Five Dollar Wrench

G.N.P.

"To be, or not to be dead. That is the question for you, Thomas."

His name was not Thomas, and he was in trouble.

After the night he'd had, I thought he might need to be reminded of how he got into this predicament.

"You were hoping to get lucky last night, weren't ya, Thomas? Yeah, about that. I tricked you into switching our drinks, asshole. You drugged yourself."

That's a trick I learned back in Wanatah. Not at the Buckle. At The Other Place.

If you think a guy may have laced your drink, put some lipstick on your finger and slide it along the top of the his glass when he's not looking. He'll see the lipstick and think he grabbed the wrong one. If he doesn't notice it, tease him like he's drinking from your glass. He'll switch 'em.

If he didn't try to drug you, switching the drinks is irrelevant. If he did, he's fucked.

This guy did.

I was furious.

And he was fucked.

That's why he woke up gagged and tied to a metal barrel, with no idea where he was.

"Oh, Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. I like that name. Thomas is a good, strong name. But here's the thing. Your driver's license says Douglas Allen Clark. And your business card says you're a concierge at a casino, which is... odd... since you told me you work for a financial firm in Chicago.

"Also, your truck had a gun in the glove box. That's right here," I said, as I walked over to a filthy milk crate where I'd lined up his stuff, a few feet away. "Don't you worry. The gun's safe and sound, along with your phone, keys and wallet. I wouldn't want you to think any of it went missing. It's all right here."

I ran my fingers along the barrel of the gun for dramatic effect while the wind howled outside. When you're putting on a show, put on a show. Even the weather seemed to hate this guy.

"You tried to drug me last night, Doug. Thought you'd slip some roofies into my drink, eh? What's done is done, but look what happened. I got your gun and you're tied up. I bet you want to talk about that. You can't talk, can ya?"

He tugged at the rope with enough force to make me wonder if it would hold, but it didn't budge.

"You're wasting your time, Doug, and you don't know it yet, but time is of the essence. You and me? We need to talk. But before I can take the gag out of your mouth, we need to come to an understanding."

I looked him in the eyes to make sure he knew I was serious.

"We're in a bricker outside of Lake Marlowe. Have you been there? Well, you're there now," I lied. There is no such place. Is a Bricker even a thing?

"This place has been abandoned for, oh, I don't know... as long as I can remember. If you scream, nobody'll hear you. But if you scream, you'll piss me off, which brings me to the next thing. If you piss me off, you get shot."

I ran my fingers along the tip of his nose to emphasize the fact that I was wearing gloves. I wanted him to wonder why.

"Did you know, forty-five percent of all gunshot victims are shot by their own gun? Don't become a statistic, Doug. 'Course, sixty-three percent of all statistics are phony, but your gun is very real."

Doug was frozen in place, except for his eyes which darted around the room, but it was too dark to see anything beyond the early morning sunlight shining through the cracks in a busted window that had been painted over.

"Hey! Eyes over here, mister!" I didn't know if the gun was loaded, but he did. I was hoping he wouldn't call my bluff. I hate guns.

"This part's important, Doug, so I need to have your full attention. Look at me. Do you see these?"

I held up a handful of what looked like large white pills.

"The street name for these is G.N.P. Shake your head if you're familiar. No? OK. Hang on. I'll show you."

And then, to add some flair.

"I'm gonna use your driver's license to chop one of these babies in half, so I can show you what's in it."

The wind outside made this feel so sinister. Toying with him was almost too much fun.

"Oh, yeah, there we go," I said, pretending to brush bits of stuff off my gloves. "Ignore the white coating on the pills. It's plastic. Plastic is bad for you, but you'll understand why that doesn't matter when I tell you about the brown, almost black, gunk inside. See that?

"That's poison, Doug. I'm wearing gloves 'cause there's no way I'm touchin' that shit. It'll eat right through your skin."

His eyes were wider than Linda's plates.

"So, listen. While you were passed out, I stuffed eight of these down your throat. That was around four in the morning. It's 6 a.m. now. So, we're only two hours in, more or less. Clock's tickin', but we've got time before you start getting sick. We got a few hours, at least. And by tonight you'll be dead. I bet you can already feel your heart rate going up, but don't worry. You're fine. For now."

Obviously, his heart was racing. Wouldn't yours be? I wanted him to feel it.

"The best part is... The part I like most, anyway... I found the bottle of roofies you tried to drug me with. It was in your truck, in the glove box with your gun. That'll make the coroner think you OD'd. Well done, Doug!"

He was frozen in silence as he watched me.

"We're a long way from Gary," I lied. "I'm guessing it'll be a few months before anybody finds you all the way out here, and when they do, your prints will be the only ones on the bottle, because... TaDA! Aren't gloves great? Gloves mean no DNA. I wiped down your truck too, with the rag that's now in your mouth. The pills went in first, though.

"So, Doug, that's your situation and how it's gonna play out. Or..."

And then, I paused, just to make sure he knew I was in no rush.

"Or... you can give me a reason to get you to a doctor. As long as your stomach gets pumped by noon, you'll be fine. Oh, sure, you'll feel like hell, but you'll live. There's a town around twenty minutes away, but if it turns out you need to go to a hospital, that's at least an hour's drive. So like I said, clock's tickin'. Let's not fuck around."

He hadn't even twitched since I mentioned DNA, which was great because I thought that part might be over the top.

"You following along, Doug? Nod if you understand."

He nodded, because of course he did.

"OK then. We've talked about your options. Now, you choose. Are you gonna scream and get shot? Shake your head yes or no. No? Alright. Are you gonna piss me off and get left here to die? Also no. You're doing good so far. Final question. Are you gonna make it worth my while to haul your sorry ass to a doctor?"

He nodded yes, sheepishly.

"Huh. I thought you'd be a bit more enthusiastic about living to see another day."

He nodded again, this time vigorously.

"Alright, alright. I'm gonna take the gag out of your mouth now, so we can talk."

As I removed the gag, I dropped one of the white pills, making it look like it fell out of his mouth. He cringed at the sound of a plink, plink, plink, as the pill fell to the floor, and he shook when he realized what it was.

"Well how about that, Doug? I thought you swallowed all eight. Guess not. If there are any more of 'em in your mouth, you might as well spit 'em out. Are there any?"

He shook his head, no.

"You sure? Swirl your tongue around to check, just in case."

"I...I...I... I'm sure.." He could barely speak.

"Good to know."

"Wwwhhh... who are you?"

"I'm a Russian agent, sent to Indiana to recruit phony financial analysts for a top secret project."

"Wwwhat?"

"I'm the fucking chick you picked up at a bar last night, asshole. Goddamn. We met at The Bitter End and you tried to date rape me, remember? I swear to God if you make me shoot you, the first bullet is going straight to your crotch."

I picked up the gun before laying it down again.

"It www... w..."

"It what, Doug. Spit it out."

"It... wasn't... loaded."

"And now it is. How about that?"

Good. He bought it, hook, line and sinker.

I knew Doug would be passed out for a few hours after he drugged himself last night, so I had time to get supplies before dragging him to the warehouse where Steve got jumped. I picked up the essentials: gloves, rope, a rag to gag him with, and a box of Good & Plenty licorice candies that I easily convinced him were homemade poison.

G.N.P.

L.O.L.

Men are so gullible.

Editor's Note:

The phrase "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" was not written by William Shakespeare. It originates from William Congreve's 1697 play The Mourning Bride:

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."