Twenty-Eight--A Murder Squad

The day after the funeral, Teddy Capers, Quincy's stepfather, came to Quincy's bedroom door and said, "C'mere, son.  Your mother and I want to talk with you."

"Kay, one sec."  Quincy had a decision to make on the turn against Brian Hastings in pot limit Omaha.  He had 3d 3s 2c 2h on a As Ts 5s 7d board, and he had check-raised the flop, which Hastings had quickly called.  Now Quincy was unsure whether to continue with his "double shove limp check," the misnomer of a strategy that he had coined which involved him check-raising every street.  Instead, he just bet the pot, and when Hastings shoved, Quincy snap-called, slapped his laptop shut, and hurried from the room.  He would find out later that he was drawing dead to a flopped flush.  Hastings was such a luckbox.

His mother was sitting on the sofa.  Taking a seat next to her, Teddy placed his hand on top of hers.

Uh oh, thought Quincy.

"Quincy," his mother asked, "did you know Rufus Bankman?"

Rufus? he wondered.  He laughed.  They gave him a quizzical look.  "Riff," he answered.  "Yeah.  He's the dead guy."

She and Teddy exchanged a look.  "Did you see him on Halloween?" she asked.

"Yeah.  He punched me in the head twice and took my candy."  He was following Piotr's instructions: Don't lie about anything, unless it has to do with me.

Here, Quincy's mother dropped her face into her hands.  He couldn't tell if she was weeping.

"Kid," Teddy said, taking over, "a detective stopped by today.  Asked a couple questions."

"Cool!"

"About you."

"Awesome!"  Talking with detectives could be a fun new game full of interesting strategies.

"The detective told us that the coroner's report of this Rufus kid showed that he had died from poison.  Rat poison."

"Whoa.  Sucks for him."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"  Teddy turned his head slightly and seemed to be measuring Quincy with his eyeballs.

"Nope.  But I'm glad he's dead."

Alarmed, Teddy asked, "Why?"

"He was the biggest bully in Truckee.  All the kids wanted him dead.  Anything else?"

"No," Teddy said, turning to comfort his mother.  "Go play."

*     *     *

Days had passed, then weeks, then months, and still Alex Trebek couldn't stop thinking about the ratfaced kid from the unaired Child Prodigy edition of the show.  Turned out they weren't able to edit out enough of the kid's wiseass remarks to move forward with it.  And the kid was creeping into his dreams, giving him answers that led to questions that accused Trebek of pedophilia.  To top it off, just last night while taping another segment, he had mispronounced joie de vivre!  The kid was messing with his mind, and the only way that he could get back on track would be by turning to the ultimate step . . . again.

Murder.

Few in the game show industry knew that Trebek was a complete madman.  Those few either kept quiet about it or ended up "accident" victims.  Ted Berman, an executive producer, had been run over by a diaper truck while stepping out of the dry cleaners in West Hollywood.  Charlie Sanders, a cameraman on the show for over a dozen years, had died in a hit and run accident that left his Subaru halfway up a tree.  Witness reports varied, but a couple of them thought that they had seen a blue diaper truck in the area.

Time to try a new vehicle perhaps, before the clueless cops figured him out.

With a few days off from airing new programs, Trebek had flown to North Sacramento where, with the assistance of a reliable underground friend, he found himself in a warehouse with a group of lowlifes.  The underground friend had assigned them all nicknames to preserve their anonymity.

“Roll call!” Trebek announced.  The crew gave him their attention.  Trebek began reading from a list.  “Barfly?”

“Here.”

“Rimshot?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hiccup?”

“Present.”

“Butter?”

“Yep.”

“Waffles?”

“At your service.”

“Firefly?”

“Me!”

“Ticklish?”

“Hee hee!”

“Tank?”

“What.”

“Bingo?”

“Woof!”

“Batshit?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Aqua Velva?”

“Yes.”

“Zamboni?”

“Right.”

“Swede?”

“Absolutely.”

“Rickets?”

“Okay.”

“Splashy?”

“Sure.”

“Alabaster Lenny?”

“A nickname I hate.”

“Chimichanga?”

“Si.”

“Rocket?”

“Pow!”

“Eclipse?”

“Wild.”

“Pluto?”

“Hi.”

“Army Ant?”

“Accounted for.”

“Far Flung?”

“Never absent.”

“Toadstool?”

“To your left.”

“TV?”

“Sir.”

“Cirrhosis?”

“Shwing.”

“Microwave?”

“On time.”

“Creeper?”

“Hey.”

“Froglegs?”

“Oui.”

“Irkutsk?”

"Da.”

“Fatty?”

“Urp.”

“Blitzkrieg?”

“Tock!” went his clicked heels.

“Spazztard?”

“Aw.”

“Psychedelic?”

“Groovy.”

“Inkblot?”

“Shhh.”

“Eczema?”

“Okie dokie.”

“Frisco?”

“Fantastic.”

“And Evergreen?”

“Always.”

“Good. That’s everyone.  You’ll be forming two lines.  One line will form in front of me.  I will be giving you your pay.  A second line will form at the rear of the school bus outside.  Next to the school bus, you will find Midget.  Tell Midget your nickname and he will supply you with your firepower.  In four hours, you will be storming the house of a kid named Quincy Capers.  Kill everyone you see.  You'll be traveling together in that school bus over there."

The group stared at him.

Suddenly, a word popped into Trebek's mind.  The boy had used it to sting him to his depths.  With all of these stupid faces staring at him and not moving, he instantly became furious.

"Get going, fuckballs!"