Every muscle in my body is quaking as I walk to the door. This could be the end of me.
For as long as I’ve pushed speed in Seattle, I’ve heard stories about the Doc.
I’ve never met anyone who’s seen him and lived to tell about it. He’s one of those men so feared, no one will dare question his unusual habits.
Kind of like how Al Capone used to hang around gas stations late at night singing nursery rhymes while dressed as a giant mouse. Or how Lucky Luciano had a ballpoint pen fetish. Do you think anyone dared so much as mention it in front of them?
They say the Doc don’t drink whisky or gin. Nothing but fine, imported sherry. Sometimes he spends the whole day in his office, listening to classical music, not accepting any visitors. They say that’s when you know he’s getting ready…for wanking!
I mean whacking!
As my trembling hand grasps the doorknob, I realize with horror that there’s classical music playing inside the office now. I’m as good as dead. I stagger in, shaking.
It’s an elegant office space, with a large oak desk, behind which stands an enormous swivel chair, its back to me. Slowly, I approach, and then, with what little voice I can muster, whisper, “Sir?”
Suddenly the chair swivels round, giving me my first look of the formidable man. To my amazement, I recognize him.
His eyes widen with shock. Immediately he jumps up and closes the door. “You know who I am?”
Stuttering, I answer, “Of course, Doctor Crane! I’m a huge fan! You’re a mobster?”
In great distress, he answers, “No one must know. Fifteen years ago, I was hosting a dinner party for the Seattle elite. But my father’s dog absconded with the goose I was going to serve! I had no recourse but to contact a rather low and dubious gentleman who claimed to have ties that would enable him to procure any sort of poultry at a moment’s notice. Little did I know what ties these were!
“When my brother and I arrived for the trade-off, we found the man lying in a pool of blood, surrounded by the most villainous creatures you could imagine. Our only chance of surviving was to pass ourselves off as mob bosses. Poor Niles wasn’t the least bit convincing, so they drove a nail through his skull. Fortunately, they believed me. I’ve been trapped in this situation ever since. Fifteen years! I so long to see my father, if he is still alive.”
Deeply moved, I tell him that I can help him escape.
With profound gratitude, he answers, “Oh thank you stranger. At last this eternal exercise in seeing how the other half lives can come to an end. I shall be glad to be done with my trip through It’s a Small World pretending I was a UN interpreter – OH GOD!”
It was too late. Seconds later we both hit the floor.
By Ernie Tremper