How to Successfully Kidnap Strangers (3 page)

“Well, I’m a hardcore motherfucker.”

“Mom didn’t stop helping you take a bath until you were thirteen.”

“I was afraid of getting shampoo in my eyes. Jesus. You know that.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“I have no concept of time right now.”

His hands were shaking on the steering wheel. Eliza gulped. “Maybe I should drive. You’re kinda fucked.”

Billy laughed. “You’re not insured for this car.”

“And you are?”

“I told you. Me and Jesus are tight.”

“Whatever, man. Let’s just go to Sonic already. I need some meat inside me.”

Billy opened his mouth, but Eliza smacked his chest before he had a chance to say anything.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Billy grumbled something unintelligible and started the car. As they drove toward Sonic, Eliza heard something loud and heavy thumping from the trunk of the car. The sound was drowned out by Billy raising the volume on the car radio. One of the only five good Metallica songs was playing.

They pulled up to Sonic and Billy ordered their food. He held out his hand for Eliza to give him the money, but she just smiled and shook her head. Like she’d trust him to handle her cash. She’d fallen for that kind of shit before, but not anymore. He was too out of his mind to show any disappointment in her distrust for her own sibling. When the Sonic girl came rolling out on her skates, Eliza motioned for her to come around to the passenger side, and she paid her directly.

Eliza loved her brother and all, but he was just one of those people you couldn’t trust. And it wasn’t even the drugs that made him that way. Hell, Eliza did drugs and she managed to be responsible with money. She managed not to rob people. Of course, she didn’t do the kind of drugs her brother favored. She stuck with weed, molly, mushrooms—mostly harmless shit. She didn’t screw around with crank or heroin. She wasn’t suicidal. She just liked to have fun. The crap Billy took, that wasn’t fun. That was writing your own death sentence. But with that in mind, the drugs didn’t cause his tendency to steal, despite what every politician and stuck-up asshole might have thought. Billy was just a thief by nature. Always had been. She remembered when they were kids and the little shit had broken her bedroom lock off while she was on a date. When she returned home, she discovered all of her books opened and her piggy bank shattered on the ground. No money in sight. And he was only like, what, nine when that happened? Dude had only gotten better at his craft. He was the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to swipe a waitress’s tip off an uncleaned restaurant table. The kind of guy who’d reach into a panhandler’s cup and take money out instead of drop any inside. She was not proud of his actions, but he was still her brother, and as much as she hated admitting it, she still cared about him. Their parents couldn’t give two shits about them, so she was all he had—and, sadly, vice versa.

Now she sat there watching him inhale his burger, like he hadn’t eaten in days, but instead of making her feel sad, like it probably should have, it just made her hungrier. She started opening the wrapping on her own burger when she heard the pounding from the trunk again. From the trunk of a car that she’d never seen Billy drive until today.

Shit.

“Billy, whose car did you say this was, again?”

Billy shrugged, smiling that smile he always did whenever he was guilty of something but didn’t want to talk about it. Only this time, lettuce from his burger was sticking between his teeth, and mayonnaise was dripping down his chin, fusing with his trailer trash stubble and radioactive acne.

The pounding in the trunk grew louder and faster. Then the sound evolved from a muffled thud to a man screaming for help.

“Billy, whose fucking car is this?” she asked again, but Billy was forcing the last few bites of his burger down his throat and starting up the engine, backing up without looking behind him and burning rubber against cement as he shot out of the parking lot. The screaming grew louder.

“I may have screwed up,” Billy finally said.

Eliza sat back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes, pretending she was back home in her comfy pajamas, behind her laptop, outlining various scalping strategies for those who didn’t properly indent their manuscripts.

6. TRUNK CARCASSES

“What the fuck
is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who the fuck
was
that guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean,
you don’t know?
”

“I mean, I don’t know.”

“But you guys were fighting.”

“Doesn’t mean I know him, though, now does it?”

“So, what, you two just started fighting for no reason?”

“It seems that way.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I don’t know. He just randomly attacked me on the street.”

