Melodrama
Copyright about 10 years ago, with maybe a couple of edits since then

 

            "My baby! That's my baby!" Edna Flossdaily shrieked hysterically as the masked gunman fled the delivery room with her eight pound, seven ounce baby boy. "Somebody stop him!"

            The gunman ran down the hall at full speed, carrying the baby like a football and stiff-arming orderlies with his pistol hand.

            In the waiting room at the end of the hall, Edna's husband, Bob, heard the commotion and stood up. He spotted the gunman approaching and saw the baby. The baby seemed to have Bob's eyes and Edna's nose. Bob scowled and pulled a .357 Magnum from his pants.

            "Freeze, punk! Drop your weapon and throw down that baby!"

            The punk froze. The baby cooed.

            "Hey man," said the gunman in what sounded like a thick Colombian accent, probably indicating a connection to a major drug cartel, "are you crazy man? I'm holding your baby, or at least one that appears to have your eyes!"

            Bob cocked his gun. "You aren't leaving this hospital with that baby alive," he stated.

            The gunman barked a nervous laugh. Sweat squirted from his forehead. With one shaking hand he held the baby out in front of him. With the other he held his gun to the baby's head. With the other he mopped his brow.

            Bob cocked his gun. "I'm going to count down from five, and if you aren't dead by the time I get to one, I'm going to shoot. Ready?"

            The gunman shifted uneasily.

            "Five..."

            The gunman waved the baby in front of him.

            "Four... three..."

            The gunman took a few steps back.

            "Two...." Bob cocked his gun, squinted, and drew a bead on an exposed portion of the gunman. With a shriek the gunman threw the baby at Bob and ran off down the hall.

            "Aaaiiee! Gettim off me! Gettim off me!" Bob clumsily fired off two quick shots down the hall, hitting a candy-striper in the shoulder and the buttocks.

            The gunman returned fire from the far end of the hall, hitting the candy-striper in the forearm.

            Bob handed the baby to an elderly lady.  "Hold my baby, would you?"

            "But of course," she replied. "And you can drop that gun right here too."

            Bob suddenly realized she had a pistol pointed right at him.

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Please calm down, Ma'am. I assure you we will make every attempt to retrieve your baby in good condition, although we cannot actually be held liable for any damages, thanks to this waiver you signed." The doctor waved the waiver in Mrs. Flossdaily's face. Edna was fuming.

            "You damn sure better retrieve my baby! Do you know who I am?" She glared at the doctor. "Do you realize who you're dealing with?"

            The doctor stared at her. He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his chin. He quickly glanced down at her chart. "You are Edna Flossdaily, right?"

            "That's right."

            "Whew, had me going there for a minute--"

            "Edna Flossdaily, Editor-In-Chief of Obstetrics Review magazine."

            The doctor choked on vomit.

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Nurse!" The doctor staggered out into the hall.

            "Good heavens, doctor, are you all right?" She felt his pale, sweaty forehead. "You look like you've seen a lawyer."

            "Nurse, an unauthorized gunman entered the delivery room and made off with Mrs. Flossdaily's newborn son. If we don't set things right she's going to crucify me in the next issue of Obstetrics Review!"

            "Now now, calm down Dr. Christ. I believe the gunman ran towards the visitor's waiting room." She gestured down the hallway, the floor still lined with orderlies writhing in pain from stiff-arm injuries.

            "Well I'm not going chasing after any armed gunmen," the doctor said. "Anyway, Mrs. Flossdaily didn't really have a chance to get a good look at her baby. And I figure, this place is a hospital, right? It's probably crawling with babies, right? Am I right?"

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Don't look back here! Just keep your eyes on the road!" The elderly woman jabbed the barrel of her pistol into the back of Bob's head.

            "Ouch! Okay, okay, just don't shoot," Bob said as he climbed back over the seat and regained control of the steering wheel.

            "And don't try any more tricks like that, or I'll waste you AND the kid."

            "I won't, I won't, don't worry." Bob spotted the electric cigarette lighter.  "Hey, do you mind if I smoke?"

            "Smoke? I guess that would be okay."

            "Thanks. I appreciate this." He pushed in the lighter. "This thing just takes about a minute to get scalding hot, and then I'll be able to light a cigarette and smoke like a pro." He looked in the rearview mirror. The woman was gazing out the side window, though she still held the gun to his head.  Bob couldn't see his son, but he could hear the occasional soft cooing. "Yes," he continued, "just gotta let it heat up for a minute or so, and then I'll catch my cigarette by surprise and burn the tar out of it."

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Joo let heem geet AWAY?" The blatantly stereotypical Colombian drug lord spun his high-back leather chair around and leaned forward on his desk. "How could joo be so STUPIDO?"

            The gunman swallowed hard. "The father had a .357 Magnum, sir, the most powerful handgun in the world." He paused for a moment and stared off into space. "A gun so powerful it could take the left buttock clean off a candy-striper from the far end of a hallway." He shuddered.

            "A TREE FEEFTY SEVEN MAGNUM? Reely? Wow." The drug lord spun his chair around, his back to the gunman. "Wow."

            "It was really scary, sir. Loud bangs all around me. Bang! Bang! I thought I was gonna die, man."

