“Yes!” Serge lowered the microphone attached to a miniature karaoke amplifier and barked in whispers: “Stop it! You’re ruining my presentation!” He raised the microphone and smiled again at the audience. “Sorry about that. Where were we? Oh, yes, and these Freezer Mate tubs are perfect for leftovers in a cost-conscious lifestyle . . .” Serge handed the microphone to Coleman.
“. . . And the vacuum-fresh burp seals make them perfect to store your dope for a potent, more satisfying smoke . . .”
The audience was wide-eyed.
It was an audience of one, gagged and tied to a chair between the beds of a flimsy motel room just north of the Miami airport.
Serge finished the presentation and entered the next phase . . .
A half hour later, they were both lying on their stomachs on opposite beds, watching TV.
Coleman stuck something in his mouth.
Serge stuck something in his own mouth.
“The music’s starting,” said Coleman.
“I feel something coming on,” said Serge.
“Me, too,” said Coleman.
One minute later, both were dancing on their beds.
Serge:
Coleman:
The music ended. Coleman grabbed something off a platter. “I love
“Me, too,” said Serge. “Can I have a celery and cream cheese?”
“Trade you for a deviled egg.”
“Deal.” Two arms reached across the hostage’s lap between the beds and exchanged finger food.
“This is the best Tupperware party ever!” said Coleman.
“And my neck doesn’t itch!”
They high-fived in front of the captive’s face.
“But it seems like we’re forgetting something,” said Coleman.
“I know what you’re talking about,” said Serge. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”
They stared quizzically at each other, then at their captive, then at each other again. Eyebrows shot up in unison: “The fridge!”
They hopped off their beds and collided in their haste.
“Good thing they let us get another room,” said Coleman.
“It was only right,” said Serge. “The floor in the other one was unsafe.”
He opened the fridge and removed a ridiculously heavy cast-iron pot. “Lucky for us that they sold these more durable gelatin molds at the big-box store . . . You know what to do.”
Coleman knocked all the plastic tubs off the display table and dragged it in front of the captive. Then he laid a baking tray on top. It was also made of cast iron.
Serge strained against the weight of the iron pot as he waddled across the room and flipped it over.
“There!” Serge looked up at the guest and smiled. “Since you won all of our Tupperware parlor games—actually by forfeit since nobody else was here—you get the grand finale tribute celebration . . . That’s right, a Jell-O cake . . .”
Serge stuck a single birthday candle in the middle.
Coleman reached with his lighter.
“Not yet.” Serge’s hand explored the bottom of his hip pocket. “Here we go!”
“An M-80?”
“These were mythical to me as a kid. Way beyond cherry bombs in strength, and totally waterproof.” He squished it down into the center of the gelatin so that the only exposed part was the tip of the fuse, resting against the base of the candle. “Fire that fucker!”
Coleman flicked his Bic as Serge cut the room lights. The candle glowed in three faces.
