Mad Professor by Rudy Rucker Page A

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    Right about then Ragland appeared, gliding out of his back-yard like a ghost, the barrel of his shotgun glinting in the streetlight. He was holding it level at his waist, pointing right at Jack’s stomach.
    â€œYou hookworm,” said Ragland. “I oughtta blow a hole in you.”
    Tonel jumped backward, letting the hood slam shut. “We just tryin’ to use Daddy’s van,” he said. “We figured we could borrow your—”
    â€œI’m gonna call the po-lice,” said Ragland. “A night in jail be good for you two whelps.”
    â€œOh yeah?” said Tonel. “How ’bout if I tell them what you do to them old men in the locker room? We saw you rollin’ em up. Cops might even call it murder.”
    â€œYou was in the lockers?” said Ragland, letting his gun droop.
    â€œWe came in through the grate in the ceiling,” said Jack. “And then we let ourselves out.”
    â€œYou left the door unlocked?” said Ragland after a pause. “Oh Lord. You gotta help me now. Jump in my truck.”
    â€œHow long have the mibracc been like that?” Jack asked Ragland as he drove them towards the club.
    â€œGoin’ on two weeks,” said Ragland. “Right when they gotthem big glass jars. Was Mr. Gupta showed me about the stomach plugs. He got it from somethin’ he seen on TV. The men like me to do ’em that way. I drain ’em every night, and plump ’em up in the mawnin’. We use the steam room. They been payin’ me extra and, yeah Tonel, they even doin’ some yard work for me.”
    â€œBut what do it mean?” asked Tonel.
    â€œThat’s a conundrum,” said Ragland. “But I don’t want to see what happens if they get out on their own.”
    As soon as he’d parked, Ragland was out the door and across the parking lot, still carrying his shotgun. Jack noticed that he’d left the keys in the ignition. Should he just take off and save Gretchen? But then Ragland glared back at them and gestured with his gun. Jack had a feeling the old man wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Somewhat unwillingly, Jack and Tonel went to lend him their support.
    From the terrace, Jack could see past the barbeque wagon and into the air-conditioned grill where Les Trucklee was pouring out brandy for a last few red-faced Killeville gentry. He could hear their voices braying even through the closed windows. Nasal, buzzing, self-satisfied. Tomorrow Jack would be gone—if only he could make it through tonight.
    The locker room door was still unlocked. Ragland led the boys right in. The air was thick with vapor; voices boomed from the steam room. It was the mibracc, sounding hale and well rested.
    Holding his shotgun at the ready, Ragland peered into the sauna. Two of the skins were still on the floor where they’d slithered; the other three had already plumped up. They were talking about golf, poker, and politics in that bone-dull Killeville way that made it impossible to hear more than a few consecutive phrases.
    â€œGet back in your bags!” Ragland told them. “It’s still night.”
    Mr. Cuthbert looked over and gave Ragland the finger, baring his top row of ivory yellow teeth. And then Mr. Atlee strode over and grabbed the barrel of Ragland’s gun.
    The blast of the shotgun shell was shockingly loud in the small, tiled space. Jack’s ears rang, he felt like he might be permanently deafened.
    Though a large piece of Mr. Atlee’s stomach was gone, the mibracc was still standing. Worse than that, he’d taken control of the shotgun. Mr. Atlee struck Ragland on the side of the head with the gunstock, dropping him. And then he leveled the barrels at Jack and Tonel. The two took to their heels. There was another blast as they reached the door; the buckshot hailed against the lockers.
    Without looking back for Ragland, they jumped in the old man’s truck. Tonel drove them down