            "A tree feefty seven...." The drug lord spun around again. "I'm sorry, man. I had no idea joo would be in such danger. As of this momento, we are out of the drug business for good."

            "Allah be praised!" cried the gunman with joy. "From now on, it's strictly coffee, no?"

            "No indeeed," the drug lord nodded enthusiastically, "No indeed...."

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Doctor! Over here!"

            The doctor, reaching for a door handle, stopped in mid-motion and looked down the hall at his lovely assistant who was peering out from a distant room.

            "I found a whole room full of adorable, cuddly little you-know-whats!"

            The doctor jogged down the hallway, stopped in front of the room, and stared in through the giant glass windows at the rows and rows of newborn babies.

            "Wow!" he said. "Will you look at all these babies." He read the large lettering painted on one of the giant windows. "Mayter... Mah TER nit tee."

            "Hurry, doctor. I've somehow managed to distract all of the staff nurses in this ward, but we've still got to work quickly."

            "Right," the doctor said, pushing open the door and walking up to the nearest caucasian baby boy. "This one's a cutie. Let's take it." He leaned forward and reached for the baby.

            "Hold it! Doctor, did you read the name?" She directed his attention to the gold nameplate at the foot of the crib.

            The doctor scowled. "'Trump, the Baby.' Hmmm, yeah, this one would probably be missed." He looked over at the next baby. "Now that's a real cute one!" He picked it up. "Oooh, yeah, he's a real cutie. Let's go...."

            "Wait, Doctor!  Look at his scalp."

            "What? What are you talking about?" The doctor examined the baby's scalp. "Whoops! I see what you mean. Three sixes. Damn."

            "THAT one could sure come back to haunt you, Sir."

            "You're absolutely right. Let's keep looking." He placed the baby back in its crib.

            "Hmmm, that's odd," the nurse said as she examined the next baby.

            "What is it, Nurse Peroxide?"

            "You did say we were looking for a replacement for Mrs. Flossdaily's son, right?"

            "That's right. So?"

            "Well according to this chart and wristband, we've just found 'Baby Boy Flossdaily.'"

 

* * * * * * *

 

            Bob placed a cigarette between his lips. It hung loosely as he spoke.  "Yep, the lighter ought to be getting pretty darn hot right about now."

            The lighter popped out with a click. Bob grabbed it, pulled it out, and looked at the bright red heating element.

            "You know," he said, "it would really be a shame if I were to accidentally miss my cigarette."

            "Yes," the old woman replied, "I would imagine it would be excruciatingly painful and debilitating."

            "Then I guess I'll just have to make sure I hit my TARGET!" Bob turned and rammed the lighter hard into the elderly woman's gun hand.

            "Ow!" she cried, dropping the gun and recoiling her hand in pain, the gun firing as it hit the floor, shooting the left rear door open, the elderly woman leaning out to catch it, losing her balance and falling out of the car, her flower-print dress catching on the jagged remnants of the door latch and slinging her under the rear wheels, killing her instantly.

            Bob wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Whew, glad that worked.  Okay, Son, let's get back to the hospital..."

            "Just keep drivin' straight ahead and turn when I tells ya," a gruff voice from the back seat replied.

            Bob adjusted the rearview mirror and saw his son pointing a gun at him.

 

* * * * * * *

 

            Edna had been moved to her room.

            "Mrs. Flossdaily, this is Sergeant O'Malley. Do you mind if he asks you a few questions?"

            Edna Flossdaily sat up in her bed. "Not at all, Doctor. Go ahead, Sergeant."

            "Mrs. Flossdaily, have you recently been to Colombia?"

            "Why, yes I have. My husband and I were on vacation there just last week. But it really wasn't much of a vacation. I mean, I got really sick and passed out and had to be taken to the hospital."

            "Mrs. Flossdaily," the doctor interjected, "we've found your son in our maternity ward."

            "Oh, that's wonderful, Doctor! Thank heavens!" Edna clasped her hands together.

            "Well, that's not all," he continued. "This isn't the same baby I delivered earlier today. Apparently this baby was delivered via Federal Express from the Our Lady of the Medellin Cartel hospital in Bogata. Do you by any chance remember if you gave birth to anyone while on your vacation?"

            "Fed-Ex'd? Hmmm, that's odd. Well, I was pretty woozy for most of my hospital stay, but now that you mention it, I do recall giving birth to someone. But I assumed it was all just a dream since I also thought I saw a little old man on a table next to me being surgically altered to look like my baby, and then it looked like he swallowed several condoms filled with white powder, and then I could've sworn the doctor implanted the little man into my womb... but, no—it just seemed too darn wacky."

 

* * * * * * *

 

            The baby tapped Bob on the shoulder. "Okay, see dat sign up ahead, 'Colombian Coffee Cartel Headquarters?' Pull into dat parking lot."

            "Okay, just don't shoot."

            Bob turned into the lot and parked.

            "Now get out and lie down on da pavement."

            "What? That's an outrage! Why I--"

            "Get out and lie down on da pavement or I blows your brains out," the baby stated.

            Bob obeyed.

            "Now puts your hands together behind your head."

            Bob applauded behind his head.

            "I appreciate da ride, but I'm afraid dis is da enda da line for you." The baby cocked his gun.