“That guy was small. How the hell do you reckon he fought both of us
and
lifted us into my trunk?”

“Drugs, probably. Who knows. Who cares?”

“I guess nobody. Where is he taking us?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“I thought you knew him.”

“Christ, you’re stupid.”

“Hey, fuck you, buddy. Forgive me for being a little disoriented after being punched in the face and locked in my own goddamn trunk while somebody stole my car. I’m not even done finishing off the payments on this thing, and it’s already been stolen twice now.”

“How did it get stolen the first time?”

“I accidentally left the keys in the ignition when I stopped at a gas station. A nearby clown hopped in and took off.”

“Get the fuck out of here. A clown?”

“Yeah. Head-to-toe, full clown get-up. I guess he’d just gotten off his shift at some carnival or something and was walking home when he noticed my ride. When they recovered it, every square inch of the interior was covered in confetti. I still haven’t gotten all of it out.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, man. Clowns are assholes.”

“Why does it smell so badly in here? What do you keep in your trunk?”

“I . . . uh, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“What’s in this bag?”

“You leave my bag alone. It’s of no concern to you.”

“You’re pretty touchy.”

“You’re the one touching things.”

“Calm down.”

“That’s kind of hard.”

“Now, shut up, just listen. I’m thinking, despite me not knowing him, this guy
does
know me.”

“How so?”

“He knew my name.”

“But you don’t know him?”

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“I’m Harlan. You?”

“Lewis.”

“Well, I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, maybe under different circumstances . . .”

“Where do you think this guy’s taking us?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to like me too much, though.”

“I don’t have time for this. I have places to be.”

“And I don’t?”

“Do you frequently piss off strangers?”

“Probably. This is the first time somebody’s ever acted out on it, though.”

“Do you think he’s going to kill us?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“Man, you can’t just tell somebody that.”

“Didn’t you see the crazy look in his eyes? He would have probably killed me on the street if you hadn’t interrupted him. Now he’ll kill you, too.”

“Shit.”

“Maybe we can pound on the roof some more, maybe scream a little louder.”

“Do you think that’ll help?”

“Probably not.”

“Hmm. Let’s do it anyway.”

7. BEER SHITS

“Your nipples are
hard.”

Louise woke up, mouth tasting like a mixture of hard liquor and male ejaculate, and she made a mental note to write a bizarro detective novel called
Rum & Cum
. It could be a sequel to her previous book,
Grits & Clits
.

Stephen sat on the couch, staring at her. He had a mostly empty bottle of beer in his lap, resting next to his crotch. She wondered if he had actually drank the beer or if he’d dumped half into the sink to keep up the false persona of a hardcore alcoholic. Stephen didn’t even like beer.

“I said your nipples are hard,” he said.

“No shit. It’s freezing in this apartment.”

“Do you know where Billy went?”

“You just saw me wake up two seconds ago. Why would I know?”

“I just wondered.”

“Did you actually drink that beer, or are you wasting them again?”

Stephen’s cheeks turned red. “Don’t you have a book deadline?”

“I’d prefer not to think about that.”

“Yeah, until Nick’s getting on your ass about it, asking why it isn’t done yet.”

“Would you be okay with that?”

“Okay with what?”

“With Nick on my ass.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Maybe later.” Louise yawned and scratched her crotch. “I have to take a dump first.”

“You’re one classy chick.”

“That’s why I make the big bucks.”

Louise stood in the bathroom a moment, debating if she really wanted to clean up the vomit that had made itself present all over the toilet. Seriously, just everywhere. The bowl, the lid, the tank, even the wall behind the toilet. Just looking at it all almost induced her own offering of puke. She turned around and left the bathroom before she contributed to the mess.

“You didn’t even flush,” Stephen said as she passed. She responded with a middle finger.

