, I looked like I’d just finished the night shift at a Waffle House.

  “Gentlemen,” Grayson said, tipping his fedora at us as he passed the banquette and made a beeline for the coffee.

  “Uh, Grayson, we were just going over what we discussed last night,” I said.

  “Oh, good,” he said, glancing at his phone. “The probiotics and the enema kit should arrive sometime before ten o’clock.”

  “Enema kit?” Jimmy asked.

  “Grayson thinks the fastest way to get Earl better is to remove all the bacteria in his gut.”

  “About that,” Jimmy said. “Me and my brother still have a few questions.”

  Grayson poised his coffee cup mid-sip. “Such as?”

  “Ahem ... No disrespect or anything, but Garth and I are still not completely convinced some little bacteria can be responsible for making these guys act so weird.”

  “Totally understandable,” Grayson said. “The fact is, no one knows with any certainty what kind of influence bacteria has on our behavior, how we react, or who we even are.”

  “Right, but—”

  Grayson sidled into the banquette next to Jimmy. “I, for one, am both amazed and amused at the idea that humans, as intelligent and advanced as we consider ourselves to be, are at least partially under the control of single-celled lifeforms.”

  I glanced around at the men around me—a crazy-eyed disbarred physicist, a bucktoothed doomsday prepper, and a conspiracy-nut cop who last night peeled himself out of a fat suit.

  “Maybe you are,” I muttered.

  “Believe what you will,” Grayson said. “But we would all do well to remember that our bacterial brethren predate us by billions of years, and are likely to outlive our species by billions more.”

  “What if you’re right,” Jimmy said. “Let’s say bacteria is what’s driving Earl and those other guys nuts. How do you explain how they got so fat so quickly?”

  “Elementary,” Grayson said. “Yeast is a form of bacteria. The byproduct of yeast’s digestion of sugars is gas.”

  “Like Tooth with the possum stink?” Garth asked.

  Grayson gave a quick nod. “Precisely. And it’s this exact type of ‘bacterial flatulence,’ if you will, that causes bread dough to rise.”

  Grayson glanced over at me. “Ironically, Drex, it appears your satirical description of these men being ‘Pillsbury Dough Zombies’ is both colorful and relatively accurate—despite its being arrived at based on mere anecdotal evidence.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

  A dimple formed in Grayson’s chin. “Who says it can’t be both?”

  Wait a minute. If we’re mostly bacteria, and bacteria produce farts ... dear lord! Are we nothing more than the hapless pawns of parasitic gas bags?

  I’d suspected as much for years.

  “Uh ... excuse me,” Jimmy said. “If I understand you right, Mr. Gray, you’re saying bad bacteria got inside Earl through the donuts, right?”

  “Precisely,” Grayson answered. “And it’s currently driving his thought processes and behaviors.”

  “And the solution is to remove it?” Jimmy asked.

  “Via enema.” Grayson said. “Then we’ll recreate a healthy microbiome by reintroduced probiotics afterward.”

  I blanched, envisioned the three of them hogtying Earl, then ... ugh!

  Garth’s bottom jaw dropped loose. “Uh...”

  Jimmy grimaced. “Sorry, Mr. Gray. But there’s no way we could wrestle him down for that.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I said.

  “Thank God!” Garth said.

  All three men turned their attention my way. “What do you propose?” Grayson asked.

  “Uh ...,” I stammered. “I propose we send a message up Earl’s Las Vegas nerve thing using an artificial chemical stimulant.”

  Grayson eyed me curiously. “I’m not following.”

  I smirked.

  Ha! I finally got one over on him! Score!

  I stuck my nose haughtily in the air. “Well, if I must explain, I’m talking about giving Earl the old X-Lax/chocolate switcheroo.”

  “Of course!” Garth said, reaching over to give me a high five. “That would do it!”

  “What?” Grayson asked.

  “We’re gonna give him a chocolate bar,” Garth said. “Only the ‘chocolate’ ain’t chocolate.”

  Grayson’s eyebrows inched closer together.

  “It’s a laxative,” Jimmy said.

  “Oh.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “I supposed that could work.” He grabbed his laptop. “Garth, quick. What’s your address here?”

  I smirked. “Ordering Ex-Lax on line?”

  “No,” Grayson said, tapping away at his keyboard. “I’m putting a rush delivery on that new mattress.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Grayson was right about one thing.

  What goes in, must come out.

  Luckily, as it turned out, there was no need for Grayson to order the Ex-Lax online. Jimmy and Garth had a stockpile of it in their prepper pantry. Apparently, freeze-dried survivalist meals could really clog one’s pipes.

  After Jimmy climbed up on the roof of the RV and dropped the clandestine “chocolate” through the air vent above the back bedroom, the brothers retreated back to their trailer, leaving Grayson and me behind to “face the music.”

  It didn’t take long for us to realize Earl had taken the bait.

