"The only difference between a palm reading and a hand job is how I milk the client."

~ Zandra, to herself, alone, laughing, 3:14 a.m., unknown date and place

Bexley scrubs the meat mallet with her shirt and apologizes with, "Sorry, I thought we already cleaned this thing."

Enough bullshit. Where's that flake Sunglasses? How far away am I from the SUV? I've got to get back.

Zandra starts to stand out of her chair, but Chad places a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. He's not mean about it, but he is forceful.

"You can't just leave. We're fans. We have to show you something," Chad says with a grin that isn't matched with creases around the eyes. "Er, wait. Did you think the mallet is a murder weapon? What were you saying?"

Zandra glances to The Crocodile. He's looking as irritated as the way she feels.

He's not buying any of this. Good. There's a wedge to exploit.

Trios are excellent for people like me. One of the three in a trio is almost always left out of something. It's just a matter of finding what it is, and then wiggling open the crack.

"Yes, child, I was saying I felt the presence of a murder weapon somewhere in this very garage," Zandra says. She looks to the yellow eyes and studded brow of The Crocodile. "You're wearing me out, though. I'm bored, so I'm leaving."

The Crocodile doesn't move, but he does smile.

Bingo. There it is.

Something about that smile, too.

"Not before we can tell you about our findings," Chad says. He motions Bexley over. She brings the meat mallet with her.

"Ever since I was little, I wanted to know if I could be like you some day," Bexley says.

Good lord. Who would want to be like me?

"Trust me. Anyone can be like me. It just takes practice," Zandra says, thinking back on her career of fine-tuned fraud and fuckery.

"I know. Psychic powers, the superpowers of the mind, are in each of us. It's just a matter of finding them, right? That's what the books we bought told us," Bexley says, clutching the meat mallet like a baby to her chest. She talks almost as fast as Chad.

People who talk fast often, but not always, are those who are afraid they won't be heard. Slow talkers—especially pause-in-middle-of-talking talkers—know people will wait for them to finish talking.

I'm catching wafts of insecurity from these two. Desperation. There's something else going on here, and it's dark.

Their teeth are in decent shape. Not great. Just decent. Shoes are beat to hell, though. No use for appearances. Probably work manual labor, if at all, and spend time on their feet. Odds are they do not own this garage. They must be renting or staying with someone.

What about the way they keep tucking their chins down? It's slight, but when coupled with how often they lick their lips, that signals nervousness, maybe even anxiety. Their breathing isn't steady, either. It's staggered, jumpy.

Of course, they did just kidnap me, which may or may not be something they do regularly, but these ticks usually provide some insight even if they're acute.

Desperation plus risk taking usually add up to one thing, in my professional opinion.

"Do you owe someone money?" Zandra says.

It's a safe assumption. Most people in the United States walk around with a negative net worth, at least on paper.

Always leave your assertions a trapdoor.

Bexley freezes. The Crocodile's yellow contacts nearly slip out of his eyes.

"Holy shit. You really are the real thing, for real," Chad says in disbelief before snapping his tone back into place. "I mean, I can't say I'm surprised you would know about that."

"And that's why we want to show you what we learned, because this is all so weird but so real," Bexley says.

Need to push that wedge, since they're not going to let me out of here voluntarily.

"It's a lot of money, isn't it? More money than you can pay back?" Zandra says slowly. She presses the flat of the lawnmower knife to her forehead. "I get it now. I see it."

"Told you she'd figure it out," Bexley says in a hush to Chad.

Chad itches his bare chest and says to Zandra, "We've got a plan to deal with all that."

And I bet I can guess what that is, even if it doesn't make a fuck of sense.

"I see it all, child. You're going to pay off this debt of yours by developing your psychic powers, and becoming rich and famous, just like me," Zandra says.

Although the kidnapping is new, psychic wannabes seeking fame and fortune aren't unfamiliar to Zandra. The celebrity that came with finding her missing husband's body attracted many aspiring acolytes throughout the years. She told them the same thing every time: anyone can do it.

It's like how anyone can rob a bank. No magic. Just a willingness to play the part, and the patience of a demon.

"You should rob a bank. It'd take less time," The Crocodile says to Bexley and Chad. Then to Zandra, "They're going to do psychic readings on the internet or whatever, because everyone and their fuckstick brother thinks they're an influencer now."

What funny timing to say something like, "Rob a bank."

Also, I know that voice. Will bring that up later.

"You're so negative," Chad says.