            Bob sniffled. "Son... where did I go wrong? Your mother and I haven't even had a chance to name you yet."

            "Oh, I gots a name all right, and it sure ain't nuttin goofy like 'Flossdaily.' In some circles dey calls me 'Mr. Big.'" He adjusted his diaper. "But in da drug war I go by Colonel Robert 'Da Baby' Hogan."

            Bob craned his neck to look behind him. "Before you kill me, would you answer a few questions and explain a few things?"

            "Naturally."

            "Okay, I've just realized that you are obviously not my real son, and that you were probably surgically implanted in my wife's womb while we were in Colombia. The masked gunman was probably one of your cohorts whose job was simply to create a diversion and bring you to this building where you would meet with the leaders of the Colombian Coffee Cartel and regurgitate whatever drug-filled condoms you smuggled into this country...."

            "So what's your question?"

            Bob rolled over onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.  "What brand of condom is the most reliable?"

            "Freeze, Baby!" The Colombian drug lord stepped out of the building carrying an Uzi. "Joo just drop jour gun right there. I don't want any more violence. I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

            The baby stared in disbelief. "Why you dirty double-crossing, no good, gosh darned--"

            The drug lord sprayed a few warning shots, riddling Bob and the baby with bullets.

            "Oops, damn!" He fumbled with the safety catch and set down the Uzi.  "These gun tings are dangerous!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "I'm really sorry about this, Bob."

            Bob sat on a leather sofa in the drug lord's office while a beautiful receptionist and the masked gunman dabbed at his wounds with cotton balls.

            "Aw, it's okay," Bob replied. "You saved my life. Fortunately, I was only grazed."

            "Forty or feefty times!" the drug lord cried, spinning around in his chair. "And the baby... I KEELED the baby."

            "He had lived a full life, boss," the gunman interjected. "He was 79 years old."

            "True." The drug lord spun around to face Bob. "Ahwell, that's that. I will have my beautiful receptionist, Windy, return joo to the hospital. Joo will find that jour real son has been there all along. Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience. And I trust that all questions have been answered and all conflicts resolved. Good day, Sir." He spun his chair around in conclusion.

            "Well actually I do still have one question."

            "Oh really?" the drug lord's voice carried over the back of his chair.  "And what might that be?"

            "Who was the elderly woman at the hospital?"

            The masked gunman chuckled. "Ah, yes. Mammy was there, wasn't she?  She's a tricky one."

            "Jess. I sent Mammy out as a backup, just in case things didn't go as planned. So tell me, Bob, how did joo get away from her?"

            "Well, I, uh," Bob stammered, "I killed her."

            Everyone else in the room simultaneously gasped. Bob felt a sudden pressure-change in his inner ear. He could see the drug lord's chair begin to vibrate.

            The chair suddenly spun around. The drug lord, now red-faced and trembling, slammed a fist onto his desk.

            "Joo... KEELED... my... MOTHER?"

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Here we are. 12th floor detention room." The masked gunman shoved Bob inside. "Now you can just wait here while we decide what we're gonna do to you."

            Bob looked around the room. It was almost completely barren, except for the human skeleton off to the left. Windows filled the outer wall, but none could be opened. Against the right wall was a toilet. There was no toilet paper. A full glass bottle of Alka-Seltzer tablets sat on the tank.

            "And just so you know we're not totally inhumane, I've got some things for you." The gunman began producing things from his pockets. "Here is a pen, just in case you'd like to keep track of the length of your stay by making marks on the wall.... Here is a piece of paper, with which you can wipe your behind if you have to use the toilet."

            Bob took these objects, and the gunman dug deeper into his pocket.  "Here is a piece of string, with which you may floss your teeth....  Here is a glasscutter, just in case you can't get the lid off of the Alka-Seltzer." He rummaged around in another pocket. "And finally, here is a little carrier pigeon to keep you company."

            The pigeon cooed.

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "No, no, it was like a 'Lone Ranger' mask. That's too big." Edna watched as the police sketch artist worked. "Still too big... there, that's it."

            "Okay, we've got the round head and the mask. Could you see his eyes, Ma'am?"

            "Ooh, yes. His eyes were black as coal. They looked just like two lumps of coal."

            The artist sketched, and held up the drawing.

            "Yes! Just like that! And he had a button nose. No no, I mean it really looked just like a button. Rounder. There, that's it!"

            Sergeant O'Malley approached Edna's bed. "He had a corncob pipe, didn't he? Or maybe not, he tries to quit smoking every few months.  Nevertheless, we know who he is. He's one of the biggest names in cocaine trafficking. Known as 'The Snowman.'"

            "Well I hope you catch him AND that baby impersonator." Edna pushed a button and began to lower the head of her bed. Suddenly she stopped and raised it again. "Sergeant, has anyone seen my husband lately? I just realized that he hasn't been in to see me, and I'm beginning to worry that he may have gotten into trouble with the gunman or his associates, perhaps even kidnapped."

            "Hmmm, that's a possibility. Could you give a description of your husband to the sketch artist?"

            "Well okay, he's... sorta... he's got... umm... oh dear me, this is embarrassing. Oh, wait! I've got a photo in my purse!"

