Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,41
with Björn, though once alone it occurred to Coffen that a) Schumann probably won’t listen to his plan anyway, seeing as how he went ahead and swiped Björn on his own quarterback accord, and b) he kidnapped a master of the dark arts without any concrete idea what to do with him, simply stole him for some kind of contorted notion of victory, and c) nowhere in Schumann’s cranium does there seem to be ample fear over the very real possibility of incarceration, and d) Schumann might be mentally ill or so hardwired for competition that he’s somehow untrained for civilian life.
Coffen and Tilda approach. Schumann exits the driver’s seat, walks toward the back but doesn’t open it, keeping Björn obscured.
“Hello, big fella,” Tilda says to Schumann, ogling his football uniform, the implied musculature underneath his sporty shell. “I was hoping our paths would cross when I wasn’t working.”
“I’ve changed my name to Reasons with His Fists,” he says.
“Your name’s as meaningless as these jeans I’m wearing,” says Tilda.
“I’m married.”
“Let’s not ruin our first non–Taco Shed impression with too many details from our personal lives,” she says.
“You’d make a good running back,” Schumann says to her. “You see an opening and hit the hole hard, hoping to score.”
“You’re going to make me blush, Reasons with His Fists,” she says.
“We need to focus,” Coffen says inconsequentially.
“My name is a tribute to my tribe,” Schumann says.
“Are you part Native American?” she asks.
“I am a warrior ready to ravage at the drop of a hat.”
“I’m prepared to drop much more than my hat,” says Tilda, enhancing her flirty words with a fellatio-impersonation, her hand moving back and forth in front of her open mouth. She looks like a demented sex-ed teacher trying to scare the kids into abstinence.
Schumann watches the demo and smiles. “You have the body of a fearsome warrior, too.”
“I’ve taken my lumps over the years.”
Coffen can’t take his inconsequentialness any longer and throws open the back of the SUV. The three of them stand, staring at the squirming, angrily mumbling magician.
“Who’s that guy?” Tilda asks, cool as a sociopath.
“Our vanquished foe,” says Schumann.
“He looks pretty pissed,” she says.
“His arms are probably asleep,” Schumann says. “Not to mention I had to knee his testes to properly subdue him before pitching him in there.”
“I like the way you say ‘testes,’” Tilda says. “Can I hear it once more, except this time, make it a little breathier, like you’re seducing me?”
Schumann answers in a baritone Don Juan playboy voice, “Testeeeeez.”
“You are my testes-hero,” she says.
“Anyway, this is the guy we kidnapped,” Coffen says.
“I am your testeeeeez-hero,” Schumann says, sexy voice doused with aftershave and five o’clock shadow.
“Maybe I’ll wait for you guys in the bar,” Coffen says, already sulking.
“That’s a great idea,” Tilda says. “Maybe Reasons with His Fists would like to take me for a drive so we can get to know each other more intimately. What do you say, daddy?”
“This will be like the glory days,” Schumann says. “Pillaging a coed to mark an important victory. Hail Purdue!”
“Nobody’s called me a coed in years,” Tilda coos.
“What about him?” Coffen asks and points at squirming Björn.
“He’ll be fine,” she guarantees. “He might even enjoy the show.” Tilda winks at Bob and then walks over and gets in the SUV via the passenger’s side. Shrugging, Schumann hops back in, too, and starts the engine.
Coffen traipses up to his window and says, “I think we should deal with the problem at hand.”
“We’ll troubleshoot soon,” Tilda says.
“I was talking to Schumann.”
“Do you mean my new friend Reasons with His Fists here?” she asks.
“Yes,” Schumann says, “who is this Schumann you keep referring to?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Coffen says to her.
“I’m a gal hoping to take a relaxing ride with a friend.”
“He has a family.”
“And I have a daughter, who’s partial to living in Roy’s car.”
Making zero headway with Tilda, Bob turns his attention to Schumann, saying, “What about your wife?”
He revs the engine.
“You’re not seriously about to drive off,” Coffen says.
Then Schumann seriously drives off with Tilda giddy in the passenger seat.
A couple of pickling rocket scientists
Bob Coffen’s been journeying toward intoxication and he’s arrived at it. He’s—as the bar’s name publicizes—empirely wasted.
Schumann and Tilda have been gone now for half an hour. The bar is filling up. French Kiss is due to perform soon. Bob is alone, feels dusted in fluorescent orange. Like the artificial stuff is contagious and everyone’s keeping their distance. Don’t shake his hand, keep clear when he coughs. Otherwise, you might