Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

by Jeff Strand

  Thomas’ mouth dropped open, a broken bottle sticking in his side. As Roger and I quickly got to our feet, the man grabbed Thomas’ gun and yelped with delight.

  “Bitchin’! Awesome p-piece, man!” He took off running toward the exit.

  Thomas wrenched the glass out of his side, cursed loudly, and began to stagger after him.

  I did the necessary hand twists and the handcuffs dropped to the floor with a clatter. I started to run after Thomas, but my foot came down on a large piece of glass, making me lose my balance and fall to my knees with a gasp of pain.

  “I can’t get these cuffs undone!” said Roger, desperately twisting his hands.

  I pulled the piece of glass out of the bottom of my shoe. It stung a bit, but hadn’t punctured deep. Thomas and the man were gone. I got up and glanced around at the people in the building, all of whom were staring at us now. If one of them was the kidnapper in disguise, we might be in some pretty serious trouble. Actually, even if one of them wasn’t, our current situation wasn’t exactly joviality and high spirits.

  “Give me your hands,” I told Roger. I twisted the cuffs the way we were supposed to, and then gave them a tug. They didn’t come undone. “Aw, great.”

  “People are tryin’ to sleep!” a woman shouted angrily.

  I twisted the handcuffs again, but they still wouldn’t open. “Okay, bit of a problem,” I said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  As we turned to go, I saw that the two junkies from the staircase were now standing in front of the door. This didn’t strike me as a good development.

  We walked toward the door, hoping the junkies were just there to open it for us. Roger continued to struggle with the handcuffs while we walked. I noticed a couple more guys to our left were moving toward us, one of them holding a baseball bat, the other holding a strip of wood with thick nails in it.

  “Happy thoughts,” I whispered. “Just think happy, happy thoughts.”

  We were almost to the door, and it was clear that the junkies had no intention of letting us go. “Hi there, gentlemen,” I said in my most cheerful manner. “If it’s all right with you, we’d like to go help our friend. He was the one who got the broken bottle stuck in his side. If that helps.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said one of the junkies.

  “Oh, give me a break,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “You don’t really think you can take me, do you?”

  The junkie pulled out a switchblade. He snapped the blade open and looked very pleased with himself.

  “Oh, give me a break,” I said, trying to keep my pants dry. “You don’t really think you can stab me, do you?”

  “I dunno,” the junkie replied, giving it a twirl. “What d’you think?”

  “I think this is all ridiculous. We’re all adults here…well, not you two, but you’re close enough. There’s no reason for violence.”

  “Not if you give us your wallets,” the second junkie said.

  I reached for my wallet, and then my stomach took a plunge. “Okay, you know what, even though you did present an extremely valid, workable solution to our conflict, unfortunately I wasn’t really planning on making any purchases tonight, so I left my wallet in the motel room. Sorry.”

  The guys with the baseball bat and nail-laden wood walked up next to us. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I was pretty sure the nails were rusty and would hurt going in.

  “What ‘bout him?” asked the junkie, nodding at Roger.

  “Mine’s at the motel, too. Right next to Andrew’s on the dresser. I was going to bring it but I thought, no, I’m going to be handcuffed, I won’t be able to reach it anyway.”

  “Then maybe we sell your blood,” said the first junkie, waving his switchblade.

  “Now you’re just being silly,” I said. “Nobody would buy my blood.”

  “I said, people are trying to sleep!” shouted the angry woman. “Don’t make me come over there and kick your asses!”

  “Let’s just kill ‘em!” whined the guy with the baseball bat. “Lemme break his head in!”

  The junkie with the switchblade nodded. The guy raised his baseball bat, and then lowered it in surprise. “Holy shit! It’s him!”

  “Who?” asked three different people at once, including me.

  “Him! That guy! You know those death movies? Those things? You know?” He began slapping his palm against his forehead, trying to concentrate. We all watched him. A moment later, his eyes popped open. “Anthony Mayhem! That’s who you are!”

  “Andrew Mayhem, actually,” I corrected.