            Sergeant O'Malley handed Edna her purse. She stirred through the contents and produced a Polaroid.

            "Okay, now, the masked gunman holding the baby got in the way, but you can still see Bob's face."

            "That's fine, Ma'am," the sketch artist said. "It'll only take me a couple of minutes to get a real good drawing from this."

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Think, dammit, think. There's got to be a way out of here!"

            Bob broke from his pacing and walked over to the windows. He spotted a police station just down the street.

            "Oh great, that's just great," he said. "The police are within walking distance."

            From across the room the pigeon cooed.

            "Yeah, I know, flying distance too. Oh what can we do, what can we do?" Bob raised and shook a clenched fist at the ceiling.

            He noticed that the ceiling was paneled with little rectangular boards of fiberglass.

            "Acoustic insulation," he said. "That eliminates screaming my head off as a possibility."

            The pigeon rustled around in the various accessories Bob had left in a pile on the floor.

            "Hey, watch out, bird! Now look what you've done. You've gotten the paper and string tangled around your leg." Bob hurried over and freed his companion. "You dumb bird."

            The pigeon flew away and settled down by the window.

            "Okay, let me take another inventory and see what we've got here." He sat down on the floor in front of the pile. "I've got this bottle of Alka-Seltzer." He examined the bottle, turning it over and around and slapping it into his hand. He set it aside.

            "I've got a glass cutter. I've got paper, and I've got a pen. I've got a pretty long piece of string. And I've got a carrier pigeon."

            Bob picked up the pen and snapped the metal pocket clip a few times.  "Hmm...."

            Suddenly he sat up straight.

            "Of course! It's so simple!" He laughed aloud. "Why, if it had been a snake, it woulda bit me!"

            Bob began to write a note....

 

* * * * * * *

 

            "Okay, Bob! We've decided how we're going to kill you," the masked gunman shouted as he walked down the hall toward the detention room. He noticed a scrap of paper on the floor outside the door. He picked it up and read it: "Sorry I couldn't stay. Thanks for the hospitality."

            "What the hell...?" He drew his gun, unlocked the door, and slowly pushed it open. He could see the toilet. A little further into the room he could see the entire outer wall. Finally he could see the old skeleton, but still no Bob. Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind. He spun around and fired a shot into nothing but the back wall of the hallway from where he had come.

            He saw the glasscutter swinging at the end of the piece of string.  His eyes followed the string up to the ceiling. He saw the pen stuck in a fiberglass panel. The string ran, pulley-style, through the metal pocket clip, coming back down on the other side of the door.

            He felt a sudden blow to the base of his skull, as if someone had hit him with a cylindrical glass bottle, and then everything went black.

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Welcome to McBurger King. May I take your order, Sir?" The young man behind the counter smiled enthusiastically.

"Jess," the drug lord replied, "I would like something made with jour finest imported beef, preferably from recently-cleared, fertile lands of what once were Brazilian rain forests."

"One McBurger," the young man spoke into a microphone.

"And for joo, my dear?" The drug lord turned to his beautiful receptionist, Windy. "Anything joo want, the sky is the limit."

"Well," she said, studying the menu on the wall behind the clerk, "I don't believe it's fair or responsible to kill our animal friends for food, so I will just have a salad."

"Ah," the clerk smiled, "then might I recommend our new Brazilian Salad, made from real rain forest foliage!"

"Oooh, that sounds exotic!"

"One salad," he said into the microphone. "Anything to drink?"

"Water will be fine," the drug lord replied. Windy nodded in agreement.

"Two Tropical Rain Coolers."

"Excuse me Sir, Ma'am," came a voice from behind. The drug lord and Windy turned and stared into the face of Sergeant O'Malley.

"Well well," the sergeant continued, "we meet again. The leader of the world's largest drug trafficking ring, and his beautiful receptionist, Wilma. Ironically you may be just the ones I'm looking for."

"Joo ain't got nothing on me, Sergeant. Besides, I'm clean now. I deal strictly in coffee."

"All right. You're right. I don't have anything on you. I'm just going around the neighborhood asking people to take a look at these drawings." He held up the pictures of Bob and the masked gunman. "Have you seen either of these people?"

The drug lord's face paled. He spun around, his back to the sergeant, and coughed violently. "No, no, sorry, I haven't seen Bob Flossdaily or The Snowman."

"Fine. And how about you, Ma'am?  Recognize either of these two guys?"

"Hmmm," she scowled.  "Well that one looks sort of like the drug lord's business associate who was sent to pick up The Baby from the hospital earlier today, and that one looks kind of like the guy we're holding hostage at the Colombian Coffee Cartel Headquarters, but I really can't be sure."

"Well, sorry to bother you. If you do see either of these guys, give us a call, okay?"

 

* * * * * * *

 

Bob made it to the elevator and pressed "1." The doors silently slid shut. He stuffed the masked gunman's gun into his pants and unscrewed the cap from the bottle of Alka-Seltzer.

"Okay, bird, when we get to the lobby there's going to be one guard at the security desk." He stroked the pigeon. It cooed in response.

The display flashed 8, 7, 6....

Bob shook four Alka-Seltzer tablets into his palm.

4, 3, 2, the display read.

"You know what to do. God bless ya, pidgee."

The pigeon eyed the tablets hungrily.

