The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey

the gun. He couldn’t get it to catch. He tried again. He struggled. “Something’s wrong.” He stopped and held the strip to his face. “Shit! They’re the wrong size! My science project is completely fucked!” He threw the nails against the dresser. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
    Coleman got up and put a hand on his pal’s shoulder. “Easy. It’ll be okay.”
    “The whole day’s ruined! And it’s the beginning of the week, so the wrong tone has been set. Which means the entire year’s shot to bloody hell!” Serge began punching a wall. “Why even go on living? Why! Why! Why!…” Serge suddenly stopped and smiled at Coleman. “We’re going to have some fun.”
    “Thought you didn’t want to go on living.”
    “I do my best work under pressure. That’s why I create unnecessary alarm.” Serge ran out the door and quickly returned with a roll of aluminum foil and a big blue container of salt. He handed Coleman his .45 pistol. “Keep him covered while I turn him over.”
    Coleman aimed the gun with his right hand and drank a beer with his left. “What are you doing?”
    “You’ll see…” Serge untied the man’s left hand and foot and rolled him up on his right side. “No funny business! Coleman’s not the best shot when he’s drinking, so he might hit something you care about…” He tore off three long sheets of foil and spread them across the bed. Then he rolled the man back onto the crinkly sheets and retied his limbs.
    Coleman scrunched his face. “I still don’t get it.”
    “Keep watching.” Serge reached in the trash for a jumbo convenience-store soda cup. He filled it with water, dumped in a bunch of salt and stirred with a screwdriver, then liberally splashed the man head to foot. He filled the cup a second time, more salt, splashing the man again, a third time. “Lather, rinse, repeat…” He cut the power cord to the nail gun, stripped the wires and crinkled foil around the bare ends, holding them in place with more electrical tape.
    “Get it now?” said Serge.
    Coleman shrugged.
    “Salt water is an electrolyte, conducting the foil. Full body electrocution. The worst!…” He closed his eyes and shook at the thought. “…Lots of writhing and foaming. Glad we won’t be here because only a sicko would want to watch.”
    “You sure you want to do this?” said Coleman. “I’m not criticizing, but we’ll have to lay low again. Last time on TV, they called you a serial killer.”
    Serge gritted his teeth. “The media!”
    “But you did do all that stuff they said. I was there.”
    “I know, but ‘serial’ means you get some kind of perverse satisfaction and intend to keep picking out more innocent victims.”
    “You don’t?”
    “Of course not!” said Serge. “I always tell myself: This is absolutely the last one. But it’s the fucking state we live in! I just keep coming across people who need killing.”
    Coleman pointed at the bed. “Where’d you find the foil and salt so fast?”
    “Same place as the duct tape,” said Serge. “Three Boy Scout items you should always keep in your trunk. Duct tape and foil can fix anything.”
    “Salt?”
    “For my food. They never put in enough. I douse everything.”
    “Isn’t too much salt bad?” said Coleman. “Heard it makes you hyper.”
    “Hyper
tension,”
corrected Serge. “But people say that like it’s something undesirable. Personally, I want hypertension. Sounds positive. Like in the movies: ‘Hang on to your seats for a new level of suspense beyond Hitchcock! It’s never-ending hypertension!’…How long now?”
    Coleman bent down to the timer. “Eight minutes.”
    Serge crammed a few last items in his suitcase and snapped it shut. “Got all your stuff?”
    Coleman picked up a gym bag. “Why didn’t you just wire the foil straight to the sleep timer instead of that mercury thing?”
    “Because the Magic Fingers wouldn’t come into play. Why kill someone if it isn’t culturally