  From the symphony of sounds and smells emanating from the locked-down monster trap bedroom, I knew without a doubt that Grayson and I were going to require alternative sleeping quarters for the night, whether we ever let Earl out of there or not.

  Grayson put a stethoscope against the bolted steel door and listened. “Hmm. From the sound of it, it appears the interstitial cells of Cajal have given up.”

  My eyebrows met. “Is that the name of the alien species of bacteria that’s got a hold of him?”

  “What?” Grayson asked.

  “Those Cajal things! Were they what was on that donut hole thing Earl ate?”

  “Oh.” Grayson’s shoulders straightened. “No. Testing of the cruller fragment isn’t yet conclusive. I need to give the cultures a bit more time to grow.”

  “So what are t
hose intergalactic Jihad cells you were talking about?”

  Grayson dropped the stethoscope, letting it hang loosely around his neck. “The interstitial cells of Cajal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re actually quite terrestrial, Drex. They’re the cells responsible for intestinal activity. They’re inside each of us, acting as the ‘pacemakers of the bowels,’ if you will.”

  Earl let out a wail. Either that, or the world’s longest fart in c-sharp.

  I cringed and glanced at the bedroom door. “Thanks for the biology lesson, Professor Grayson. But if you think I’m cleaning up that mess in there, you’re gonna need your own pacemaker.”

  Grayson looked down his nose at me. “May I remind you, Drex, giving him Ex-Lax was your idea.”

  “Yeah. But locking him in the bedroom without a pot to piss in was your idea.”

  Grayson pursed his lips. “True. But we couldn’t chance letting him out. It seems unlikely he’d be able to control his urges. There’s nothing more addictive than the white stuff.”

  I blanched. “Cocaine? I thought you said your test results on the donut hole weren’t conclusive!”

  “Not completely, no,” Grayson said. “But the white stuff to which I refer isn’t cocaine. It’s sugar.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You think Earl’s gone nuts over sugar?”

  “No. It’s only the catalyst,” Grayson said.

  “Huh?”

  Grayson locked eyes with me. “Drex, if the bacteria infesting the donut wafer sample follow the traits of most known harmful bacteria, sugar is their food of choice.”

  I blanched. “Sugar?”

  “Yes.”

  I swallowed hard, unable to fathom what Grayson was saying. “Okay. Let’s say sugar is this alien bacteria’s food of choice. How does that translate into Earl becoming a flatulent lunatic?”

  “The bacteria are in control of his actions now,” Grayson said. “And what they need to replicate is more sugar. So they’re compelling Earl to go out and find it.”

  “Like some kind of zombie? I’m sorry, but I just can’t wrap my head around that.”

  “My theory is not without precedent,” Grayson said. “Take the case of Toxoplasma gondii.”

  I closed my eyes. “Do I have to?”

  “I thought you wanted an explanation—”

  Earl let out another wail. My eyes flew open.

  I grabbed Grayson’s hand. “I do want an explanation, Grayson. Please. Go on.”

  “Toxoplasma gondii is a parasite that prefers to live in the guts of cats. The best way to arrive in a feline colon is to be eaten by the cat. So, what does it do?”

  My nose crinkled. “Climb into a box of Meow Mix?”

  Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “Close. It gets inside of mice and messes with their minds.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. The parasite lives in cats’ guts and is expelled in their feces. In lab experiments, it’s been proven that mice who ingest this infected cat feces lose their fear of cats. Some mice even become sexually attracted to felines.”

  I blanched. “So, you’re saying this plastic Gandhi parasite knows what it’s doing?”

  Grayson shrugged. “Single-cell sapience. What other explanation is there? Survival of the species is prime directive number one, Drex. And now, here we are, standing on the edge of a new frontier.”

  “New frontier?”

  “Yes. A microbial one. We are the new cats, Drex. And this new bacteria is making humans crave sugary foods—to suit their ultimate survival needs.”

  “Oh, come on, Grayson. Any reasonable person can control themselves and not eat a stupid donut!”

  His left eyebrow arched. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Okay. Let’s put your conviction to the test.”

  “Huh? How?”

  Grayson reached into his pocket and pulled out something near and dear to my heart.

  “Roberta Drex, I hold in my hand your very last Tootsie Pop.”

  Uh-oh.

  I straightened my shoulders. “Yeah. So?”

  “If you can control yourself and not eat this blue-raspberry lump of caramelized sugar for twenty-four hours, I’ll clean up the bedroom after Earl gets out.”

  I grinned and reached for the Tootsie Pop. He pulled it away.

  “But if you can’t,” Grayson said, “you have to do the dirty work.”

  “Ha!” I laughed confidently. “Deal!”

  Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “I suggest you order yourself a bucket and some rubber gloves. I’m wagering that, given the sugar-loving bacteria you’ve been cultivating in your gut all these years, you won’t last a whole day without one.”