 

The guard looked up from his newspaper to see an unidentified, erratically-flying object coming right at him. It looked like a small blimp with wings, and it seemed to be getting larger as it got closer.

"What in blue blazes--?"

It exploded with a loud coo.

The guard clutched his face. "My eyes! My eyes! I can't see!"

Bob dashed over to the front door. He gave a final look back to see the guard stumbling about, knocking over potted plants, face still in hands.

"Good riddance," Bob said. He pushed on the door.

Nothing happened. The door didn't budge. Bob noticed a small sign off to the side: "Door electronically locked for your protection. See guard to exit."

Bob looked back at the guard, who had stopped stumbling around and was now standing with his right hand over his right eye, staring intently at an eye test chart on the back wall.

Bob reached into his pants and produced the pistol. With catlike stealth he crept up behind the guard and placed the gun against his head.  "Freeze, punk," Bob commanded.

The guard froze. "Please don't shoot!"

"Well, you do as your told and you won't get hurt. I want you to unlock the front door so I can get out of here."

"Okay, okay," the guard said. "I'll need to type a code into the terminal at my desk. When you hear the buzz, you can push open the door."

"Okay. And don't try anything funny!" Bob backed up until he reached the front door. The guard squinted and felt his way back to his desk.

"Now bear with me," the guard called out. "I can't see very well, so this may take a few tries."

"Just get on with it," Bob yelled, waving the gun at the guard.

The guard typed at his keyboard. Nothing happened.

"Damn," he said. He continued tapping away, hunched over his terminal.

Suddenly an alarm bell sounded, and a computerized voice echoed through the lobby. It said, "Thank you for entering the destruct code. This building will now self-destruct in ten minutes."

Bob paled. He ran over to the guard's desk. "You shut that off right now or you're dead!"

The guard chuckled and raised a vial of liquid in a toast to Bob. He drank it in one swallow, clutched his throat, gagged, and fell to the floor. Bob knelt down, took the vial from the guard's hand, and read the label: "Hemlock. Use only as directed."

"Here is some Barry Manilow music to soothe you while you await destruction," the computerized voice said over the first few bars of "Mandy."

 

* * * * * * *

 

Sergeant O'Malley returned to the squad car where his partner, Officer Sketch Artist was waiting.

"Any luck, Sarge?"

The sergeant slid into the driver's seat and closed his door. "No, I'm afraid not. No leads whatsoever. I've checked out every home and building in the city, and not one person has seen Bob or The Snowman. No one acted suspiciously-- oh, wait a minute!"

The sergeant suddenly began to kick himself.

"Whoa, hey Sarge, cut that out. You're gonna hurt yourself. What's wrong?"

"Oh, I just realized that we haven't checked the Colombian Coffee Cartel Headquarters building yet!"

"Yeah, you're right. And, hey! Bob is supposed to be mixed up with some Colombians, right?"

The sergeant stopped kicking himself. "Good God, you're right! Come on! Let's go!"

The sergeant and the sketch artist jumped out of the car and slammed their doors.

"Look, Sarge! It's The Baby!"

They studied the corpse. It was The Baby all right.

"All the pieces are starting to fit together now. Remember that corpse we passed a few miles down the road? I'll bet that was Mammy, the drug lord's right-hand mom. Bob's got to be in this building!"

They ran up the stairs to the front door.

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Think some more, dammit, think some more!"

Bob examined the guard's computer terminal. There was a blank screen with a blinking cursor in the upper left corner. Bob typed the word "help." The computerized voice spoke up.

"You are currently logged into Fuzzy Logic, the world's most sophisticated artificial-intelligence processor. Whereas most traditional computers can only think in terms of 'true or false,' I can also consider the possibility of a 'maybe.' Most computers think in terms of 'black or white,' but I can also consider the grays. Most computers only consider absolutes, such as 'on or off,' but I can also consider varying degrees of power. I'm a pretty impressive piece of machinery, if I do say so myself, and at a manufacturer's suggested list price of only $19,795 I'm a heck of a bargain, too. I am currently running task #42,705, Microsoft Destruct 95. Shall I continue?"

Bob typed "NO."

"Fair enough," the computer replied. "Please enter the 'Stop the Madness' code sequence."

Bob stared at the keyboard, his index finger hovering in uncertainty.  Finally he tapped out a few random numbers.

"Nice try," the computer said. "You now have seven minutes until destruction."

There was a knock at the front door. Bob saw two men in police uniforms.

"Oh, thank you, God!"

Bob ran over to the door and shouted, "I'm locked in here and the building is going to blow up in seven minutes!"

The officers shook their heads and pointed to their ears. One cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, but Bob couldn't hear him either. Bob pointed to his ears and shook his head.

One of the officers produced a pen and wrote on a sheet of paper. He held up the sheet, while the other officer held up two drawings. Bob read the note: "Have you seen either of these guys?"

Bob shook his head and shrugged. The officers tipped their hats and started to walk away. Bob began pounding on the glass.

 

"Hey Sarge, you can't really tell from the drawing, but," the sketch artist pulled the Polaroid photo from his breast pocket, "that guy looked just like Bob Flossdaily."

They heard the pounding and turned around.