"Negative? The fact I haven't ripped your fucking face off by now is pretty fucking positive, if you ask me. I'm the one you owe money to," The Crocodile says in a growl and cracks his knuckles. "You could also try getting real jobs. I mean, what the fuck, Chad, it's not even that much money."

Eureka.

Zandra raises an eyebrow ever so slightly to The Crocodile. He sees it.

"Everyone, just, ugh, shut up," Chad says. His frantic hands start talking before he does as he kneels in front of Zandra. "The Horse in Motion. Maybe you don't know its name, Zandra, but you've probably seen the photos. They're everywhere. Ten or 12 photos taken in a row of some guy riding a horse in the 1870s. The photos were taken super fast so they captured the horse in a gallop frame by frame."

Horse photos? What is he talking about?

"Yes, of course I've heard of them," Zandra says.

Chad reaches a hand into his leather jacket. Somewhere near his armpit, he grabs a damp square of folded paper. He unfolds it for Zandra.

Chad, your deodorant has failed you.

The paper shows a computer print out of what must be The Horse in Motion. As it turns out, Zandra indeed is familiar with the series of 12 photographs. As the genesis of modern motion pictures, countless classrooms and textbooks in the United States featured the series. When played in quick succession, the 12 photos show a rider atop a galloping horse.

"Eadweard Muybridge took these photos in the 1878 because for some reason the former governor of California wanted to know if horses ever went airborne when they galloped. He ended up basically creating the motion picture industry, because up to that point no one had figured out how to take photos that quickly," Chad says like he's rehearsed this speech 100 times before, probably while high, and probably to friends who only tolerated the history lesson for the same reason.

Bexley lifts the meat mallet above her head and brings it down hard on Chad's back. The leather jacket protects Chad's back, so the impact likely sounds worse than it feels. Even so, it's surprising to Zandra that Chad doesn't react.

"Did it work?" Bexley says to Chad in a curious whisper.

"Not yet," Chad says.

"Don't ruin your jacket. You can always pawn it," The Crocodile says.

What the hell is going on here?

"Anyway, getting back to this, this, uh, incredible thing. So, Ed Muybridge didn't know shit about photography. Back in those days, photography wasn't like it is today. You had to be an engineer basically to figure it out, and he sucked ass. But then a funny thing happened," Chad says.

Your mother found out she was pregnant?

"There was an accident," Bexley says.

"Yeah, Ed gets all messed up in a stagecoach accident. It really fucks with his head," Chad says and points to his head as if Zandra is unfamiliar with that part of the body. "Next thing you know, the guy is taking photographs like he's been a pro his whole life. He starts taking photographs no one thought were possible before. It's like magic."

"Trauma unlocks the mind's hidden superpowers," Bexley says.

Chad stuffs The Horse in Motion back into his armpit. He says, "Basically, we get it. We get you. You went through some tough shit, Zandra. That trauma rearranged something in your mind, it opened something up, because the mind is infinite. That's how you're able to be who you are. That's what separates the real psychics like you from the other fake ones."

If you only knew.

Zandra thinks back to the fifth point on the hermit's tombstone.

"If the brain can be hacked or tweaked, either intentionally while in an intense state of performance or creativity or meditation, or unintentionally during a time of duress, the two halves can bleed into each other, resulting in what could be interpreted as religious epiphany, spiritual experience or paranormal activity."

Zandra says, "You think you'll unlock psychic powers by beating each other with meat mallets?"

"Exactly," Bexley says. "We've tried lots of things. Knives. Lighters. Playing chicken with trains."

Try harder.

The Crocodile lets out a long sigh. Zandra matches it.

Then again...

"Did it work?" Zandra says.

Chad and Bexley try not to look too disappointed.

"Kinda," Bexley says.

"What's kinda?" Zandra says.

"I mean, you said it yourself. Anyone can be like you, right?" Bexley says.

"It's true that I said that," Zandra says.

Chad's knees pop as he stands to take the meat mallet from Bexley. Zandra squeezes the lawnmower knife.

"We don't want kinda. Show us," Chad says and offers the mallet to Zandra.

"On you or me?" Zandra says.

"Me," Chad says. "Show me."

Zandra searches The Crocodile for some sympathy for the ridiculousness. She doesn't get any.

People take refuge in nonsense when their problems get to be too much. Conspiracy theories. Spirituality. Extreme philosophies. The –isms that stain the world in shit. All attempts to control the uncontrollable. It makes the unreasonable seem reasonable.

Like handing the person you kidnapped a meat mallet.

