by Tim Dorsey
The black H2 continued speeding west on State Road 72. Danielle had made her walloping landfall two hours earlier in Sarasota. Only getting worse. Monsoonal rain manhandled the vehicle. Debris everywhere, Serge practically in a constant slalom. Coleman alternated between off-green and death-pale.
Abruptly, a bright sky. The rain stopped.
“Coleman! Look! We’re in the eye! We made it!” Serge punched him in the shoulder. “Be happy!”
Backseat noise.
“Shut your fuckin’ piehole!” Crack!
“Serge, you really can’t keep hitting him like that.”
Serge put the pistol down. “You’re right. Then I won’t be able to have any fun with my special plan.” He began scanning the side of the road. “I know there’s a pullover somewhere along here….”
Two miles later they reached the locked entrance gate to Myakka River State Park, and Serge eased off the highway. He opened his driver’s door. “Coleman, come on. Help me unbolt this seat in back.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Serge told him.
“But that’s crazy.”
“It’s been a crazy day.”
CRAZY DAY, EIGHT HOURS EARLIER
A black H2 sped south on the Tamiami Trail and crossed the Sarasota County line. Perfect interception path with the next hurricane, six hours from projected landfall. Coleman shotgunned a Busch. “Serge, you’ve seemed down ever since you left that synagogue.”
“Because I had such high hopes.” He changed lanes around a wide-load manufactured home. “Most faiths are on high-pressure membership drives, but back there it was just question after question.”
“Like what?” asked Coleman.
“Like why I wanted to convert. I said, ‘Because there are no rabbis on TV asking for all my money.’ The rabbi said, ‘That’s it?’ I said, ‘And I have most of Lenny Bruce’s albums.’”
“What happened?” asked Coleman.
“He smiled and gave me some books to study and said I was welcome to come back if I still felt moved.”
Coleman glanced at the pile of hardcovers between them. “Looks like they weigh a ton.”
“They did. And you know me—I love to read, except when it’s assigned like in high school and the Brontë sisters almost made me slit my own throat. I asked the rabbi, ‘Don’t you have some kind of emergency fast track? Maybe we can substitute titles. I’ve read Portnoy’s Complaint; can that count?’ But he said not really. I’m so bummed.”
Coleman looked out the window at trees beginning to bend. “Does this mean you’re giving up the religious search?”
“Just the opposite.” Serge patted a King James Bible in his lap. “I now realize what my soul’s been yearning for.”
“What’s that?”
“Fundamentalist Christianity.”
“Now you’ve really lost it.”
“See?” said Serge. “Typical reaction to liberal bias. The Holy Rollers’ only sin is bad PR, which stems from an underdeveloped sense of humor. There’s where I come in. I’ve been working up some jokes. I’m going to get huge laughs at one of their revivals.”
They pulled off the highway.
“Why are we stopping?”
Serge parked in front of a pawnshop. “I just realized I need an electric guitar.”
Twenty minutes later they headed back to their vehicle, pushing a pair of brimming shopping carts.
“I thought you just wanted a guitar.”
“I can’t control myself in pawnshops,” said Serge. “The product line is irresistibly bent. Magician bouquet, beekeeper hat, bagpipe patch kit, Third Reich gravy boat, world-class dragonfly collection. Once I saw a Super Bowl ring. That was back when crack was big.”
He opened the rear of the H2 and began unloading the carts, mostly boosted car audio components and raw ingredients from gutted speaker systems. He finished packing and slammed the doors. Only one thing was left in the carts. Serge grabbed the used Stratocaster and thrust it triumphantly over his head. “Coleman, you drive. I need to practice for my tour.” He climbed into the passenger seat, cradled the instrument and began strumming.
Coleman looked at Serge, then the guitar, then Serge again.
“What?”
Coleman reached for another beer. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to mention the age thing.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve been into the guitar for years. Used to borrow my friends’ all the time.” Serge twisted a tuning knob. “Decided it was finally time I got one of my own. Ain’t she a beauty?”
“I didn’t know you played the guitar.”
“Are you kidding? I can play with my teeth, and behind my head, and duckwalking like Chuck Berry.”
“What songs do you know?”
“Oh, I don’t know any songs yet. You have to start with the basics—” Serge cut himself off. He couldn’t believe what he saw on the other side of the parking lot. “Sweet mother!”
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
“I thought it was just an urban legend….” Serge was out of the car in a flash, sprinting across pavement. “No! Stop! Stop! Stop!”
A Mercury Cougar backed out of a parking slot. On the roof: an occupied baby seat.
“Stop!”
The Cougar headed for the exit. Five miles an hour, ten, fifteen…but the acceleration was smooth and there was no braking. The seat stayed perfectly in place.
“No!” Serge was fifty yards away now. The Cougar had eased up to a stop sign, waiting for a pause in traffic. Serge just had to make it, pouring on the speed, calves cramping from oxygen depletion. “Wait!”
A space on the highway opened up; the car began to go. Serge reached the Cougar and lunged. He snatched the baby seat off the roof and fell backward with it safely in his arms.