  “Yeah, yeah! Remember those messed-up dudes who were makin’ tapes of people gettin’ cut up an’ shit? He stopped ‘em! I saw all ‘bout that on TV! It was fuckin’ sweet!” He began gesturing excitedly. “Dude, tell ‘em what you did with that skull!”

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but I really need to help my friend.”

  “Your friend’s cool, dude, he didn’t get stabbed that bad. C’mon, tell about the skull!”

  “Really, this isn’t a good time, but-”

  “Tell us,” said the guy with the nail board.

  “SO I WAS climbing up the ladder,” I said to the fifteen or so people seated in a circle around me. “Now, I didn’t know what I’d find in that attic, but I knew it couldn’t be anything good. I knew that this might just be the day that I died. Let me tell you, being confronted with your own mortality in that way, it really changes a man.”

  I checked my watch for the forty-fifth time in the past forty-five minutes. “I know I’ve said this quite a few times already, but can I go now? I’ll come back to finish the story, I promise.”

  Thomas hadn’t returned, which was disturbing enough, but the kidnappers would be here any minute. At least I had my new friends to protect me.

  “Dude, quit interrupting yourself! I wanna know what happened!”

  “Okay, so, I was being confronted with my own mortality. Then I-”

  The door flew open and two men burst inside. “How’s it going, you bunch of degenerates?” shouted the first, a tall, athletically built man in blue jeans and a heavy brown leather jacket. His short black hair was slicked back, and he had perfect movie star looks and a thin mustache. “Don’t mind me, trolls. I’m just here to meet a friend.”

  His partner was a bit shorter, a bit more muscular, and a lot uglier. He was bald, wore a parka, and was carrying what looked unnervingly like a semi-automatic rifle. He looked a bit embarrassed by his associate’s behavior.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Nail Board demanded.

  “I’m the Magic Man. I’m whoever you want me to be,” the first man informed him. He looked around the room, and then held his nose. “Whoa! How many rotting corpses have you got stored in this place? Haven’t you heard of the tradition of burying your dead? Or does that not apply to druggies? That was uncalled for, wasn’t it? Please accept my apologies, trolls.”

  He continued surveying the room. I wanted to scoot away, but that would have drawn attention to myself. It didn’t matter, because a moment later his eyes met mine.

  “Ooooh, just the person I wanted to see. And Roger, too. And who might your captor be, hmmm?”

  Nobody spoke. The man peered at the people around us, and frowned. “Speak up, speak up, whoever you are. Insane minds want to know.”

  More silence. The man shrugged, and then patted his partner on the arm. “Let’s get them out of here.”

  The people who’d been listening to my story moved out of the way as his partner walked through them and pulled Roger to his feet. Without thinking, I quickly stood up. I glanced over at Nail Board. He gave me a slight nod, which I hoped meant, “Give me the signal, and I’ll whup ‘em.”

  The two men exchanged a confused look. Then the second man shoved Roger aside and pointed his rifle at me. The first man took a pistol out of his jacket pocket and also pointed it at me. I raised my hands in the air.

  “You’ve got about two seconds to expl
ain this,” asked the first man. “Where’s the guy who brought you here?”

  “It’s simple,” I said, trying to subtly wink at Nail Board. He shook his head, set down his board, and stepped back out of the way.

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  I said the only thing I could think of. “I’m Andrew Mayhem, also known as the Headhunter.”

  Chapter 8

  “I BEG your pardon?”

  “You heard me,” I said.

  “No, I’m pretty sure I missed something.”

  “I’m the Headhunter. I promised to bring you Andrew Mayhem, and I did. Just not the way you expected.”

  The man appeared completely flabbergasted. “So, what, you’re saying that you’re…him?”

  “I’m him. He’s me. We’re we.”

  Yes, the “we’re we” part was pushing it, but I had two guns in my face disrupting my concentration.

  He shook his head. “No, that’s not possible. That’s completely ridiculous. There’s just no way.”

  “I showed up for the meeting, didn’t I?” I gave him my broadest smile. “Surprise!”

