Another story from the inestimable Peter Eldred:
When Mark returned home from work, his eight year old daughter Vanessa was nowhere to be found. The phone rang.
"We have your daughter. Deliver $100,000 to us by tomorrow at noon if you ever want to see her again." A deep voice said.
Mark considered this briefly. "What if I don't?"
"Do you really want to play games with little Vanessa's life, Mr. Huxtable?"
"No, no," he said firmly, "I mean what if I don't want to see her again? I don't know if you've noticed, but she's kind of a little bitch."
When Mark returned home from work, his eight year old daughter Vanessa was nowhere to be found. The phone rang.
"We have your daughter. Deliver $100,000 to us by tomorrow at noon if you ever want to see her again." A deep voice said.
Mark considered this briefly. "What if I don't?"
"Do you really want to play games with little Vanessa's life, Mr. Huxtable?"
"No, no," he said firmly, "I mean what if I don't want to see her again? I don't know if you've noticed, but she's kind of a little bitch."
"Are you fucking with us right now?"
"Not at all. Keep her. Please"
"You understand, Mr. Huxtable, that we're going to kill your daughter if you don't meet our demands?"
"Yes," Mark agreed, "that would be best. You'd better dispose of the evidence."
The man on the other line faltered. His voice lost much of its boom. "You know, we really weren't prepared for this kind of a response. Nobody here really knows the first thing about killing an eight-year-old and hiding the body."
"Oh, what the hell, man! Really? You're fucking kidnappers! Grow some balls. Weren't you at least ready to chop off a toe if things got hairy?"
"Well, we talked about it. A toe is so disfiguring though. We were just going to, I don't know, shave her head or something. Give her a real bad hair cut and send you a picture of it."
Mark sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.
"Why do I always have to deal with the shittiest kidnappers?"
The unknown man sighed sympathetically. "Could we just, like, bring her back to the house, do you think?"
"Fuck no!" Mark yelled, "If you step foot in this house with my daughter alive and well, I am going to fucking kill you. Now listen to me very carefully. You're going to need a hacksaw, some ammonia, and seven garbage bags..."
"Not at all. Keep her. Please"
"You understand, Mr. Huxtable, that we're going to kill your daughter if you don't meet our demands?"
"Yes," Mark agreed, "that would be best. You'd better dispose of the evidence."
The man on the other line faltered. His voice lost much of its boom. "You know, we really weren't prepared for this kind of a response. Nobody here really knows the first thing about killing an eight-year-old and hiding the body."
"Oh, what the hell, man! Really? You're fucking kidnappers! Grow some balls. Weren't you at least ready to chop off a toe if things got hairy?"
"Well, we talked about it. A toe is so disfiguring though. We were just going to, I don't know, shave her head or something. Give her a real bad hair cut and send you a picture of it."
Mark sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.
"Why do I always have to deal with the shittiest kidnappers?"
The unknown man sighed sympathetically. "Could we just, like, bring her back to the house, do you think?"
"Fuck no!" Mark yelled, "If you step foot in this house with my daughter alive and well, I am going to fucking kill you. Now listen to me very carefully. You're going to need a hacksaw, some ammonia, and seven garbage bags..."
