Gator A-Go-Go

Coleman waddled into the living room cradling a plastic bowl the size of a small satellite dish. Five beer cans in their plastic rings dangled from a special tactical hook on his belt.

“What’s that?” asked Serge.

Coleman plopped next to him on the couch. “Dinner.”

“A half gallon of beer and two pounds of barbecue Fritos?”

Coleman pointed at the frozen TV screen. “Hey, I’ve seen this already.”

“Told you.”

Coleman crammed his mouth and licked his fingers for valuable Frito-Lay Incorporated dust. “I don’t want to watch it again.”

“I do.”

Crunch, crunch.
“Can’t we watch something else?”

“What about the bonus material?”

“Your documentary has bonus material?”

“Bonus material is the key to life.”

“Hit it.”
Crunch, crunch.

Serge pressed buttons on the remote, navigating on-screen options.

MAIN MENU
BONUS MATERIAL
THEATRICAL TRAILER

[Guitar riff: Alice Cooper, “School’s Out”]

Serge’s voice from the TV:

“It’s a documentary epic you won’t want to miss, featuring a cast of thousands, including many you’ve come to know and love. Coleman . . .”

“How long have I been out?”

“Johnny Vegas . . .”

“Baby, it’s just a little head wound.”

“City and Country . . .”

“Ditch us again and we’ll cut your nuts off.”

“The G-Unit . . .”

“Hey, stud-muffin.”

“The performers and crew of
Girls Gone Haywire
. . .”

“
More nipple!
”

“Plus some of Florida’s trademark jerks . . .”

“
Please don’t kill us!
”

“The state’s finest law enforcement officers . . .”

“
Two mutilated bodies, Home Depot supplies, and a bunch of old View-Masters. Not again . . .
”

“Students from the nation’s most elite universities . . .”

“
I’m going to throw up again.
”

“More jerks . . .”

“
Dear God, don’t kill us!
”

“It’s spring break madness at its maddest!”

“
I hate you.
”

“Filled with mystery! . . .”

“
What’s going on?
”

“Suspense! . . .”

“
I still don’t know what’s going on.
”

“Romance! . . .”

“
You’re crazy if you think you’re putting that thing in me . . .
”

“Special effects! . . .”

“
I am so stoned.
”

“Vocabulary! . . .”

“
Doppelgänger.
”

“Souvenirs! . . .”

“
Help me unbolt this street sign.
”

“And a breathtaking assortment of exotic locations, including Fort Lauderdale . . .”

“
I’ll call the police if you don’t leave!
”

“Daytona Beach . . .”

“
Get the hell out of my store!
”

“Panama City . . .”

“
I’m calling the police!
”

“The footage is shocking! The implications yet to be gauged! And whenever shit’s going down, Serge always knows the score! . . .”

“
Forty-two.
”

“They came to take over the Sunshine State, but they’ve just fucked with the wrong Florida buff! . . . Not yet rated.”

The screen faded to black.

Coleman cracked a beer. “That looks freakin’ cool! Let’s watch it.”

“Thought you didn’t want to see it again.”

“I don’t remember any of that stuff.”
Crunch, crunch.
“Probably thinking of another movie.”

Serge’s thumb pressed the remote.

BACK TO MAIN MENU
RESUME PLAY FROM PREVIOUS POINT

“. . . It all started quietly enough in early March, when innocence still flowered, and nobody could have imagined the chain of events rushing toward them from just around the corner . . .”

BACK TO REAL LIFE-EARLY MARCH

“This is Jessica Pierce, reporting live from Panama City Beach, where spring break migration has reached full boil. Authorities anticipate the student population ballooning to three hundred thousand by nightfall, with no signs of slowing. Meanwhile, as you can see behind me, the main cruising strip is at its regular afternoon standstill as more and more youth arrive for the annual rites of passage . . .”

A convertible rolled behind her. “
Show us your tits!
”

“Well!” Jessica said with a nervous chuckle. “They seem to be having lots of fun, and we’re thrilled to welcome their return to our fair city. Back to you, Katie . . .” A warm smile. “Are we off?”

The cameraman nodded.

Jessica tossed him her microphone and stormed away. “Assholes.”

Sports cars and pickups inched along, kids hanging out windows, yelling, hoisting open containers. Stereos cranked. Bumper stickers and window pennants. Ohio State, Syracuse, Rutgers, West Virginia, Seton Hall, Villanova, Wisconsin Badgers. Sidewalks even more crowded than the streets, students rolling luggage and coolers. Bleached bellies, beach bar hand stamps, T-shirts and backpacks, Penn State, Boston College, Tennessee Vols, parading past tiki huts, moped rentals, MTV broadcast trucks, cut-rate liquor, tattoos for less, a row of pricey new hotels and La Vela, the largest nightclub in the contiguous United States.

