"The 8 Most Things about Family Matters."
I mean f**k it, right? It's just the Internet.
I returned to the front of the club and got back in the car, starting the engine. "Chris returned to the car, frustrated at the lack of progress," Bill Kurtis narrated. "But little did he know, a break in the case was about to come out of nowhere." Before I could take off my shoe and hit the GPS unit with it, I was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires.
In the street beside me, another car shuddered to a halt. A really wild looking dude leaped out of it, sweating like mad. Crazy eyes. He pulled a backpack out with him and walked over to where I was parked. Opening the back door, he tossed the bag inside, yelling "Here! Everything you ever wanted to know about
! Now leave me the f**k alone!"
He slammed the door and left before I could respond, not that I really had a response prepared for that. "Bwah?" maybe. "Gurgle?" Anyways. He got back into his car and peeled away, while I craned my neck to watch him go. Huh. The little sticker on his rear bumper indicated he rented his car from the same place I did.
I leaned over and peered into the back seat. The backpack looked harmless enough, but there was no way in hell I was looking inside to see what was almost certainly a collection of old shoes or interesting turds or whatever crazy people collected. "The mysterious stranger and his parting gift haunted Columnist Bucholz's thoughts. A sign of the growing problem of mental illness in America, or a clue?" Bill Kurtis wondered aloud.
"Honestly dude, I don't evenâ¦" I sighed, exasperated, checking my watch. "Just point me back to the airport. This whole scene has gone several Japanese websites too far past normal for my taste."
"Chris Bucholz turned left at Holland street and proceeded south. The case was getting colder."
"This does not look like the way to the airport Bill."
"6:15. The sun had long since sunk into the sky, and in the darkness, dark thoughts emerged. Columnist Bucholz, the case gone cold before him, began regarding his informant suspiciously. Many years of experience living on the Internet gave him a sense for duplicity. He wondered if he was being played."
"No I stopped wondering about the same time you told me to turn off into the abandoned fish canning district. I've actually reached the point where I've decided to turn you off and navigate like my father did: by yelling at Mom."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"OH, AND WHY'S THAT MAGELLAN?"
"Because your only chance of getting out of this alive is to do exactly what I say."
"Well OK, but I sure hope you're about to tell me to slap you with my dick, becauseâ¦"
High beams in the rear view mirror. Behind me one of those ice-cream truck sized SUVs roared up, passed, then swerved in front of me. I jammed on the brakes, sending the s****y little Pontiac into a barely controlled skid. I came to a stop, the SUV halting a little more gracefully just in front of me. Another little rental sticker on the back bumper. A big greasy looking dude came out, the kind of guy who looks like he's always in the market for a larger gold watch, and doesn't like taking a lot of s**t from comedy writers.
"I'd do everything this guy says," Bill Kurtis suggested.
"Eeeaaaaaaaaaaat meeeeeeeeeeee," I hissed under my breath, keeping my lips still. The skeezy looking guy approached my window. I opened it.
"You're not Bill," he said.
Ahh. The pieces finally fell in to place.
"He got lost," I grinned.
He squinted at me, probably estimating how dirty his gold watch would get if he killed me. "You have the stuff?"
"Back seat," I said, jerking my head in that direction, unlocking the door locks. He eyed me once up and down, then opened the rear door, plucking out the backpack. He unzipped it, peering inside. Closing it again, he slammed the rear door.
"Wait here," he said, returning to the SUV and getting inside.
"Chris Bucholz watched the events proceeding, unsure of what he'd just witnessed. Quietly, and without making any sudden moves, he shifted the car into reverse," Bill Kurtis whispered. I gently did as he suggested, trying not to look like I was taking instruction from the disembodied voice of A&E's famed true crime narrator.
A light flicked on in the SUV. I could see the guy's silhouette inside.
"Working on an informants tip, Chris Bucholz mashed the gas peddle down, hard," Bill Kurtis urged.
"f**k," I squeaked, mashing the gas peddle down. The car whined backwards, quickly redlining the little reverse gear. Through the windshield I watched the guy step out of the SUV, looking back at me confused. His confusion ended abruptly a second later when he exploded, along with his skin and most of the SUV.
"So a brother-in-law who works for a GPS company and a lifetime of studying true crime taught you everything you needed to commit your own, perfect murder?" I surmised, as we drove back to the airport.