  I sneered. “You’re on, professor nerd man!”

  “Excellent.”

  Grayson turned and walked into the main cabin. He pulled open a kitchen drawer by the stove. “I’ll put the Tootsie Pop right here for safekeeping.”

  “Fine,” I said defiantly. “Suits me.”

  Grayson stuck the Tootsie Pop deep into the drawer behind the rubber tray holding the forks and spoons. He glanced at his cellphone. “It’s now seven minutes past noon. If the sucker’s still there at 12:07 tomorrow, you win. If not, you’ve got an unenviable date with Mr. Clean.”

  “Or you do,” I quipped confidently.

  But as I watched Grayson shut the drawer, I began to feel an itchy paranoia.

  My gut gurgled.

  All of a sudden, there was nothing in the entire universe I wanted more than that damned blue-raspberry Tootsie Pop.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  After another hour of monitoring my bacteria-ridden cousin flailing and moaning in the back bedroom, Earl suddenly stopped pounding on the door. His wails ceased, and he became eerily silent.

  I peeled my ear from the bedroom door and went and got Grayson. He leaned in and placed his stethoscope cup to the steel panel.

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  Grayson let the stethoscope drop. “Not unless the dead snore.”

  “He’s sleeping!” I whispered with relief. “Is that a good sign?”

  “I don’t know.” Grayson pulled the stethoscope from his ears. “Earl’s either eliminated the enemy within, or it has eliminated him.”

  My mouth fell open and my gut dropped four inches. “Be honest with me, Grayson. Do you really think bacteria has taken over Earl?”

  He pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, that’s the working theory.”

  I glanced worriedly at the door. “So, what do we do now?”

  “Fill him with bacteria again. But this time, the good guys.”

  “Probiotics?” I asked.

  “Yes. But we need an inducement.”

  “Inducement?”

  “Yes. Something to make him take the capsules.”

  I followed Grayson back to the kitchen. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out his favorite snack.

  “This ought to help,” he said, holding up a quart-sized tub of plain yogurt.

  “Seriously?” I asked. “You’re the only person I know who would consider plain yogurt an ‘inducement.’”

  Grayson stared at me. “I eat it all the time—for my health.”

  My nose crinkled. “I thought you just kept that stuff around because you knew I wouldn’t touch it.”

  “It’s full of natural probiotics,” Grayson said, looking slightly offended. “But I plan on adding some of these, to boost the dosage.”

  Grayson picked up a bottle of probiotic capsules from the counter and shook it.

  “Seriously?” I said. “You think a tub of sour milk and some bacteria pills are gonna cure Earl?”

  “According to the studies I told you about, it’s indeed possible,” Grayson said, pulling the lid off the yogurt.

  He opened the probiotics and started cutting into the capsules, then pouring the powder into the tub of flabby, white yogurt. “These little guys should help balance out Earl’
s moods.”

  I blew out a breath. “I sure hope this dumb plan works.”

  “We need to replenish his microbiome,” Grayson said, glancing down his nose at me. “It’s been shown that lab mice void of gut bacteria act brashly and take a lot of risks.”

  “Act brashly?” I said sourly. “How does a mouse act brashly?”

  Grayson grabbed a spoon and stirred the yogurt. “That’s not the point, Drex.”

  “So what is the point?”

  “When bacteria were introduced into mice missing gut flora, the aggressive ones become calmer—and the calmer ones become more aggressive. Therefore, one could infer that bacteria play a vital role in our moods.”

  I crossed my arms.

  Then I must be completely infested with pisstoffagus femalopilus.

  Grayson turned and headed down the hallway, the tub of yogurt in his hand and me on his heels.

  “Hold this,” he said, handing me the yogurt.

  I took it, then watched in silent horror as Grayson knelt down and began unlocking the eight deadbolts securing the monster trap.

  “Wait!” I said. “What kind of mood do you think this probiotic concoction will put Earl in?”

  Grayson cracked open the door and slipped the yogurt inside. Then he quickly closed the door and began securing the deadbolts.

  “That remains to be seen,” he said, sliding the last lock closed. He turned to face me. “Let’s hope it’ll be a good one.”

  Chapter Fifty

  With Earl tucked away in the back bedroom, hopefully eating copious amounts of probiotic-spiked yogurt, it was time to call a powwow with Garth and Jimmy to plot our next move.

  Earl’s unfortunate “mood swings” had rendered the RV unfit for human inhalation. So the four of us opted to move our discussion outside, to the wooden deck tacked onto the front of the Wells’ boys’ trailer home.

  “Okay, let’s review what we know for certain,” Grayson said.

  I stifled a snicker. Grayson was perched on the edge of a broken-down beach chair, pointing a stick he’d picked up in the yard toward a cardboard box that once contained a fifty-gallon water heater. Topped with that vintage black fedora of his, he looked like a contestant on Pimp My Junkyard.