Wedged between the upscale towers was an occasional old-growth budget motel, like the Alligator Arms. The Alligator described itself in brochures as “student friendly,” which meant mildew. It was the first to sell out each year.

A rented Hertz crawled through traffic and turned into the Alligator’s parking lot. Four men slammed car doors. Moved quickly toward the motel. Out of place in linen jackets. And age.

Sophomores in bikinis frolicked by. “Hey, pops!” Giggles.

Didn’t even register. Stride increased.

On the fifth floor, two students galloped down the outside landing as fast as they could, pushing a luggage cart. Two others rode inside with crossed legs and heads tucked low. A spring break bobsled. The cart’s front corner clipped a balcony rail and wiped out. The students uprighted it and switched positions.

Elevator doors opened. Four men stepped out, then stepped back as a brass cart zipped by. Brisk footsteps down the landing. Music pounded from each passing door. They reached number 543. More loud tunes. Vintage Doors.

Knock-knock.

“
. . . Woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer . . .
”

No answer.

Harder knocking.

“
. . . Said I woke up this morning . . .
” The stereo was turned down. “You guys hear something?”

A fist.
Bam, bam, bam.

“Someone’s knocking.”

“So get it.”

A shirtless young man in swim trunks opened the door. “Yeah, Grandad?” He chugged from a plastic souvenir mug. Background laughter.

“Are you Andy McKenna?”

“No, who are you?”

“Is Andy McKenna here?”

“There’s no Andy. Get lost.” He started closing the door.

An arm in a linen sleeve went up and braced it open. The student’s upper body indicated he pumped his share of iron. Clearly an edge on the slim, older man in the eggshell-white jacket. The youth strained to close the door. A cement wall would have budged more. He realized he was dealing with something not of his experience.

“May we come in?”

The student answered by walking backward.

Four men entered. The door closed behind them.

The student bumped into the TV. “Who are you?”

“My friends call me Guillermo. You can, too.”

“What do you want?”

“For your pal over there to put the phone down.”

A receiver bounced on the floor. Hearts thumped. Students became statues. Guillermo’s associates searched the one-bedroom suite and checked the balcony. “All clear.”

“W-w-what’s going on?”

“You need to relax more,” said Guillermo. “You’re on vacation.”

“I’m really sorry about the ‘Grandad.’”

“Already forgotten about it. Now just stay right where you are, and we’ll be leaving soon.”

“I swear there’s no Andy here—”

“Shhhhh.” Guillermo circled the room to his left, so a wall was behind the students instead of the balcony. He counted five. “Is this everyone staying in the room?”

“Yeah.”

“Raul, turn up the stereo.”

“
. . . Got myself a beer! . . .
”

Guillermo snapped his fingers in rhythm. “Good beat. You like this song?”

“I . . . guess so. But what’s—”

A silencer-equipped pistol flew out from Guillermo’s jacket with such facility that the first student didn’t have time to be surprised.

Pfft-pfft-pfft.
Tight forehead pattern. The shooting arm swung without intermission.
Pfft-pfft. Pfft-pfft . . .

A freshman dropped where he stood. Targets moving now, Guillermo in a calm pirouette.
Pfft, pfft, pfft. Pfft-pfft . . .

A crash through the coffee table.

Pfft-pfft-pfft . . .

Backward over a couch.

The last student reached the door and grabbed the handle.
Pfft-pfft-pfft.
He slithered down the blood-streaked wood with a rising number of exploding back wounds as Guillermo made certain.

Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft, click, click, click.

Empty.

Guillermo high-stepped over bodies, ejecting an ammo clip and turning off the stereo.

Quiet. Just a light haze with that burnt gunpowder smell.

A toilet flushed.

Guillermo’s head snapped toward the sound. “Who didn’t check the bathroom?”

Three linen jackets shrugged.

The door opened. “What the hell was all that noise?” An unusually short person came out wearing a motorcycle helmet. He saw the room and froze—“Holy shit!”—backing up, slowly at first, before turning in full sprint toward the balcony. He reached the railing and looked down at the distant patio. Cornered.

Four men arrived at a casual pace. Each grabbed a diminutive limb.

“Please! No!”

They began swinging the tiny captive back and forth to build momentum.

“On three,” said Guillermo.

“One.”

“I’m begging you!”

“Two.”

“But I’m just the midget!”

“Three . . .”