Programmed for Peril

followed the Loathed One, his disbelief long cast aside in favor of shock and horror. “You’re just... slaughtering these magnificent creatures,” he said thrice. Surely the beginning of his true appreciation of Carson’s genius. Just wait! Gleeful Champ brayed with laughter. The temporarily surviving dogs howled their response. Beast could recognize beast.
    When he came upon puppies he waded in with heavy boots working, popping their heads like small pumpkins in a patch. Thus prompted, the Loathed One asked him what kind of man he was. To which Champ answered true—the very best kind!
    Shortly before the last mastiff was dispatched the Loathed One took sick, bending over to puke. He emptied himself of pinkish drip. When he turned moist eyes again to Champ there was something like respect in them. “You’re... insane!” he croaked, voice raw from retching.
    “What Ï am is loyal and obedient!” Once so, Champ thought. But now?
    On the road again, Champ gave chump careful instructions about phase two. A stop at a Burger King rest room, the cleanest in the business, and a change of clothes brought forth yachtsman Champ. See him in a snappy little seaman’s cap! How about these nautical twill trousers and Docksiders?
    To his companion Champ’s motives remained murky. Yes, surprises yet to come, my boy! Champ put chump at the Blandmobile wheel, told him to drive to West Manachogue Yacht and Tennis Club. Do not stop until you reach the gate. There the flunky bid them good afternoon and fair winds, ignoring the Loathed One’s Band-Aided cheeks. How phony could you get? Thinking so soon of Christmas tips!
    Champ showed chump the pistol again. Not to forget, please, and do just as I say. From the trunk he took the suitcase, stickered for prestige: St. Maarten, Hong Kong, Tunisia. Together they crossed boards and ramps, destination the Loathed One’s prized possession: the Emerald Lady. “All aboard!” Champ ordered.
    My, what a nautical beauty we have here, he thought. Was that teak? Look at its dark sweep! See decks polished and shipshape as those of a British warship in the age of sail. Below, then. Sleeps ten, the Loathed One boasted, pride perking up through his misery and bafflement. And how! Look at the heads, the nifty economy of space. A four-star chef could work in that kitchen.
    To the bilge! Puzzled chump was reluctant to inform him just where the bulkhead was. But the wave of blued steel before wounded cheeks brought him around.
    Shortly they were on their way out of the yacht club parking lot, sans suitcase, of course. A road circled up the high hill behind cove and club. Up Champ drove to the rest area where lovers clinched by night and no one came by day. Except them. He invited his guest out of the car. Below, the yacht club marina spread hard by the score of tennis courts. Floats marked the swimming area where distant children’s cries beat the hot air.
    The Loathed One was beginning to look dazed. Just wait a minute, Champ thought. Glancing at his watch, he corrected that to: Wait seventy-three seconds. “A lovely vista, no?” Champ chatted.
    “What have you done to the Emerald Lady?” the other said dully.
    “Time will tell.”
    The Loathed One faced him. “You have no idea of the depth of your insanity, Carson Thomas.”
    I am not Carson, he said to himself. Or was he? He bared his Rolex. “We have eleven seconds and counting...”
    “What?” The Loathed One flailed arms against sides in baffled frustration.
    “Seven... six... five...”
    “Oh, no. No!” The light dawned.
    “Three... two... one... We have detonation!”
    Below, the Emerald Lady played airplane for an instant, lifting herself from the water. Then the plastique’s gases tore the hull completely apart. A grand explosion rolled like thunder to their vantage point. Red and yellow flashes sent deck and hull planking soaring. Inner debris flew up in a great smoky shower. Check out that splintered section of Wet bar, boudoir, armoire—all airborne. Bye, bye, Miss Emerald Pie! Fire bit into the settling scrap. Leverage of masts against keelless hulk turned decks toward the vertical. Once-hidden panels and bulkheads were exposed to sun and sea like chambers of a ruptured insect nest.
    Champ turned an eye to the Loathed One.
    He wept!
    Sentiment was a good thing in a man. Made him more docile. Champ had no trouble taping his wrists behind him and sliding on the blindfold.
    On the drive to Resurrection Headquarters