The driver got out. He looked kind of familiar, but Serge was still panting too hard to speak. He finally caught his breath and unwrapped the pink blanket in the child seat. A mechanical voice: “Mom-my.” Serge stared puzzled at the lifelike doll, then looked up.
The driver was grinning.
Serge stood quickly. “What the hell’s going on?”
The side panel of a nearby van flew open. A camera crew jumped out. The Cougar’s driver pointed derisively at Serge and smiled wider: “Gotcha!”
Now Serge recognized him. The talentless host of the jokester series Gotcha!, one of the most popular shows on Neville Gladstone’s cable network.
Coleman drove up in the H2. “Way to go, Serge. For a second I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
Everyone else laughed. Someone slapped Serge on the back.
Coleman became confused. “What’s going on?”
“It was all a joke,” said Serge.
A camera zoomed in. “And the joke’s on you! Gotcha!”
“Yeah, you got me good, all right,” said Serge. “But I’m kind of busy, so if you’ll just give me that videotape.”
“What?”
“The tape you shot. I’d like to have it, please.”
The crew laughed louder. “Are you crazy? It’s the property of the show. We Gotcha!”
“I’m sure your parents are proud.” Serge walked over to the H2 and reached inside. He returned with a large automatic pistol. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the tape.”
It instantly appeared in Serge’s hand. “Thank you.” He waved the gun. “Over there.”
“W-w-what are you going to do to us?”
“Nothing. You’re free to leave.”
They made a break for the van.
“No, not you,” Serge told the Cougar’s driver.
“What do you want me for?”
“I’d like to pitch an idea for an upcoming episode. Hilarious prank. Won’t take long.”
The rest of the TV crew watched in shock as Serge forced the show’s host into the Hummer at gunpoint.
Coleman climbed into the passeng
er seat. “Where to now?”
“The City of the Arts.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SARASOTA
This drowsy little Gulf Coast community has a reputation for three things: art, art, art! On every downtown corner, museums, galleries, opera houses, theaters. The city seal even has a statue of David. You’ve probably heard about it because of protests from residents upset that the doors of their police cars have nut-sacs. Then they elected Katherine Harris to Congress. But none of that could impede this city of the future, currently in the throes of a construction spree. And not just mansions and country clubs. Due to the advanced average age, Sarasota can never get enough hospital rooms. So it was no surprise when the ribbon was cut on a new, state-of-the-art medical complex just east of the interstate. And it was even less a surprise when, one month later, cops had to hold back the mob of picketers. That’s right, a second feeding-tube case. It could just as easily have happened somewhere other than Florida, but then again, no….”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Who are you talking to?”
“I wasn’t talking.”
“Yes you were.”
“I was? Wow, that’s embarrassing. I never notice when I’m doing that, but I guess other people do, because they point or give me extra room on sidewalks.”
“What were you talking about?”
“I’ve got this constant narration in my head. Actually, several, which is why the plot is sometimes hard to follow.”
“Look for a liquor store.”
“The second feeding-tube case of which Serge spoke was a young man involved in a surfing accident. The board was thrown clear, but the safety cord yanked it back….”
“Serge, you’re doing it again.”
“…Unlike the previous case in Pinellas Park, kin were not divided. All agreed what was best. The flap came from bused-in outsiders, who marched around the parking lot and made the bedside family listen to megaphones….”
The hurricane bore down from the Gulf of Mexico.
But that didn’t stop the mayhem outside Sarasota’s newest hospital. Waving signs, bullhorns, opinions. A Florida Cable News semi-truck sat in the back of the parking lot. It hummed with generators and electronics-cooling equipment. A thick maze of cables ran from the truck to an adjacent flatbed trailer.
The flatbed held an anchor desk. It was the kind ESPN uses for outdoor pregame shows at the Orange Bowl. Except on the front of this desk: HARD FIRE. The trailer was already surrounded by an expectant audience of devoted fans. The program director opened the door to the semi and yelled inside, “Forty minutes!”
An assistant jogged over with a broadcast schedule. “Got a problem. We’re short on the panel.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Don’s stuck in evacuation traffic. What do I do?”
“Earn your pay. Get a replacement.”
“Where?”
“I don’t care. Just fill the seat.” He looked at his watch. “Thirty-nine minutes.”
Then it went out over the radio: A voluntary evacuation for Manatee and Sarasota counties had just become involuntary.
A lone vehicle rolled down an empty residential street near the shore of tony Siesta Key, an antique bullhorn lashed to its roof: “Today’s evacuation order is brought to you by Rain-X. Apply a single coat to your windshield and the worst downpour slides right off. Rain-X, for when you’re too stupid to evacuate on time…. Last chance to leave. A bad one’s on the way. Fun Fact Sixty-three: Castro once accused the U.S. of trying to steer hurricanes toward Cuba by seeding clouds with silver iodide…. Still not too late to evacuate. Except the 1949 storm had a twenty-four-foot surge in Belle Glade. That’s the middle of the state. So where you going to run?…”
Serge continued working his way across town, sounding the alarm, until he reached the packed parking lot of a spanking-new hospital, megaphone still blaring: “…Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!…Did you know that hurricanes are called willy willies in Australia?…Praise Jesus! He’s the only one who can save us now! I see a bad moon a-risin’!…”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “Look at the size of that protest!”
