Electric Barracuda
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Authors: Tim Dorsey
Electric Barracuda
Tim Dorsey
For Nat
People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be.
—A
BRAHAM
L
INCOLN
Contents
Present
O
rlando.
Tourism on steroids. Florida’s mutant chromosome with mouse ears.
One of the newer attractions is an air-conditioned dome over a sprawling, man-made replica of the state’s natural landscape.
They bulldozed nature to build it.
Outside the dome, a dragnet tightened.
An endless string of harsh, red brake lights stretched to the horizon. Evening traffic snarled on Interstate 4 through theme park country. An unmarked Crown Vic with police antennae whipped into the breakdown lane and sped past crawling minivans and station wagons. Its passenger-side tires slipped off the shoulder, kicking up a cloud.
A cell phone rang.
“Agent White here.”
“We got him!” said Agent Lowe. “We finally got him!”
“Serge?”
“That’s the man.”
“Don’t mess with me.”
“I can’t believe it either. After all this time.”
“I’m more amazed he hadn’t been nailed earlier. How many years? How many murders?”
“Dozens.”
“Years or murders?”
“Take your pick.”
“I still don’t see how it’s possible he could remain so active for so long, with nearly every agency in the state after him.”
“It’s Florida. He blended in—and had a lot of luck. But now it’s finally run out.”
“Who broke the case?”
“Agent Mahoney.”
“Mahoney? That nut job?”
“Apparently he got better. How far away are you?”
“Twenty minutes. I’ll be there in ten.”
M
y name’s Serge.
The LSD just kicked in.
I can tell because my legs are walking away.
Come back here!
Legs don’t listen for crap.
This isn’t my first trip. And I don’t even do drugs.
My name’s Serge.
Last time I accidentally got dosed by Lenny. This time Coleman.
And what am I doing in handcuffs? Have I been arrested? Dear God, they’re taking me to jail! . . . Or maybe it’s just this drug—fight the hallucination.
My name’s Serge.
Damn you, Coleman! That boob must have gotten it in the onion dip again. And I can’t resist potato chips. Ruffles. Wise. Lay’s. Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos. Aren’t snacks fucked up? . . .
Snack, snack, snack, snack
. . . What an unnegotiably aggressive sound. The Roman Empire invented snacks, right after the aqueducts. Irrigation flowed, food plentiful, people munching between meals in the city-states. They ate these little, sun-dried meaty things, highly distasteful and falling out of favor until olive oil. I just made all that up. The key to life is making shit up. Everyone does it or society would unravel, like, Gee, your hair looks great! Or: God told me you’re wrong . . . Here come my legs—I’ll try to grab them. Rats, too fast. Why do we even need snacks? More important, why do we need anything else? Do they make Bugles anymore? Bugles were
really
fucked up. When I was six, I’d bite the tips off and play “Taps,” like I’m doing now, except I just have my fingers in front of my mouth with a tiny invisible bugle . . .
. . . People are staring. Act normal.
That’s how I know it’s LSD. People tend to stare. They also stare at me the rest of the time, and I’ve become humbly accustomed to the limelight. But currently they’re staring from a picture in the newspaper on my lap. Some kind of country fair holding prize pig races to celebrate the local yam harvest. Now they’re running around, yelling and pointing at me. They’ve got a bunch of torches and pitchforks! They’re charging! Right off the page, right at my face! Here comes the first pitchfork in my eyes! Hold freak-out! Quick, close the newspaper! . . . Speaking of politics, what’s happening to America? All vital signs spell collapse: unemployment, environment, national security, energy dependence, world respect, violent riots escalating into town hall meetings—our entire population completely polarized, half the country ready to kill the other half. And over what? For a week it was the Dixie Chicks. Things sure have changed. FDR tried to calm us: “Nothing to fear but fear itself.” Now politicians encourage the jitters. Panic is the new patriotism. “Today’s Threat Level: Duck!” But you don’t even want to think of fear on an acid trip.
Fear, fear, fear, FEAR!
My body is decaying! I can feel it! I can hear it! I can smell it! And it smells like . . . liver treats. Who would have thought? I need gum. It’s in that pocket and . . . Wait, what’s this plastic tube? An empty prescription bottle? And it has my name on it.
My name is Serge.
The medication on the label is some serious stuff. That’s weird. But what does this Byzantine puzzle mean? The Byzantines liked snacks, to go with their puzzles . . . It’s slowly starting to come back— . . . Of course! Lenny didn’t drug me back then—and Coleman didn’t this time. I’m just out of pills. My brain must have finally rid itself of their mind-blunting effects. This rampaging, all-over-the-road psychotic nightmare is just my normal thought-party. Excellent.
I
’m looking out a window. We’re moving fast. Florida nightscape whizzing by. Lights blink at an intersection. A screaming comes across the sky. It’s some kind of loud horn. We’re going to crash! Flames soon lapping my flesh! . . . Another illusion. Resist. Close your eyes, think positive thoughts . . . A song. It’s pretty, I’m smiling and singing along in my head: “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?” Exactly: I’m totally re-dedicating my life to getting along with everyone. But who wrote that marvelous tune? Elvis Costello? I hate that fuck . . .
Ouch.
What’s this hurting my wrist? A handcuff again? Sure looks real. Wait, it
is
real. But where did it come from? Maybe this guy sitting next to me knows . . . Excuse me, sir . . . Holy cripes, it’s Agent Mahoney! Now I get it—I’ve finally been captured. And that horn is a train whistle. Mahoney’s taking me somewhere on a choo-choo, probably the Big House, just like in
The Fugitive
. I know: I’ll use this unfortunate downtime to pretend I’m in that TV show. “Serge A. Storms . . . A man wrongly convicted (wink) . . .” We’re coming around a bend. I see lights ahead. Another crossing gate. But what’s that idiot in the pickup truck doing on the tracks? The horn’s blaring nonstop, steel grinding, sparks showering. We
are
going to crash! Hang on! . . .
. . . How long have I been unconscious? Whoa, my head, my wrist . . . The handcuffs broke! I’m free! The train’s on its side, so I’ll just climb out the shattered window that’s up on the ceiling . . . Therrrrrre we go. Trot along the top of the car, leap off the side, tumble down this ditch—
ow, ooo, ow, ooo, ow
—nothing to it, and that’s basically how you escape. Now I just walk to the nearest truck stop, hitch an eighteen-wheeler to Texarkana, reinvent myself as an audience-favorite horseshoe champion who’s a committed pacifist yet expert in jujitsu and ragtime piano and is finally pushed too far when the bank forecloses on a sixth-generation dairy farm and hires goons from the traveling midway to menace a soft-spoken widow who is the only person in town unaware of her own smoldering sexuality . . . Oops, spoke too soon. There’s a flashlight in the distance. A voice. Someone’s coming! Quick! To the bottom of the ditch! Cover yourself with branches and trash!
