Free Fight Song by Joshua Mohr Page A

state title in high school. Nerves are good. They mean you’re starving for victory. But if the puke damages my paint job, you’re footing the bill.”
    “Stop the SUV,” Coffen says to Schumann.
    “Why?”
    “Stop it.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    “Pull over.”
    “We’re driving the ball. We’re almost to the end zone. Soon we’ll celebrate victory with dances of ecstasy. Back flips. Ceremonial chants. Cheerleaders flipping their tiny skirts up.”
    “We have to let him go,” Bob says.
    “We’re almost the champions,” Schumann says.
    “The champions of what?” Björn says.
    “The kidnapping champions.”
    “Stop the SUV!” shouts Bob.
    “No,” Schumann says. “I’m calling an audible.”
    “What’s that even mean?” Coffen says.
    “It means I’ve come to the line of scrimmage. I’ve looked over the defensive formation. And at the last second, I’m changing the play. You’re telling me the play is to pull over and let this magician go scot-free. And I’m telling you that I won’t run that play. I’m calling something different.”
    Coffen says, “Listen to me, Schumann. This isn’t a game. This is real. We are committing a crime. We will get arrested. Snap out of it.”
    “Feels too good to be competing in a game again.”
    It’s that mention of the word “game”—Coffen and Schumann have totally different definitions of gaming. Bob controls his avatar. Bob competes in a controlled environment. Yet for Schumann, the stakes are real. His adrenaline is like gasoline and Bob thinks that he has to appeal to Schumann’s sense of family: The only way Schumann will come to his senses, snap out of this trance, is if he’s going to lose much more than a game, much more than blowing out a knee, his career over—he’s going to lose his status quo. His wife. His child. And hopefully, he won’t squander all that for an orgasm of endorphins.
    “Think of going to jail and never kissing your wife again,” Bob says.
    “I’m a tiger breaking out of my cage with a laser cannon and a top-shelf vendetta.”
    “Think of never spooning her.”
    “I’m a king cobra poised to strike and my fangs have been coated in a tincture of nuclear waste and hot lava.”
    Okay, so his missus isn’t the pressure point that Coffen needs to push. How can he get this game’s character to do what he wants? Last ditch effort: “Think of little Schu. Can you imagine little Schu without you?”
    Suddenly, Schumann’s whole face changes. Trance shattered. His eyes fill with tears, though he’s able to choke them back.
    “Little Schu?” Schumann says, almost in a whisper.
    “Don’t deprive him of your loving guidance.”
    “I never really had a father,” Schumann says.
    “Me neither,” Coffen says.
    “Neither did I,” says Björn from the backseat. “America is full of deadbeat dads. They’re like crabs in our country’s pubes.”
    “Little Schu deserves a papa,” Schumann says, pulling the car over.
    “I’m sorry,” Coffen says to the magician. “Please don’t call the cops.”
    “I went a little crazy when my wife left me, too,” Björn says.
    “Little Schu needs to know all my tricks of the trade. I have to pass on my secrets. Every rookie needs a cagey veteran to show him the ropes.”
    Björn gets out of the SUV and says to Bob, “Look, I’m trying to be understanding. You fell through the ice. You’re obviously having some kind of psychotic break induced by your wheezing marriage. Like I said, I went off the rails when my wife left me. But do me a favor and try to make this the dumbest thing you ever do. And appreciate my incredible empathy. Most men would not be cool about this. The world already has plenty of psychotics. Get your shit together.”
    “I don’t think I’m psychotic,” Coffen says.
    “Would you consider yourself more of a recreational kidnapper?” Björn asks.
    “Okay, okay,” Bob says. “You’re not seeing me at my best. But thank you for your