How about at the start? . . . The Firebird pulled away from the nearly burglarized widow’s house and picked up the Palmetto Expressway. Serge turned around, slurping from a tube clenched in the corner of his mouth. “How you doing back there? I’m guessing you didn’t read the full obituary because it mentioned he was a war vet with a wife and kids, and even a burglar couldn’t be that low. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Actually there isn’t any benefit coming up; sorry, didn’t think that offer through. You comfy? Hope you are because we got a long wait for sunset. Personally, waiting drives me crazy, so I apologize in advance because I need the cover of darkness. You know the waiting that really drives me nuts? When you’re in a convenience store, and the checkout chick has no supervisor and she’s on her cell phone the whole time, ringing up my coffee and water distractedly with one hand. And I could cut her slack if it was an important call, like the lions grabbed her mother at the zoo. But surprisingly it’s never that call, just pointless chitchat: ‘I told the bitch to stay away from my Hector, and she always brings up that one little time I blew her boyfriend . . . Right, like that excuses everything.’ And even worse, convenience stores have started putting in glass countertops at the checkout, which display the rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets. So now the slowest shitheads in the community are shopping at the cash register, the most critical bottleneck you can’t shop at. The checkout is the Khyber Pass of convenience stores, and if history has taught us anything, it’s to keep the Khyber Pass moving and clear of shithead clogs or it becomes the opposite of convenience.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “But what really burns my ass is when you’re checking into a motel, and the only guy at the front desk is tied up on the phone with some Walmart-cafeteria reject who’s going on and on . . .”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “You might want to watch the road.”
“You watch it. I’m talking here.” He released the steering wheel and Coleman grabbed it. Serge folded his arms atop the back of the driver’s seat. “I can at least cope if the guy on the phone to the motel is making a reservation. But no, I’m standing there waiting in person, and he’s asking a million questions about the place to decide if it’s the right fit for his lifestyle. How late is the pool open, do they have HBO, is it a hot complimentary breakfast or just those big clear dispensing vats of Froot Loops. You know what I did the last time it happened? I lunged over the counter and grabbed the phone and said, ‘Listen, fuck-stick, if you check into this motel, I’ll enter your room in the middle of the night and open your chest cavity with a concussion drill.’ Then I handed the phone back to the desk guy: ‘Funny, he hung up. I’d like a room, please . . .’ ”
And now, five hours later, the captive sat strapped in a chair, staring up at a comfortably numb Coleman.
A banging on the door of the warehouse. “I’m baaaaaack!”
Coleman smiled down at the hostage. “That’s my buddy.”
Serge slid the door open and led two more people inside.
“Who’ve you got with you?” asked Coleman.
Serge held each one around the waist as they staggered forward. “You remember Roger from the Democratic Party, and this other guy is Jansen from the Republicans.”
“They look drunk.”
“Naw, I just gave them a shot of Sodium Pentothol in the parking lot when they were getting off work. Grab me a couple chairs . . .”
Coleman helped Serge get them seated. “But Roger was nice to me. Why do you have to kill him?”
“What are you talking about?” said Serge. “I’m not killing anybody—I mean not these two. I just need to explore the political terrain further, because after I was shunned and they embraced you, I realize I don’t know anything anymore. And since we still have a few hours until traffic clears off the industrial road, I thought I’d put it to use.” He looked around at the ceiling. “This warehouse reminds me of Reservoir Dogs. That whole movie was a bunch of conversations in a warehouse, with some torture and death in between, just like here.”
Serge tossed a wad of cloth, and Coleman caught it against his chest. “What’s this?”
“Just go in the bathroom and put that on.” Serge knelt in front of his two newest guests and tapped them lightly on the cheeks. “Anybody in there?”
Jansen’s head wobbled on his neck. “Wha—? Where am I?”
“A warehouse.”
Roger started coming around. “I feel funny.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Serge. “That’s just the truth serum I gave you.”
“Why’d you do that?” Roger asked in a dull monotone.
“Because I don’t know anything anymore. Our political process appears to be a toxic dance of mutually assured destruction that takes all the citizens down with you, and that can’t be right. So I’ve prepared a little experiment.”
“What kind of experiment?” slurred Roger.