"You're right! That's him! Get on the radio and let everyone know that we've found him!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

"I'm Johnny Heartthrob, you're listening to KARE, the station that cares about YOU. We've got Officer Sketch Artist on the line. Hello, you're on the air."

"Hello Johnny. I just want to say that I love your show. Long time listener, first time caller."

"Well thanks, Sketch. What's on your mind?"

"Well I wanted to let everyone know that we've found Bob Flossdaily.  He's alive and well, but he's locked inside the Colombian Coffee Cartel headquarters."

"Wow, hey, you know, this sounds sorta like that 'Baby Jessica' thing from a few years back. You know, that little girl who fell into the well.  Say, why don't we get a big crowd over to that building and show Bob Flossdaily how much we KARE! Sure! Come on by! We'll link hands and form a chain around the building! I like it! 'Hands Across Bob,' sponsored by K-A-R-E radio, the station that cares about YOU!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

The sergeant held up a note to the glass. It said: "There's a locksmith on the way. Should be here in 10 minutes."

Bob shouted, "That'll be too late! The building is going to blow up!"

The sergeant shrugged, shook his head, and pointed to his ears. He wrote, "Can't hear you. Use phone, call this number." He wrote a number.

The phone!  Of course! Bob ran to the security desk and picked up the phone. It was dead.

"I have taken the liberty of discontinuing phone service," the computer said cheerfully. "I mean, it hardly seems necessary since the building is about to explode, right? Incidentally, it is now four minutes until ultimate destruction."

Bob typed "help" on the keyboard again. The computer repeated its spiel.

"I am currently running task #42,705, Microsoft Destruct 95. Shall I continue?"

Bob typed "NO." He tried a different sequence of random numbers.

"Nope, sorry," the computer said. "Three minutes until destruction.  Now might be a good time to head for a heavily reinforced inner wall, sit down on the floor, and place your head between your knees."

Bob pounded on his head with his fists. Suddenly a thought was jarred loose. He typed "help" again.

"....I am currently running task #42,705, Microsoft Destruct 95. Shall I continue?"

Bob typed "Maybe."

The computer remained silent. When it finally spoke up, its voice was much deeper and slower.

"Considering possibilities. Re-evaluating task priorities. Destruction countdown will resume in 15 to 20 minutes. Or maybe not. Here is some Madonna music to entertain you while you wait." A really slow version of "Material Girl" echoed through the lobby.

Bob breathed a sigh of relief.

The sergeant tapped on the glass, holding up another note. Bob went to the window and read it.

"The locksmith called back. His tools and keys are locked in his truck. Says give him about a half an hour."

 

* * * * * * *

 

The sun was just starting to set when Sergeant O'Malley noticed all the people converging on the building. He saw a young man wearing a K-A-R-E tee-shirt and carrying a homemade banner that said "Free Bob." The sergeant approached him.

"What's all this, then," he asked, gesturing toward the crowd.

"We're mindless zombies, officer, and we've come to show our support for Bob Flossdaily by linking hands and forming a human chain around this building."

"Oh, okay. But just don't block the door."

"There he is!" someone shouted. The crowd pressed in against the building. Bob began frantically jumping up and down in the window making wild shooing motions.

"Hang in there, Bob! We're with you all the way!"

"We won't leave you, Bob!"

"We CARE!"

"We love you, Bob!"

"We've always loved you, Bob!"

"We just never knew how to put our feelings into words, Bob!"

"I guess maybe we were afraid of getting hurt, Bob!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

Bob saw the K-A-R-E van drive up. A tall man with a pronounced adam's apple, reflective sunglasses, and a microphone jumped out and made his way through the crowd. He said something into the microphone and then held it up to the glass in front of Bob.

"I can't hear you, you bonehead!"

The man shook his head and pointed to his ears.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you can't hear me either."

The man pointed to his K-A-R-E shirt, and then to his microphone. 

"Hey! I think there's a portable radio at the guard's desk! Hold on a second."

Bob found the radio, tuned to K-A-R-E, and returned to the window.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, he's back, and he's got a radio! I sure hope you're listing to K-A-R-E, Bob! Hey, he's nodding!"

The crowd cheered.

"Hey Bob, what's your FAVORITE radio station? Haha! He said K-A-R-E!" The crowd cheered again, drowning out the sound of Bob's angry pounding on the glass.

"Okay, it looks like Bob wants to tell us something. Now I can't hear him through the glass. I don't know what kind of miracle space-age glass this is, but it's sound-proof, and according to this little sticker," the DJ ran his finger over a small plastic sign, "it's bullet-proof, kick-and-pound-proof, and office-furniture-proof. So don't go throwing any chairs at us, Bob. Ha ha!"

Bob began making gestures.

"Okay, we're playing charades now! It looks like he's got a pretty urgent message for us. Let's see now, he's... whistling? No, he's shouting?  Huffing and puffing? Yes! I'm getting close. Okay, huffing and puffing...  big bad wolf... Little Red Riding Hood... no, way off. Okay, huff and puff. Uh, blow... YES! He says 'blow' is correct!"

The crowd cheered.

"Next word... two thumbs up... YES, he says, I'm getting warm. Siskel and Ebert? No. Now he's pointing up... up.. UP! YES! 'Up' is it."