“This is my comedy forum.”
“You’re going to try your jokes here?”
Serge took off his tropical shirt and slipped into the custom T-shirt he’d made just for the occasion. “Let’s rock.”
The current speaker had the crowd in a zealous froth as he finished reading a letter from the president. “Thank God for our commander in chief!”
Serge and Coleman walked up to a line of speakers waiting behind the podium. A man approached with a roster. “Name and affiliation?”
“Serge A. Storms. Operation Holiness.”
The man ran a pencil down the page. “Don’t see you on here.”
“Agent just booked me this morning. It’s okay. I really am holy.” Serge pointed at his T-shirt: I’M AGAINST WHAT YOU’RE AGAINST.
“Good enough for me. You’re up fourth.” He walked away.
The mob grew more raucous with each succeeding speaker. So did the wind. A minister ripped a photo of Michael Moore to wild applause and left the podium. Serge was up. He climbed the steps and accepted the megaphone.
“Thank you for letting me speak to your club today. Hey, I got a joke for you…. Take my wife—off the feeding tube—please…. Rim shot!”
The crowd’s roaring died down. What did he just say?
“…Yes, sir, we’re all here for a very important cause. ‘Persistent vegetative state,’ ‘poor quality of life.’ Based on that, most of the people I’m looking at right now would be put down…. But seriously, folks…”
The audience quieted further and exchanged puzzled looks.
“…Hey, I got another joke for you…. What did Jesus say to one of the thieves on the next cross?…‘Tough room.’…Bada-bing!…” He tapped the microphone. “…Hello? Is this thing on? I can hear you breathing out there…”
The crowd recovered from silent astonishment and began rippling with growing anger. Gusts whipped Serge’s hair.
“I see I’m losing some of you. Okay, I’m no comedian. But I know what I believe. And I believe what you believe! I agree with all of you two-hundred percent!”
The crowd started coming around. A few shouts of encouragement.
“At first I thought you religious types were completely full of crap….”
Losing them again.
“…But then I got into it. Religions are like countries. The people are wonderful; it’s governments that give the bad name. You’re some of the most decent citizens we have to offer, and the country needs you now more than ever! Our political process is broken and toxic. Forget terrorists; left to our own devices, we’ll eventually rip ourselves apart from the inside. So here’s my solution: no more arguments. We start agreeing on everything. I consider you all part of my American family, and here’s my family values: You don’t quarrel with loved ones, even that one wing of every family who makes you hide the jewelry on Thanksgiving. To quote F. Scott, ‘The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time.’ So I’m a pro-life-choice NRA gun-control nut who wants schools to pray for the separation of church and state. For the love of God, I just want all of us to start getting along! What do you say?…”
“Drop dead!”
“I agree,” said Serge.
The yelling spread quickly.
“I think he’s got something…”
“No he doesn’t!…”
“You’re both right,” said Serge.
The organizers decided it best to get him off the stage before he could divide people further.
On the other side of the parking lot, a program director opened the door to a semi trailer: “Ten minutes.” He closed the door.
Moments later the door opened again; the crowd cheered as TV personalities walked to the flatbed and took seats behind the anchor desk. Staff attached lapel mikes and powdered foreh
eads to cut sheen.
Five minutes.
An assistant ran up to the anxious program director. “I found someone to fill out the panel.”
“Howdy,” said Serge. “Operation Holiness.”
The director noticed Coleman. “Two guys?”
“Like Evans and Novak,” said Serge. “More like Penn and Teller, because Coleman doesn’t say much. At least nothing that would carry any weight at a state dinner.”
The director turned to the assistant. “What’s his shtick?”
“He agrees with everyone.”
“Perfect. He’ll be the opposition.” The director checked his watch. “Three minutes. Get them up there.”
They had just clipped Serge’s lapel mike when the director counted down from five on his fingers, made a fist, and pointed at the center chair.
“Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to a special on-location edition of Hard Fire.…”
The crowd erupted.
“We’re here in beautiful Sarasota for another day of feeding-tube protests…”
Bigger applause. Someone blew a sports-arena air horn.
“But first, this just in: The federal circuit court has ruled that the feeding tube must be removed…”
Booooooooo!
“And now I’d like to introduce our all-star panel. Let’s hear it for the front-runner in the Thirteenth Congressional District, the Reverend Artamus Twill…”
Coleman cracked a beer beneath the desk. Serge checked his Eight Ball.
The program proceeded along scripted lines, Twill up first: “…The other side has clearly demonstrated that they are the Party of Death Worshippers….” Serge kept opening his mouth to get in an edge-word; he kept sitting back. Eventually someone had to take a breath between attacks, and Serge was able to blurt it out. The first time he said it, he was dismissed as one of the kooks the show invites for the regulars to gang up on. But then he said it a second time. And a third. The crowd began to jeer. The other panelists could ignore it no longer:
