Part 20 (1/2)

”Don't try to out-act me, kid. And don't worry, you're not the one who's going to die tonight. You're just the audience.”

”Then you can't kill me until we make some popcorn,” I said.

Dennis raised an eyebrow. ”You're moments away from a horrible, painful death and you're able to make a joke about popcorn?”

I shrugged. It had kind of surprised me, too.

Dennis grinned and pointed the knife at Roger. ”Maybe I should kill him instead and make you the audience.”

”No!” Roger protested. ”I want the popcorn!”

Dennis shook his head. ”No, I need to go with my original instinct. That's what they tell you in acting school. Go with your instincts.” He gestured at Roger with the knife. ”Step out of the way.”

”No.”

”No?” Dennis asked.

Roger shook his head and stepped in front of me. ”No. I'm not scared of you. You're a lousy actor. In fact, you suck.”

I couldn't believe it! Roger, who I'd met for the very first time that same day, was placing himself between me and a madman with a butcher knife!

I was in awe.

This was somebody I could imagine sharing a friends.h.i.+p with until the end of my years.

I mean, what a brilliant freakin' end to the whole joke!

Dennis let out a well-acted scream of primal rage and ran toward us. He shoved Roger out of the way, knocking him into the refrigerator so hard that- -that it couldn't have been faked.

He swung the knife at me.

Holy s.h.i.+t!

I moved out of the way and the blade sliced across my chest. It hurt about as much as I would've expected a butcher knife cutting my chest to hurt. My feet slipped out from under me and I landed on my b.u.t.t. As Dennis raised the knife, I wished that I'd never seen any amus.e.m.e.nt value in clumsy baby dropping.

I kicked Dennis in the s.h.i.+n, hard.

He shouted something obscene, loud.

And then Roger tackled him. As the two of them engaged in a fierce struggle, I kicked Dennis in the opposite s.h.i.+n. He cried out, lost his balance, dropped the knife, struck his head on the counter, and fell to the floor, unconscious.

Roger took a moment to catch his breath. ”Are you okay?” he asked.

”Eeep,” I said, gaping at the butcher knife that now protruded from my leg.

Roger crouched down next to me. ”Is it deep?”

”Eeep.”

Roger yanked the knife out. It had only gone in about half an inch, but it still really hurt.

”We need to make a pact,” Roger told me. He pressed his finger to the wound on my leg. ”A blood pact, that no matter what, we will never, ever, ever tell anybody in the entire world that we wet our pants.”

”Agreed,” I said, shaking his b.l.o.o.d.y hand.

And that's basically it. We called the cops, got in a gargantuan amount of trouble, and began a friends.h.i.+p that has continued for twenty years.

Yeah, I know, I'm breaking our pact by telling you about the whole pants-wetting thing now, but technically we made our blood pact using only my blood, so it doesn't count.

- The End - P.S.: For Ms. Peckin's make-up a.s.signment, we did a skit based on Ernest Hemingway daring Mark Twain to eat dog food. We got a D+. We were happy to get it.

A Harry McGlade/Andrew Mayhem Thriller by JA Konrath & Jeff Strand Note to fans of Andrew Mayhem: The following tale takes place between the events of Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary) and Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. But long enough after Graverobbers that Andrew has had time to heal. I mean, let's face it, he was way too messed up at the end of that book to jump right into another adventure, and we don't want the Continuity Police throwing a hissy fit.

Note to readers unfamiliar with Andrew Mayhem: Don't worry, you didn't miss anything that you need to know.

Note to fans of Harry McGlade: Binge drinking is cool.

It all started with mushrooms.

Of course, lots of bad things start with mushrooms, but these were the non-hallucinogenic variety. My wife Helen despises mushrooms. I mean, she loathes them with every ounce of her being, and while she's admittedly a rather pet.i.te woman, she's able to cram a lot of loathing into those ounces.

I myself am no big fan of mushrooms or other fungi products, although in college we had a lot of fun with fungus when my best friend Roger got Athlete's Foot. We called him ”Itchy Roger” over and over and over and over again. I have to admit that it seems a lot less funny now than it was at the time, almost a bit pathetic in fact, but trust me, it was hysterical and kept us entertained for hours on end. The next semester, we entertained ourselves by playing darts with slices of pizza.

Anyway, I was thirty-three and long out of college (well, not that long, but that's another story) and I'd spent the evening out drinking with Roger. Of course, we were drinking coffee, and only one cup each because that stuff was expensive as h.e.l.l. I'd been given two tasks to complete before I returned home: a) Purchase a jar of spaghetti sauce.

b) Ensure that the jar of spaghetti sauce did not include mushrooms.

When I got to the grocery store, I selected a jar of sauce. It had fancy calligraphy on it and a drawing of a smiling man in a chef's hat. The part of my brain that should have been saying ”Hey, dumb-a.s.s, don't forget about the no-mushrooms rule!” instead said ”Gee, I wonder if this place has any sour gummi bears?” I bought the sauce and the gummi bears and left the store.

As it turns out, the drawing was not a smiling man in a chef's hat. It was a giant mushroom. d.a.m.n those poofy chef's hats.

Now, I don't want you to think that my wife is the kind of person who would throw a screaming temper tantrum over me purchasing the wrong variety of spaghetti sauce. Instead, she's the kind of person who would bottle up rage over my lack of a job, my questionable babysitting habits, the incident where I accidentally didn't shut the freezer door securely and ruined hundreds of dollars' worth of frozen meat, and a few dozen other infractions, and let it all come exploding out of her pet.i.te frame in the form of extremely strong disapproval over my choice of spaghetti sauce.

I shouted back at her (though an onlooker might have mistaken it for shameful cowering and groveling) and headed out to do a sauce exchange. As I walked into the driveway, I realized that I'd left my car keys on the kitchen table. Having just been lectured for my lack of responsibility, I didn't think it was a good idea to walk back into the house and sheepishly say ”Uh, forgot my keys.” The store was only ten blocks away. I'd walk.

To keep the walking time to a minimum, I cut through several backyards. I didn't notice the man breaking into an unfamiliar house until I practically b.u.mped into him. I'm not very observant.

He had wavy brown hair and a two-day beard that looked like dirt on his cheeks in the semi-darkness. Clenched in his teeth was a penlight, aimed down at the doorjamb where he wiggled a pry bar. Upon hearing me he dropped the tool and dug into his trenchcoat, removing a handgun the size of a loaf of handgun-shaped French bread.

”Beeb, brubbubber!” he said.

”I beg your pardon?”

He removed the penlight from his mouth. ”Freeze, bloodsucker!”

”I beg your pardon?”

I'd been called a lot of things in my life, many of them only a few minutes ago, but ”bloodsucker” was a new one.

The man pointed the gun at me and glanced down at the jar in my hand. ”What's that? A jar of Type O positive?”