Malcolm choked back emotion. “To where?”
“Your crowning achievement!”
Coleman stood in the yacht and shielded his eyes. “It’s started. I need to smoke some dope to dig this.” He rolled a number.
Serge looked up and squinted. “You can almost feel the heat from here.” He reached into the small boat and slammed the throttle forward. “I love an oil burn just before dawn.”
The dinghy sped away as screams trailed off into the distant waters.
“Look at him go!” Coleman took a deep hit. “But he’s heading right for the flames.”
“Imagine the view.”
“Didn’t think we’d be able to still hear him yelling from this far
… Oooo, he just caught on fire.”
“That’s rarely positive,” said Serge.
“Still screaming,” said Coleman. “How long will he be alive?”
“Longer than you’d actually think.”
A ring of fire engulfed the western horizon. In the middle, a spike in the flames, and a screaming voice heading toward the center of the burning oil.
“How’d you think of doing this to him.”
“Actually he’s doing it to himself. If it wasn’t for his political shenanigans, he’d just be on a long, windy ride until the gas tank ran out and someone found him drifting in the morning.”
“But the gas tank won’t run out?”
“No, it will,” said Serge. “But all at once. You get such bad gas mileage in a burning spill.”
Coleman exhaled a toke. “Still screaming.”
“Ahhhhhhh!..”
“Coleman, what are you doing?”
Coleman was hanging over the side of the boat. “I see something floating.” He retrieved a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker and packed it with pot.
“Ahhhhhhh!..”
Boom.
Serge smiled at the rising fireball. “Energy for a brighter tomorrow.”
