Chapter 14
As Mark reached for the large remote control to channel surf, he heard the distinctive chirp from his cell phone. A text message had been received. It was from Susan. She had sent it earlier in the day, but his sucky cell phone had just now got it; it tersely read:
Relaxing at the beach.
Back on Sunday.
He almost expelled a mouthful of beer. What a lying whore! She’s something else. What a piece of work she’s become. God, she repulses me! Well, at least she is oblivious to my whereabouts. She obviously doesn’t know I’m down here. Yey! She can blow every pipe on the beach. I’ll keep the gold. I call that a bargain. The best I ever had.
He continued to flip through the channel lineup, but didn’t see anything that he liked. How can so many channels have nothing on them that interests me? Am I that atypical now? Have I always been? I’ll just be another anomalous rich dude with an inner golden glow. Ha-ha.
All Mark really wanted to do is get a goodnight’s rest for the drive back to Charlotte later that morning. He thought another movie would get him drowsy. He was still quite cranked; the adrenaline had stopped being secreted, but it was still making its rounds in his system, along with the caffeine.
Mark remembered that he had some SleepPhast tablets. He popped two out of the blister wrap and threw them in his mouth. He chased them down with the last slug of his Guinness Extra Stout beer.
Mark could feel sleep grabbing him twenty minutes later. He turned the unwatched TV off. Then he took his shoes off and laid his tired body down on the bed’s comforter, making sure not to let his hands touch it, as he had seen the reports about filthy motel comforters. Fecal bacteria media.
He turned off the nightstand light and quickly passed out in his clothes.
At 4:44 AM his twilight sleep was interrupted by a nightmare which blended into his real-life surroundings. In the bad dream, he felt that someone – or some evil entity – was in the motel room, lurking in the shadows. When he awoke, it was like a continuation of the bad dream. Where is this person or thing? Who is he or she … or it? Do they know that I have over a million dollars in gold in my rental car’s trunk? Darn, I think they do!
He was getting very agitated and paranoid. He really thought that someone was somewhere in his motel room, hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike like a cobra. He couldn’t sit down; he was pacing about like a madman. Where is that fucker hiding? “Show yourself, you freakin’ coward!” he screamed across the bed.
He checked the two closets. Nothing. He went to the bathroom. Nothing. He even checked under the bed. Nothing … but an old receipt from Waxway for tampons and condoms. What an odd purchase. He checked again. And again. He was certifiably flipping out.
It got so bad that he was on the phone – talking with no one. Only he thought it was the villain – the one who wanted his gold. Mark was now lost in a netherworld, becoming fully immersed in a cruel and merciless unreality.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the dial tone on the handset. “I don’t have any gold. None. You must have me mistaken with someone else – that other person who has the gold. I don’t know where he or she is at the moment. In fact, I won’t ever know who he or she is in all likelihood. So, I can’t help you with that. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s very late, and I must be getting some sleep. Goodbye!”
Mark slammed his cell phone down on the table and ran out the door. He opened the rear passenger-side door of the Ford Focus and grabbed the smaller suitcase. He opened the trunk and began to remove the spare tire. C’mon, let’s go.
Once it was removed, he carefully laid the two golden C-sections under the spare tire’s recessed resting spot. He positioned the golden boomerangs so that they couldn’t be seen unless you removed the spare tire. They fit perfectly under there; they almost formed a circle, nearly matching the circumference of the spare tire’s rim.
Mark’s perception of reality was all askew now. I must hurry. I must hurry. It’s after me. It’s gonna get me, if I don’t hurry. I’ve got to move faster. I’ve got to get the hell out of here! Why is everything taking so goddam long? Why are the soles of my shoes coated with contact cement? Why can’t my body move faster? What is slowing me down? Have they already drugged me? How did they do it? How?! He was losing it. He was gone.
He quickly replaced the spare tire, tightening the wing nut so that the golden fillets could not move from vibration or from starting and stopping. It was very snug. That gold won’t slide a single millimeter. It’s immobilized and completely hidden. That gold-hungry phantom won’t find it if he/she/it looks here. I’m going to win this golden battle, you lousy freaking thief! This gold is mine! “I’ve paid the price for it in humiliation, goddamit!” He was thinking aloud now.
He then put the black plastic piece and carpet section back over the spare tire. He looked around. Where is that evil bastard? Where’d he/she/it go? Poor Mark was in full flip-out mode.
Mark closed the trunk and snapped his head around again. No one. Good, it didn’t see me. The coast appears to be clear. I’ve got to roll now. I’ve got to get the hell out of here now! I’ve already wasted too much damn time here.
Mark then jumped into the rental car, started the engine and bolted down Harper Avenue to the traffic light. It was red. C’mon, you motherless whore, change! Change to green now! Do it! Let’s go!
After waiting what seemed to be a third of an eternity, the light turned green. Halle-fucking-luyah! There is a god after all. He checked his turn signal; it was on.
He made a left turn onto Lake Park Boulevard with his head halfway out the window. In fact, he had opened all four windows so that he could hear the sounds better outside the car. He needed to know if the person or thing was sneaking up on him. He was so delusional that he believed the entity stalking him could fly through the air … and stop on a dime.
It was getting worse with every red traffic light. He looked in the rear-view mirror, there he/she/it was! The shadowy personage was right behind him. Brother mucker! Let’s go! Go faster! Let’s get the fuck off this goddam island!
Mark didn’t even wait for the red light at Lewis Drive to turn green. He was the only car at the stoplight at 4:57 AM. He depressed the accelerator pedal all the way down in an attempt to shake the person or thing that was tailing him. See ya later, alligator! You aint getting my gold. Game over. You lose, pal. I leave with the gold; you go back to wherever you came from empty-handed. You picked the wrong tourist, douchebag!
He shot through the red light and sped up the southern inclined approach to the Snow’s Cut Bridge. It sounded like the Ford Focus engine was going to blow up as he revved up the bridge. You can’t get me. You can’t take my gold! You can’t have it! It’s mine – only mine! And now I bid you adieu, you horseless prick!
When he got to the apex of the bridge, the Ford Focus was going 82 MPH. He was pressed to the back of his seat. For a fleeting moment, he focused on a blue star in the early morning sky. Is that Venus? Wait, maybe it’s the mother ship. Oh, my God – it is! They’re here!
Just after crossing the crown of the humpback bridge, he thought he saw the phantom on the double yellow line. He drove the white Ford Focus right at him/her/it at full throttle. The car went right through whatever he thought it was. Wow, it can disappear at will. How can I win against that? It has superhuman powers. I’m doomed. It’s over.
Then he tried to get back on the right side of the road. However, Mark turned the steering wheel too hard to the right for the high speed at which he was going. His overcorrection caused the little four-door sedan to skid out of control. It crashed into the low concrete railing on the left side of the bridge.
Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic at that moment. In fact, there were no other cars on the bridge when Mark crashed the Ford Focus into the southbound concrete railing.
After the violent impact, the little Ford Focus flipped over the railing, hurtling sixty-five feet down to the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.
Sploosh! A passing ray paid the ultimate price.