18 Explosive Eighteen by Janet Evanovich

the street.
    “Hey, idiot,” Lula said to Buggy. “You can’t do that to her. That’s friggin’ rude.”
    “I’l do whatever I want,” Buggy said. “It’s my car now.”
    Lula hauled her Glock out of her purse and aimed it at Buggy. “At the risk of gettin’ too personal, I got a delicate intestinal condition today, and you’re not making it any better. And I already explained to you about how car ownership works. Now, you need to get your lard butt outta here, or I’l put another hole in it.”
    “You don’t scare me,” Buggy said. “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
    “Says who?” Lula said. “I shoot unarmed men al the time.”
    I scrambled to my feet, came up behind Buggy, pressed the stun gun prongs to his neck, and held the button down. Buggy went dead stil , sank to his knees, and wet his pants.
    “Third time’s a charm,” Lula said.
    I slipped the plastic Flexi-Cuffs around his wrists and secured them behind his back. Buggy was stil on his knees, his eyes were glazed, and he was drooling.
    “How are we gonna get him in the car?” Lula stared at him. “He must weigh three hundred pounds, and he got wet pants. We need a forklift to move him. Maybe one of them skyhooks.”
    “Maybe now that he’s cuffed, he’l be reasonable,” I said.
    Buggy’s eyes snapped into focus. “Grrrrr,” he said.
    Lula looked down at him. “He don’t look reasonable.”
    Buggy struggled to free his hands. “GRRRRR!” He came off one knee and then the other. He shook his head as if to clear it, stood, and swayed a little getting his balance.
    “You know that movie where they bring the Frankenstein monster back to life?” Lula said. “This is like that movie. You know what happened when Frankenstein first woke up? He wasn’t happy .”
    “We need to go downtown and get you rebonded,” I said to Buggy. “It won’t take long.” Buggy lunged at me. His hands were bound behind his back, and his gait was awkward. He lunged at me a second time, but I jumped away. He stumbled, went down to the ground, and rol ed onto his back. That’s where he stayed, kicking his feet, unable to right himself.
    “He’s like a big giant turtle,” Lula said. “What are we gonna do with him?”
    I didn’t know. We couldn’t lift him. I wasn’t even sure we could drag him. When we got near, he kicked out at us. His face was red and sweating, and veins were popped out in his forehead and corded on his neck.
    “You need to calm yourself,” Lula said to Buggy.
    “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke. And you’re not a real attractive man to begin with, so you don’t want to make it worse with the whole bulging vein thing.
    It’s not a good look for you.”
    He was rocking side to side and grunting. “Unh, unh, UNH !” And on the last UNH , he broke out of the Flexi-Cuffs, rol ed to hands and knees, then stood beady-eyed, arms out, mouth open. Kil er grizzly.
    “YOW!” Lula said. “Every man for himself.” She ran for the Buick, and I ran for the RAV4. I jumped in, pul ed the door closed, and took off with Lula fol owing.
    I drove to my parents’ house, parked at the curb, and sat for a couple beats, getting it together. Lula rapped on the driver’s side window, and I got out.
    “You see, that’s what I’m talking about,” Lula said.
    “You got a juju issue. That wasn’t a wonderful experience. You ever see anyone break out of those plastic handcuffs before? I don’t think so.” ELEVEN
    GRANDMA WAS AT the front door, waving at us.
    “You’re just in time for lunch,” she said.
    Lula’s face brightened. “Lunch! That’s what I need after my traumatic experience.”
    Grandma led the way to the kitchen. “What happened?”
    “We almost got torn limb from limb by a idiot,” Lula said. “Only we avoided it and came here.” My mother was putting food on the kitchen table, trying not to rant over the thought of me getting my limbs torn off.
    “Ham, olive loaf, Swiss cheese, some macaroni