Louise threw on some clothes, wincing at the cramp in her stomach. Fucking beer shits, they were the worst. They sneak up on you like a rattlesnake in the desert, slithering up to your boot and waiting to pounce upon your ankle. Maybe she shouldn’t have drank so much last night. Maybe she should have never stopped drinking. She could’ve forced herself to stay awake and drink until her death. Drink until she made her decomposed parents proud. Now her old man was a drunk worth aspiring to. He always said the best cure for a hangover was more alcohol. She’d tried that once and just started vomiting inside the beer bottle.

She would never have the liver of a dirty old man, and sometimes this was the most depressing realization in the world. Gone were Louise’s dreams of being the new Bukowski. When she was younger, she’d lock herself in her room and reread Buk’s entire bibliography. Ol’ Hank was her first crush. She’d hide under blankets and masturbate to his nasty, ugly words. Ugly was the new pretty. She didn’t want people to tell her she was beautiful. She wanted to be vile. She wasn’t happy until onlookers were grimacing. Dirt was sexy. Bloody fingernails were hot as fuck. Heart-shaped candies and red roses were not.

“You wanna come with me to the gas station?” she asked, zipping her jeans.

“What for?”

“I’m not using the bathroom here. It’s too disturbing. Plus, we can get some cappuccinos.”

“What happened in the bathroom?” Stephen stood up and headed toward it, but Louise grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

“The Lord of Darkness wouldn’t even step foot in that bathroom. Trust me, dude.”

He rubbed his head. “Ugh. Last night was crazy. What I remember, at least.”

“Not much to remember. We drank, we laughed, we threw dildos at strangers, then we came home and you fell asleep on top of me.”

“Oh.” He looked at his feet for support, but they didn’t offer any. “Sorry about that.”

“Whatever. That’s why God gave me fingers, right?”

“I . . . I guess.”

“So, gas station? Yes or no?”

“You paying?”

“Nobody’s paying. That dude with the huge nose is the cashier in the mornings, the one who wants to bang me.”

“Oh, okay, cool. Maybe we can score some muffins, too.”

“Hell yeah, son.”

8. PREVIOUSLY ON
HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY KIDNAP STRANGERS

Billy sped through
town with no apparent destination in mind. Normally Eliza would lecture him on his driving, but she was too distracted with the whole “body in the trunk” dilemma. There were a few bites left of her burger, but she was no longer hungry. She dropped the remainder of her food in the Sonic bag and balled it up at her feet. Confetti littered the car floor. Did this car belong to a clown? What the hell?

She groaned, wishing she’d never called her brother today. She should’ve just stayed home, kept formatting and boiled some ramen.

“What do you mean, you ‘kidnapped somebody’?” she asked, thinking maybe she was just hearing him wrong, thinking maybe she was asleep and this was all some stupid dream, thinking this couldn’t possibly be happening.

“I feel that’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“Billy, seriously, who is in the trunk?”

Billy stayed quiet for a moment, like he was in deep concentration.

Eliza rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“I just need to think for a moment.”

“Where are we going?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Who is in the trunk?”

“Now, sis, you can’t get mad . . .”

“Billy, who the fuck is in the fucking trunk?”

“Harlan Anderson.”

Eliza laughed before she realized she was laughing. “No he fucking isn’t.”

Billy nodded.

She let his silence sink in and listened to the thumping from the trunk. Billy was serious.

“How did this even happen?” she asked.

Billy shrugged. “One thing after another, you know?”

“No, Billy, I don’t fucking know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Okay, so, like I said, after last night at the bar, I left everybody and went off to this different party. We stayed up all night doing . . . you know, stuff. Then I left to get us all some coffee and cakes. And I’m standing in line, trying to decide what to get, and the motherfucker comes strolling in like he owns the joint.”

“How did you even know it was him?”

“I just knew, okay? We’ve seen his stupid, smug-ass face on his blog before. Come on now. It’s him.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, he’s standing behind me in line, right? And he’s just acting like a total asshole to everybody.”

“How so?”

“Hmm. Okay, maybe he was just waiting patiently in line. Whatever. He’s still an asshole. So, anyway, I got a lemon pound cake and left.”