  The man gestured at me with his gun. “I do believe we need to go somewhere to talk. Let’s go.”

  I shrugged and headed for the door. The other man grabbed Roger by the back of the neck and roughly led him to the door as well. As we left the apartment building, I noticed that Thomas’ rental car was still there. We walked along the sidewalk for a few feet, until the first man shoved me against the building (which miraculously didn’t come crashing down) and pressed the barrel of his gun to my throat.

  “Now, what do you mean, you’re the Headhunter?”

  “I mean, I’m the Headhunter. Fourteen victims in three years, the last dozen all killed by decapitation, and all by the same scimitar. I was going to call myself the Buccaneer, but that didn’t sound quite as menacing. The highlight of my life was killing off all five of those decrepit partiers at once. My turn-ons include women with pierced tongues, the scent of vanilla, and road kill. My turn-offs include law enforcement officials, asparagus, and shallow people.”

  The man stared at me in disbelief. Then his expression changed to pure delight. “That is the coolest thing I have ever heard in my life! What a fantastic fake-out! Oh, wow, we have got some serious stuff to talk about, my friend.” He removed the gun from my neck and extended his hand. “Daniel Rankin.”

  I shook it, which was a bit difficult since my hand was numb from the cold. “Nice to meet you.”

  Daniel pointed to the other man, who was still holding Roger. “That’s Curtwood Foster.” Curtwood didn’t react to the introduction.

  “And what’s up with Roger here?” asked Daniel. “He didn’t know about you, did he?”

  I hurriedly tried to come up with a way to get Roger out of this, but how could I explain away the handcuffs? “Not a thing.”

  “That is so cool! Foster, put him in the van.”

  I avoided looking at Roger while Foster dragged him toward a parked black van. If I was going to be the Headhunter, I couldn’t let any guilt show in my eyes. As it was, I could feel my legs trembling a bit, and my stomach acids were flowing like Niagara Falls. Things were without a doubt getting out of control, but any heroics at this point would just get both of us shot. I had to keep playing this out and wait for a chance to escape.

  “I don’t want him hurt,” I said.

  Daniel gave me a quizzical look.

  “Not yet,” I amended.

  “Well, of course. Gotta keep him in good shape for the games, so we can really hurt him. But you’ll learn all about that later.”

  Foster slid open the van door, shoved Roger inside, and got in after him. I flinched as he slammed the door, and prayed that Daniel didn’t notice.

  “Where’s your suitcase?” Daniel asked.

  Thomas had packed a suitcase, just for show. But it was in the trunk of the rental car, and Thomas had the key. “One of those bums stole it,” I said angrily. “I would’ve gone after him and sliced his homeless head off, but I couldn’t leave Roger. Why did you have me waiting in there, anyway?”

  “Just wanted to get your vacation off to an exciting start. I promised you a wild time, and I aim to deliver. Did you lose anything essential?”

  “Just clothes.” I pointed to some spots of blood that led down the sidewalk. “Looks like he left a trail, though.”

  Daniel grinned. “Wanna go after him?”

  “You better believe it.”

  “Race ya!”

  Daniel started running down the sidewalk. I took a step and nearly slipped. I was wearing sneakers, which weren’t the best footwear for sprinting down icy sidewalks. While my chances of getting the gun away from Daniel were better if we were out of sight of the van, it wasn’t exactly credible that a serial killer who could decapitate five people so effectively couldn’t run down the sidewalk without falling on his ass. I took another step, nearly lost my balance again, and decided to give it up.

  “Nah, don’t worry about it!” I called after him. “He’s long-gone. Everything he took is replaceable.”

  Daniel slid to a graceful halt. “You sure? We could cause him some big-time pain. It’d be fun.”

  “I got here early, so it’s been almost an hour. Actually, I’m freezing to death out here. I hope we’re going someplace warm.”

  “I don’t wanna wreck the surprise. Let’s get in the van.”

  WHILE I feel guilty admitting this, the simple truth is that I’m a darn good liar. Now, Helen does tend to catch me on occasion, and I know I’m caught when I’m treated to The Gaze, but when my spouse isn’t involved, I can fib with the best of them. I am certainly not proud of this, and if I could change my ways I would, but the fact remains that I’m a good liar, and Daniel was buying my story.

  Well, he acted like he was buying it, anyway. But he also made no secret of the fact that he still had a gun, as did Foster in the back. Even if I could wrestle the gun away from Daniel, which I probably couldn’t, I’d end up taking a few rounds of semi-automatic fire from Foster. Some might say that it would serve me right for all that lying, but that’s beside the point.

  As Daniel drove, I explained how everything I’d become famous for was really a distortion of the truth. Yeah, I’d stopped the snuff film creators and distributors, but only because they tried to screw me out of my share of the profits. Nobody left alive knew the truth, not my wife, and especially not Roger. And I told them all about Ned Markstein, my second identity in Manhattan, complete with four (count ‘em, four!) girlfriends. Then I told them about the murders. I’d spent three days quizzing Thomas, so the details weren’t difficult to recall, though getting the attitude right was tough. I basically just tried to sound very proud of my accomplishments, as if I were talking about the time I caught sixty-three pieces of popcorn that were tossed across the room in my mouth, and really only missed the sixty-fourth because of a bad throw on Roger’s part.

  Roger remained silent in the back of the van. I sincerely hoped he knew I was making up the story to help us both get out of this, and not to save my own butt. He wasn’t trying to sabotage my web of lies, so I assumed that he knew. I still felt like a total bastard.

  “So why didn’t you tell me who you were beforehand?” asked Daniel. “You almost got yourself shot!”

  “I love surprises. Besides, you had something special planned for me, you weren’t just going to shoot me.”

  “Yeah, but what if my hatred for Andrew Mayhem was greater than my admiration for the Headhunter?”

  “Then I’d end up slicing your head off and might feel bad about it the next day.”

  “You don’t have your scimitar.”

  “I have my ways.”

  Daniel chuckled. “I think we’ll get along fine.”

  WE ENDED up driving for three hours. I was exhausted, and a bit worried about blabbing my story in that state…I could make a continuity error and give myself away. So I reclined the seat and pretended to
doze. Every so often I would steal a quick peek at Daniel, but unfortunately at no time was his gun resting on the dashboard with a little sign saying, “Take Me, Andrew!”

  When we finally stopped, it was at a small, deserted-looking airport. I could barely even call it an airport, since it wasn’t much more than a runway and a building the size of a shed. I continued to avoid looking at Roger while we got out of the van. I wanted to give him some kind of signal that I had things under control (even if the signal would continue with the current tradition of ridiculous lies), but it wasn’t worth the risk.

  There was only one small jet on the runway. “What do you think?” asked Daniel.

  “It’s nice,” I replied, not sure how enthusiastic I was supposed to be.

  “I own it.”

  “Really?”

  Daniel nodded with pride. “I own a lot of stuff. You’ll see it soon.”

  The door to the building opened, and three people exited. The first, a woman, rushed across the runway, ran the hundred or so feet over to us, and threw herself into Daniel’s arms. They kissed passionately. I thought they were going to start chewing each other’s faces off. It probably would have been a good opportunity to catch Daniel by surprise, but Foster had his gun out and pressed against Roger’s back.

  Daniel pulled away from the woman. She had black curly hair, wore blood-red lipstick, and was just a bit pudgy. She wore an orange halter-top and shorts.

  “Andrew, meet my wife, Josie,” said Daniel.

  Josie regarded me closely. “Isn’t that-?”

  “Yeah. He’ll explain everything later.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Better than being hot.”

  The other two men walked over to us. The first was wearing a parka, had long, greasy hair, and looked like he’d shaved recently but missed quite a few spots. He wore a nicotine patch and had a carrot stick sticking out of the side of his mouth. He nodded at me. “Ain’t that-?”

  “Yeah. He’ll explain everything later.”

  “Oh.”

  “Andrew, this is Stan Tringet. He’s kind of let himself go over the past couple years, but he’s still a good guy. How many hours without a cigarette, Stan?”