The crowd went wild.

"That's it? 'Blow up.' Blow up what? Is something going to blow up?  Okay, he's got one more word. Last word. He's sawing. He's hammering. He's driving screws. He's building something... YES, he says! BUILDING! The third word is 'building.'

The crowd was beside itself with glee, making it appear twice as large.

"Okay, so what have we got here? 'Blow... up... building.'"

The crowd fell silent. After a long pause someone spoke.

"We can't do that. It would kill him!"

"Surely he KNOWS that!"

"Well he must have his reasons."

"Maybe there's a deadly mutant space virus in there."

"Yeah, and the only way to save mankind is to blow up the building!"

"Hey, I've got some TNT and a detonator in my car!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

Rambo adjusted his straps. His parachute was now secured and ready, and his athletic supporter was comfortable. He called out to the pilot.  "Yo, how much longer?"

"Just a few more paragraphs."

Rambo recalled how he and Bob had been old army buddies. They ate together. They drank together. They even slept together once, after a long night of drinking and a moonlight stroll. Rambo knew Bob like the back of his hand. And when he heard the news on the radio, he could sense that Bob was in grave danger. It wasn't like Bob to get himself mixed up with Colombian drug smugglers, much less locked inside their headquarters.

"Hang in dere, Bob Falsedaily, I'm comin' to get ya."

Rambo checked the latches on his suitcase. They held tight.  He sure didn't want to lose any of his equipment. He didn't know what he might need on this particular rescue mission, so he brought everything. Flamethrower, howitzer, laser death ray, knife....

"There it is," the pilot shouted.

Rambo stood up and lifted his luggage.

"Ooof, damn dis stuff is heavy."

He opened the door, and gave a thumbs-up sign to the pilot. The pilot returned the gesture. Rambo took a deep breath.

"Geronimo!"

"Yes, Rambo?" the pilot replied.

"Are you sure dis is da spot?"

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Attention, condemned prisoner," the computerized voice chimed out cheerfully. "I have carefully considered all of the possibilities, re-evaluated my priorities, and determined that the best and final course of action is to proceed with the destruct-countdown. You have, what was it, three minutes? And don't bother trying the 'maybe' thing again because I won't fall for it twice."

 

Bob paced nervously.

"Woe is, in fact, me. This appears to be the end. The building is going to blow up in three minutes, and I can't get out."

Bob saw one of the crowd members place a small bundle of TNT by the front door. The man held a plunger-type detonator under one arm, and began to uncoil a long wire as he slowly backed away.

"Okay!" the radio suddenly puked as a song ended. "That was Hanson with 'Smack Our Bitches Up.' I'm Johnny Heartthrob and you're listening to K-A-R-E. For those of you just tuning in, we're broadcasting live from the Colombian Coffee Cartel headquarters where Bob Flossdaily is quarantined inside with a deadly mutant space virus. We're just about ready to blow up the building and save humanity, so come on out and join us; we're giving away free koozies and bumper stickers!"

Bob sighed. He went to the window and leaned against the glass.

"Uh oh," Johnny Heartthrob continued, "it looks like we're going to need a lot more TNT. What we've got now might be enough to blow the door off its hinges, but that kinda defeats the purpose."

Bob's eyes widened. A glimmer of hope, perhaps? He stood up straight as he noticed an object in the sky, falling, headed right for the front of the building. It appeared to be a rather large, muscular man, tumbling, tearing frantically at some sort of pack on his back. And he had a suitcase tucked between his knees.

"One minute and thirty seconds until ultimate destruction," the computer stated.

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Hey! Tell you what, I'm gonna give away a pair of tickets for Sunday's Monster Truck & Tractor Pull to everyone who brings us some TNT!  Come on out and bring the kids... Hey, it looks like Bob is trying to get my attention. No, he's shaking his head and pointing at... this guy? Yes!  He wants to talk to the guy with the detonator. What is your name, sir?"

"Uh, hello, I'm Charles Gunn."

"Interesting name you've got there, Charles. Anyway, do you mind if I just stick with you and get the scoop on any developing news? Haha, of course you don't mind! Okay, Bob is motioning for us to come closer; we're going to see what selfless, altruistic message Bob has for us... these will quite probably be his very last words. Let's hope they're profound. Oh, wait! He's signaling for us to stop. Perhaps he's changed his mind? He appears to be shooing us away now. Chuck and I are backing up, backing, backing. Now wait! He's stopped us again! He wants us to come forward again! We're approaching, slowly... and he's stopped us again. But now he's signaling forward again. Ladies and gentleman, can you feel the tension and excitement? Okay, now we're taking a step to the left, and, oh no! Bob has just dived for cover. How odd...."

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Driver," the blatantly stereotypical Colombian drug lord said, tapping his chauffeur on the shoulder, "would joo please turn on the radio so that Windy and I may enjoy some musical entertainment as we dine?"

"Certainly, Sir."

The driver switched on the radio. Sounds of panicked screaming filled the car.

"Bah," the drug lord said, "these kids today with their rock and roll."

