with a very tall man, standing at the open end of the kitchen, calmly staring at him. He was dressed in a dark blue jogging suit and was wearing a black ski cap.
Frank staggered back, speechless with fear, running into the stove, sending several unwashed pans clattering to the floor, bits of days-old food spraying in various directions.
“A bit of a mess, don’t you think Mr. Whalen?” The man spread his well-muscled arms wide, encompassing the totality of the hygienic disaster. He slowly shook his head. “If you believe in the idiom ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ you are most certainly going straight to Hell.”
Somehow Frank managed to compose himself enough to yell at the intruder. “Whoever you are, you need to get out of my house before I call the cops!”
“Oh, that’s not going to happen, Mr. Whalen,” the man said, in a carefully modulated baritone voice.
Frank fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his smartphone, quickly dialed 9-1-1 and put it to his ear. At the same moment he noticed the man smiling and holding something that looked like a cell phone only slightly thicker.
“You will note at this moment you have no cell tower connectivity. This little device has seen to that.” The man waved it at him then put it back into one of his pockets. “I’ve also seen to it that your landline won’t work either. If you were to go outside you would find your network interface opened and disconnected. Not to worry though, when I leave I’ll be sure to close it up.” He chuckled lightly.
After seeing “No Signal” on his cellphone it suddenly dawned on him that he might actually be in danger from this lunatic. “What do you want!” he cried out, desperately looking for some sort of escape from the kitchen. “I’ve got some cash in the bedroom. You can have my laptop. It’s a MacBook Pro......”
“Do you really think I would want or need a used computer, Mr. Whalen?” the man tranquilly replied. He reached into his other pants pocket and pulled out some gloves and began to carefully pull them on.
“Do you follow football, Mr. Whalen?”
“What?! What are you talking about?!”
“A really simple question, actually. Do you follow football? High school, college, pros?”
Frank spasmodically nodded his head, not believing what was happening.
“Have your ever noticed how easily wide receivers can reach out and catch a football thrown at them at 60 miles per hour?” The man completed putting on his gloves and stopped, apparently waiting for an answer.
“Are you insane or something!?” Frank yelled.
The man held up his hands with the gloves, thoughtfully inspecting them. “It’s the gloves, you see. They’re coated with a compound made of neoprene and silicone that makes them very “tacky.” It allows them to catch and hold a ball they would never be able to do with their bare hands.”
“Please, just tell me what you want!” Frank pleaded, his voice cracking.
The man continued as if Frank had never responded. “What I’ve been able to do is develop a technology using the latest 3-D printing that allows me to emboss another man’s fingerprints on the tacky part of the gloves.” He held them up for Frank to see. “Pretty clever, don’t you think?”
It was then that Frank realized that for all of his insane comments, the man intended to kill him. He began desperately looking around for some sort of weapon.
The man pointed toward a six-inch paring knife on the counter to Frank’s right. “That one will do quite nicely, I’m sure.”
Frank snatched up the knife and held it out menacingly. “If you think I’m going down without a fight, you’re seriously mistaken.”
“How cliched. But that is precisely what I want you to do.”
“What?! Why are you doing this?! I’ve never done anything to you!”
“That may be, but recently you have been a very bad boy in other ways.”
It suddenly hit him like a lightning bolt—the e-mail! He’d thought it was sent
Frank staggered back, speechless with fear, running into the stove, sending several unwashed pans clattering to the floor, bits of days-old food spraying in various directions.
“A bit of a mess, don’t you think Mr. Whalen?” The man spread his well-muscled arms wide, encompassing the totality of the hygienic disaster. He slowly shook his head. “If you believe in the idiom ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness’ you are most certainly going straight to Hell.”
Somehow Frank managed to compose himself enough to yell at the intruder. “Whoever you are, you need to get out of my house before I call the cops!”
“Oh, that’s not going to happen, Mr. Whalen,” the man said, in a carefully modulated baritone voice.
Frank fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his smartphone, quickly dialed 9-1-1 and put it to his ear. At the same moment he noticed the man smiling and holding something that looked like a cell phone only slightly thicker.
“You will note at this moment you have no cell tower connectivity. This little device has seen to that.” The man waved it at him then put it back into one of his pockets. “I’ve also seen to it that your landline won’t work either. If you were to go outside you would find your network interface opened and disconnected. Not to worry though, when I leave I’ll be sure to close it up.” He chuckled lightly.
After seeing “No Signal” on his cellphone it suddenly dawned on him that he might actually be in danger from this lunatic. “What do you want!” he cried out, desperately looking for some sort of escape from the kitchen. “I’ve got some cash in the bedroom. You can have my laptop. It’s a MacBook Pro......”
“Do you really think I would want or need a used computer, Mr. Whalen?” the man tranquilly replied. He reached into his other pants pocket and pulled out some gloves and began to carefully pull them on.
“Do you follow football, Mr. Whalen?”
“What?! What are you talking about?!”
“A really simple question, actually. Do you follow football? High school, college, pros?”
Frank spasmodically nodded his head, not believing what was happening.
“Have your ever noticed how easily wide receivers can reach out and catch a football thrown at them at 60 miles per hour?” The man completed putting on his gloves and stopped, apparently waiting for an answer.
“Are you insane or something!?” Frank yelled.
The man held up his hands with the gloves, thoughtfully inspecting them. “It’s the gloves, you see. They’re coated with a compound made of neoprene and silicone that makes them very “tacky.” It allows them to catch and hold a ball they would never be able to do with their bare hands.”
“Please, just tell me what you want!” Frank pleaded, his voice cracking.
The man continued as if Frank had never responded. “What I’ve been able to do is develop a technology using the latest 3-D printing that allows me to emboss another man’s fingerprints on the tacky part of the gloves.” He held them up for Frank to see. “Pretty clever, don’t you think?”
It was then that Frank realized that for all of his insane comments, the man intended to kill him. He began desperately looking around for some sort of weapon.
The man pointed toward a six-inch paring knife on the counter to Frank’s right. “That one will do quite nicely, I’m sure.”
Frank snatched up the knife and held it out menacingly. “If you think I’m going down without a fight, you’re seriously mistaken.”
“How cliched. But that is precisely what I want you to do.”
“What?! Why are you doing this?! I’ve never done anything to you!”
“That may be, but recently you have been a very bad boy in other ways.”
It suddenly hit him like a lightning bolt—the e-mail! He’d thought it was sent
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