Lunatics by Dave Barry & Alan Zweibel

Author:Dave Barry & Alan Zweibel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2011-11-30T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 33

Philip

By now you know I am not a negative man. And that I have never used the misfortunes of others as a salve for my own shortcomings. No, I was brought up to believe happiness can best be attained when a person makes an honest self-evaluation, sets realistic goals, then works his butt off to make them come to pass. So in the end, a man’s contentment is his own responsibility, unaffected by the fates of those around him.

That said, I would be less than honest if I didn’t say that when I saw that driverless truck go over that cliff with Peckerman inside and then burst into flames after crashing to the bottom of that ravine, my gut reaction was a profound regret that a driverless truck with Peckerman inside didn’t crash and burst into flames on his way to that AYSO championship soccer game so I would never have met him after I called his daughter offside (which she was, by the way) and become a wanted international criminal enmeshed in a foreign war. So I confess I was not altogether heartbroken as I stood at the edge of the ravine, staring down at the burning truck.

Next to me, Ramon and Nunez spoke a few hurried words to each other. With my limited Spanish, I was able to gather that they thought that we’d been attacked by enemy snipers; apparently they weren’t aware that it was Peckerman’s gun that had done the shooting. Concerned about being targets, they turned and trotted back into the safety of the trees.

Alone now, I lingered a moment longer, looking down at the flaming wreckage, thinking about the horrible fate that had fallen Peckerman.

Then I saw something even more horrifying.

Peckerman was still alive.

Somehow, impossibly, he had escaped the crash and was now standing with some other men on the far side of the ravine. I glanced behind me; no sign of Nunez or Ramon. I climbed down into the ravine and, with some effort, made my way up the other side, where Peckerman and I had a joyful reunion. If you think I am being sarcastic, I am, because what he said to me was, “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“For what?” I said.

“Shooting my gun, dickwad. I’d be a dead man if Spider-Man here hadn’t saved me.” He pointed at one of the half-dozen tough-looking uniformed men standing nearby, observing us.

I was going to point out that it wasn’t my finger that had pulled the trigger, but I was more curious about the men. “Who are they?” I asked.

“They’re Salamanders,” he said.

“They’re what?”

“Salamanders.”

“No offense”—I nodded politely at the tough-looking men—“but I never heard of them.”

“That’s because they don’t exist,” said Peckerman. “At least that’s what they tell me. Seems to me they have to exist, because there they are.”

“Peckerman, you idiot, it’s a figure of speech. They must be such a secret unit that no one knows about them.”

“But now we do,” he said.

“And if you tell anyone, we’ll have to kill you,” said one of the Salamanders, apparently the leader.

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