"...The scene here is one of total bedlam! In what can only be described as a horrible freak accident, beloved on-air personality Johnny Heartthrob and a mindless zombie-like fan named Charles Gunn have just been killed by a skydiver whose chute apparently failed to open. Coincidentally, Gunn was holding a plunger-type detonator connected to some TNT which was going to be used to blow up the Colombian Coffee Cartel headquarters and destroy Bob Flossdaily and his deadly mutant space virus...."

The drug lord sprayed a mouthful of beverage all over the back of the driver's seat.

"...At the time of impact, only a small amount of TNT was in place.  The building was not destroyed, but the front door has been blown off its hinges--wait! I see some movement just inside the doorway! Oh my God! It looks like Bob is coming out! He's shouting something...."

"Son off a beetch!" The drug lord drove a fist into the back of the driver's seat. "STEP ON IT!"

 

* * * * * * *

 

"Deadly mutant space virus! Deadly mutant space virus!" Bob shouted as he stumbled and ran out of the building. The crowd shrieked and scattered.

Many thoughts swam through Bob's mind as he ran down the steps; thoughts like, "My God that was clever how I just saved all those innocent lives," and "My God, I've got to dive for cover quickly before this large building behind me blows up," and "Hey, there's a police car, I could dive behind that," and "My God, that police officer is pointing a gun at me."

"Freeze, Virus-Boy!"

"No wait you don’t understand there's not really a virus the building is going to blow up--"

Sergeant O'Malley fired six shots. Bob fell to the pavement.

"Hey, what was that about the building blowing up?" the sergeant shouted.

Suddenly the building blew up.

 

The limousine screeched to a stop just in time for the drug lord to witness his building implode and collapse into rubble and dust.

 

"Sorry about that, Mr. Flossdaily," the sergeant said as he helped Bob to his feet and patted the dust out of his clothes. Bob winced each time the sergeant patted a bullet hole.

"It's okay-- ouch! It was an easy enough mistake to make. Fortunately no one got hurt. Well, except for the Snowmman. And The Baby. And the elderly woman. And the security guard. And Johnny Heartthrob and that guy with the detonator. And whoever that skydiver was...."

"Oh, I, uh," the sergeant stammered, "I've got some bad news for you.  The pilot of the plane contacted us immediately. He said the skydiver was John Rambo, your old army buddy. He was coming to rescue you. I'm...  sorry."

"Hmm, that's odd. I was never in the army. Mr. Rambo must've gotten me confused with someone else."

"There joo are! Joo bastard!" Bob and the sergeant looked around in time to see the drug lord running toward them, a switchblade knife in each hand. "Joo haff ruined my life!  So now I'm going to kill joo with these knives... I'm not a very fast runner, but rest assured, I will be upon joo in mere momentos, and I will begin stabbing joo as many times as I possibly can. Joo are going to die, man. Mark my words, Bob Flossdaily. I'm almost there now! And I am bound and determined to KILL joo! Mark... my... WORDS!" He lunged and drove the blades deep into Bob's gut. Bob fell to the pavement.

"Freeze!" Sergeant O'Malley shouted, drawing his gun.

The drug lord froze. "Curses," he muttered. "Caught red-handed."

The sketch artist leapt from the squad car and quickly handcuffed the drug lord. Sergeant O'Malley helped Bob to his feet, removed the knives, and dusted him off. "Whew, that was a close one. Are you okay?"

Bob nodded and stepped forward gingerly.

"Bob! BOB!" someone screamed. Bob fell to the pavement.

"Nono, it's okay," the sergeant said, pulling Bob to his feet. "It's your wife... and your real son!"

"Edna!" Bob cried.

Edna ran to her husband, baby in her arms, her hospital gown fluttering in the breeze. They embraced, and as the music began to swell, Bob kissed Edna passionately.

"Mmmmf! MmmmmmMMMMMF!" Edna suddenly pushed away. "Wait a minute!  What's this I hear about a deadly mutant space virus?"

 

* * * * * * *

 

The sun had long since set. Bob, Edna, and son walked hand-in-hand toward the car, taking their time as Bob recounted his adventure.

"...and then I disarmed the drug lord, so that the police officer could arrest him. And then you two showed up."

"Wow," Edna said. "You're a real hero! My own big, strong, cuddly Charles Bronson!" She kissed him on the cheek.

"Well, you know, he has always been a hero of mine. Hey!" Bob stopped. "Have you picked out a name for our son yet?"

"Why, no, I haven't. Oh, are you thinking--?"

"Charles Bronson Flossdaily!" Bob and Edna shouted simultaneously. They crouched down to beam at their son, who seemed to smile in approval. The child then raised a finger and pointed at something off in the distance.  Bob and Edna turned their gaze toward the object of their son's attention.

Edna gasped. Bob tensed. His eyes widened, and then squinted as he drew his gun. Up ahead was a pair of youths, one of whom was apparently tampering with the windshield of Bob's car.

"Hey you young punks! Get away from my car!"

Bob fired several shots, one of which shattered his rear window. The kids each dropped an armload of something and ran off, terrified but unharmed.

"Damn punks," Bob muttered as he tucked his gun away. He jogged up to his car and examined the two piles the kids had dropped. They were stacks of fliers. He saw one stuck under his windshield wiper and read it:

 

 

Carwash Saturday

at the

McCafferty Road Baptist Church

All proceeds go to the Church's

underprivileged youth program