Zandra switches the lawnmower knife to her other hand and takes the meat mallet. The smooth steel of the handle feels warm against Zandra's palm. The rows of spikes on the square head appear dull and chipped.

Chad sucks in a breath and puffs out his bare chest. "Come on. Hit me. I can take it."

Bexley looks on in eager anticipation.

"You're kidding, right?" Zandra says. She gives the meat mallet a toss and starts to get up.

A shove puts Zandra back on the chair. Chad picks up the mallet and places it back in her hand.

"No, no, no, you're not understanding. You can't just leave," Chad says.

Zandra tries getting up again. Instead of a shove, a pistol in the hand of The Crocodile puts her back in the chair.

"Sit your ass down," The Crocodile says. "These people owe me. I don't care if their idea is stupid. We're doing this. It works or all three of you are dead."

Zandra coughs into her sleeve.

I finally found someone who wants to kill me. At least I've got that going for me.

The Crocodile commands the pistol like it's the third time he's held someone at gunpoint today. There's no wobbling in his conviction, no spams in his thick athleticism, although Zandra takes some reassurance in supposing she'd be the last one shot of the three.

"Show me," Chad says, again presenting his bare chest to Zandra. "Do it."

It's not that I don't want to, Chad. It's that I still have invitations to pass out, and I don't plan on inviting paramedics.

These dolts are good and primed. Maybe I can still bullshit my way out of this.

"Children, do you all remember earlier when I said that there was a murder weapon in this very garage?" Zandra says.

"Yeah. So?" Chad says.

"I wasn't talking about the past at the time, but the future," Zandra says.

"The past's future? The future of the past? What?" Chad says.

The Crocodile rolls his yellow eyes. "She means now, dumbass. The past's future is the present."

"Yeah, but not always," Bexley says. "It depends on where the future stops when you think about it going forward from a spot in the past."

Zandra returns The Crocodile's look.

Overthinking is dangerous in the wrong minds.

"It's the present, child, as in right now," Zandra says. She twirls the meat mallet. "Meaning, I fear the murder weapon is this very item. If I strike you, you may die."

Chad and Bexley gasp in unison.

"Seriously?" Chad says. "But we went through all this work to get you here. It was really hard."

No, idiot, you kidnapped me. You don't get to complain about work like you're processing license plates at the DMV.

Zandra tosses the meat mallet once again. "I'm sorry, but truth is truth, child. I can't change what will happen. Believe me, I wanted to hit you, but you need to trust me like you trusted that I could help you."

That doesn't sit well with The Crocodile. In a single motion, he crosses the distance to Chad and hits him in the back with the pistol. Chad looks shocked, but not surprised, as his bony frame folds into the floor.

"There. Are you a psychic yet?" The Crocodile says.

From the floor, Chad winces out, "I'm not sure, but maybe. I'm seeing something. Could just be the floor, though."

The Crocodile follows up with a kick to Chad's side. Bexley lets out a shriek.

"How about now?" The Crocodile says. He kicks Chad again. "Or now?"

With one hand, The Crocodile jerks Chad upright only to throw the scrawny young man down once again. Chad's glasses slip off and find themselves between his bare chest and the concrete.

"Enough with the bullshit. Are you going to get me my money or not?" The Crocodile says. His hand toggles the pistol's aim between Chad and Bexley.

Bleeding and wheezing, Chad looks pitiful on the concrete.

Good grief, I'm going to be here all day.

"Yes, enough with the bullshit," Zandra says. She tucks the lawnmower knife back up her sleeve. Her hand returns with a business card invitation. She offers the card to The Crocodile. "Would you care to join me for a box social?"

"The fuck is a box social?" The Crocodile says and takes the card, his wide chest still heaving from the adrenaline.

"It's a party, and you're officially invited. All three of you can come, as a matter of fact," Zandra says. "Tell me, children, have you ever heard of Emile the Empath?"

Bexley brightens up. She says, "The Emile the Empath? Is she going to be there?"

"Indeed she is, child, because in fact she owes me a great sum of money, and she'll be clearing her debts at the party," Zandra says. "I'm happy to share in the wealth. The Crocodile can get his money, and the two of you can mingle with the pros."

And I can have the benefit of two malleable saps and a crocodile willing to trade morals for money.

The Crocodile looks the card over. "This is in two days. You expect me to wait that long? I got shit to do."

"You're free to take your chances with the mess on the floor. Your choice," Zandra says. "Now which one of you is going to drive me back to that parking lot?"

Time to figure out where Sunglasses went.