Free Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey

Chi-Chi had nodded off, and everyone headed for the door. The attorney slid the witnessed documents into a large envelope and tried to be nonchalant. “So, Tommy, you think your granddad’s map was for real?”
    “ He swore it was.” Tommy stopped and turned around in the hall. “Except you’d have to know him. Personally, I think Geraldo found more on his show.”
    Somewhere in Cyberspace
    Serge’s Blog. Star Date 584.948.
    Hey gang! Welcome to the first installment of Serge’s Florida (Fugitive) Experience!
    Nowhere else will you find the best way to enjoy my fine state! That’s right, as a fugitive!
    I know what you’re thinking: “But, Serge, I’m not a fugitive.”
    Who says? Society brainwashes us into thinking you have to be chased in order to flee. But anyone can just make a break for it whenever they want. So here’s what you do: After work on Friday, screech out of the parking lot and race around the state in a paranoid stupor, glancing over your shoulders, peeking through blinds of dicey motels, darting down alleys and diving in Dumpsters whenever you spot a patrol car, tipping bartenders extra and whispering: “You never saw me.” But how many law-abiding citizens have the imagination to experience the magic?
    I already hear your next question: “What if the cops get suspicious and stop me?”
    Proudly declare you’re a fugitive on the run! Then they radio it in, and dispatch comes back with a clean record. And the cop says, “Are you actually wanted for anything?” And you say, “Not even a parking ticket,” and he says, “Then how are you a fugitive?” You say, “It’s a lifestyle choice. We have an image awards dinner coming up.”
    First, you’ll be staying in a lot of motels. Stick with the most sketchy. I recently tried mixing my routine with a reservation at an upscale chain. You know, the one with those ads where that woman is swinging around the room on red curtains? I’m here to tell you, those things rip right the fuck down. And the rods take chunks out of the wall. Then you go to the front desk to complain, and they look at all the plaster dust and bundle of torn fabric in your arms and say, “What the hell were you doing swinging from the curtains?” I say, “Isn’t that how all business people relax?”
    Second, disguises. It’s your call. I prefer a professional disguise kit; Coleman gets drunk and cuts his own hair.
    Third, getaway driving. You know how you sometimes need to change lanes to make a turn? And you hit your blinker, but in the Sunshine State that’s the official signal for the jack-off behind you in the next lane to speed up and close the gap so you can’t get over? Not actually a fugitive tip. Just burns my ass.
    P.S. Next week, “Al Capone: The Florida Connection!”
    P.P.S. Next fugitive stop . . .
    Miami Beach
    Restored Art Deco treasures lined Collins Avenue. Restaurants, apartments, shops. And hotels.
    In a $300-a-night suite on the fourteenth floor, with a sweeping view of the Atlantic, an unconscious man on the bed regained consciousness.
    “Where am I?”
    Blood and bruises.
    He sat up and grabbed his pounding head. “What the heck happened?”
    Memory seeped back. The woman . Like him, a rough-sex freak. She had indeed kept her promise to blow his mind with a night to top all others.
    Across the room, sitting at a desk with her back to him, were those curves and fabulous head of fiery red hair that had first caught his attention in the techno-dance club.
    The man jumped from the bed and into his pants. “You’re fucking crazy!” He ran out the door without his shirt.
    No reaction from the woman. She was on her laptop, faithfully monitoring the same website for any updates. It was proverbial feast or famine. A nonstop flood of images and text for weeks. Then nothing for six months.
    The faucet had just come back on.
    Serge’s Florida (Fugitive) Experience.
    “Bingo.”
    At the bottom of the computer screen: P.P.S. Next fugitive stop: