Free Tim Dorsey Collection #1 by Tim Dorsey

to kick the body under the sheet while cops restrained her.
    Jim was at the back of a squad car, quivering, giving his version of events to a sergeant with a clipboard. A patrolman handed Jim a cup of coffee, and half of it spilled on Jim’s shaking hand.
    “Is he really dead?” asked Jim.
    “Pretty much,” said the sergeant. “Airbag broke his neck like that”—snapping his fingers.
    The patrolman patted him on the back. “You did everyone a favor.”
    “Saved the state a lot of money,” said the sergeant. “Skag McGraw was a real dirtbag.”
    “One less McGraw brother society has to worry about,” said the patrolman.
    “Brother?” asked Jim.
    “Five in all,” said the sergeant. “Or were. Now there’s four. But I wouldn’t lose any sleep. The rest are all locked away in prison and won’t be getting out for a long, long time.”

10
    T HE BARRACUDA SKIDDED to a stop on Triggerfish Lane. Serge had returned from his supply run. He unloaded hula hoops, Frisbees and giant soap-bubble wands. He unrolled a slick yellow Slip ’n Slide on the lawn behind the metal cows and the remains of Lady Bird.
    Serge bounded up the front steps and into the house. He dashed from room to room. Sharon was on the couch with a vibrator and no pants.
    “Where’s Coleman?” he asked.
    Sharon didn’t look up. She pointed out the side window.
    “Next door?” he asked.
    She didn’t respond.
    “Nice talking with you.”
    The middle finger.
    Serge crossed the lawn and ran up the steps. He stood in the open doorway of the college rental.
    Two students knelt next to the turntable, turning a vinyl record slowly with their fingers. Waste-oid’s ear was pressed against one of the speakers.
    “What’s up?” said Serge.
    “Listening to ‘Stairway to Heaven’ backward for secret messages,” said Bernie.
    “Heard anything yet?” asked Serge.
    Waste-oid took his head away from the speaker. “I think he just said, ‘Please pass the butter, Satan.’ ”
    Coleman walked in from the kitchen, carrying a roll of tinfoil, a plastic scouring pad, a tube from a Windex bottle, duct tape, Saran Wrap and a rotisserie chicken.
    “There you are!” said Serge.
    “Don’t break his concentration,” said Bernie. “We’ve been waiting for this.”
    Coleman sat cross-legged on the floor and stuffed the scouring pad into the chicken.
    The students gathered around and paid attention for the first time all semester.
    “There’s no way,” Frankie whispered to Chip.
    “It can’t be done,” said Bill.
    A hush fell over the room.
    Coleman was a flurry of deft motion, hands moving fast all around the chicken with unconscious muscle memory. Moments later, Coleman sat the chicken upright on a newspaper in the middle of the floor, then pulled his hands clear like a rodeo rider after tying off a calf.
    “Time!” said Bernie.
    Chip clicked the stopwatch button on his chronograph. “Three minutes, eighteen seconds.”
    “Incredible,” said Waste-oid. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. A bong made from a chicken.”
    Frankie was still skeptical. “But does it work?”
    “Does it work?” said Coleman. “Pot!”
    Waste-oid handed him a baggie, and Coleman began stuffing buds in the bird.
    “Be careful with that stuff,” said Bernie. “It’s some nuclear weed.”
    Sharon showed up in the doorway, ragged from a night of partying, but in a very hot way. She cocked her hip andtwirled a lock of blond hair with a finger. “Anyone got any coke?”
    “Shhhhhhh!” said the students.
    It was the first time in history her coy look had been rebuffed. She sidled up to Serge. “What’s going on?”
    Serge nodded toward Coleman. “He’s holding court.”
    “I still don’t think it’ll work,” said Frankie.
    “Never count this guy out,” said Serge. “He can make a delivery system out of the contents of any home in America. I’ve seen him do it with bicycle pumps, hot-water bottles and a souvenir coconut carved