Longshot by Lance Allred

me into complacency. I imagine someone’s little Ricky or Timmy before me, picking up the toys and dying in gruesome, unpleasant ways. Disturbing thoughts rattle in my head until the guy that narrates those grisly and dark horror-movie trailers comes onto the speaker: “Lance…can you hear me? Nod if you do.”
    Sometimes it’s a sultry female voice. But I know the game, and they know I won’t fall for the Eve tactic. If they’re going to take me down, I’m going to make it as unpleasant for them as possible. Scary-movie voice fumbles with the microphone: “Lance, raise your hand when you hear the tone. Can you hear that? Lance? The sooner you start cooperating, the sooner it will be done. Thank you. Good….”
    A few minutes of my feigned complacency pass.
    â€œWait!…Are you timing the sounds? Lance, you’re not helping us to help you if you’re guessing at the tones. If you don’t hear the one, don’t raise your hand. We cannot get a full assessment of your hearing if you’re going to cheat, and therefore your hearing aids won’tbe as effective as you need them to be. Nod that you understand. Thank you.” *
    When phase one is over, a faceless tormentor returns to the booth, as I’m obstinate at his efforts to replace the current headphones with even tighter ones. I’m not going to make the bastard’s job any easier. He mumbles something, but with my hearing aids out I cannot make out what it is that he says. I’m sure it’s something less than polite.
    Scary-movie voice (SMV) comes back on.
    SMV : “Lance. Can you hear me? Say ‘Yes.’”
    ME : “Yes.”
    SMV : “Good, now repeat after me. Doll.”
    ME : “Doll.”
    SMV : “Car.”
    ME : “Caw.”
    SMV : “Car.”
    ME : “Cow?”
    SMV : “Jar.”
    ME : “Jow…? Oh, Jaw!”
    The door opens once more and I’m lifted from the chair. After a stop at the Chinese water torture room, I’m led into another room, better lit than the sound booth, but still cold: two chairs, a steel table, and no windows, but another one-way mirror. Were they going to ask about the cinnamon bear I lifted from Dad’s dresser? I didn’t see the harm. Dad had an endless stash of them. Surely he wouldn’t notice one missing, would he?
    An attractive woman enters the room, wearing a two-piece business suit. She walks around the table and places files on the table with a landing that is soft, but accented enough to draw my attention: “Hi, Lance.”
    â€œHi.”
    She pulls out the chair and leans over to scoot herself into the table, showing abundant cleavage while doing so, which is accentuated by the Catholic cross bouncing between her tracks of land—something that can only make a little boy wonder. It confuses me that a symbol of Christ, the Cross, triggers such improper thoughts. *
    â€œMy name is Christina,” says the pretty woman, whom I now have a crush on. The crush does not last long.
    â€œOK.”
    â€œCan you say, ‘Hi, Christina’?”
    I’m baffled at the narcissistic request until I realized there is an r in her name. “Yes, I can,” I cleverly respond, making sure to use those three easy words that are free of that hateful letter r.
    â€œWell, can you say it now, please?”
    I feign confusion, and to avoid her request I calculatingly say, with slow precision to allow my mind to filter words with r’ s, “I don’t see why it would be useful now, since we have passed the ‘hello’ phase and it would just sound silly, don’t you ag—…don’t you see? We can’t say ‘hello’ again when it has al—…just been said.” I was good.
    Christina raises her eyebrows, nodding. She knows what I’m doing, and I know I’m not fooling her. I know Christina has the 411 on me; it’s evident