Armed and Dangerous

Big Red for size reference

Everyone has that one desire that defines them. True love, a yacht, a smoking hot bod, you name it. People will pursue whatever it is to the ends of the earth. Or the depths of Christian-Mingle, if it’s “love” they’re after. Most of these desires are somewhat attainable, one way or another.

Some push their bodies to the point where they’ve purged every Little Debbie from their blood stream and exist simply as a pulsing muscle, stomping from place to place (secretly determined to make everyone feel worse about themselves). Still others spend their whole lives working their butts off to scrape enough money together to buy whatever they think will fulfill their sad little lives, only to find that yachts are simply glorified boats.

I, of course, am not like everyone else. My deep, yearning desire is not for money, fame or “true love”.

I want to be kidnapped.

Yes. Kidnapped.

The grabbed off the street, kicking and screaming, thrown in a trunk and taken to a secondary location kind. Tells you a lot about my psyche, doesn’t it?

If you’re still reading and haven’t already clicked away because “what psycho wants to be kidnapped”, you’re probably laughing to yourself an wondering where this train wreck is going next.

Or you’re thinking to yourself, “Wait, this incredibly brilliant blogger is onto something”.

Why thank you, dear reader. I’d like to think so.

There’s something exciting about walking the streets alone, suspicious of every car that goes by. Ever since I was a kid and had to take rides with aunts, neighbors, or legally blind grandparents, I’d make a point to study the locks in the cars. Some popped up like mini silver whack-a-mole, or had a little red mark on the switch that I could flick back and forth.

I also thought that I had found a foolproof way to get around being chloroformed. After watching an ungodly amount of television and seeing hero after hero get grabbed and unable to escape conscious from their attacker, I’d had enough. This isn’t realistic, I thought. It would be stupidly easy to pretend to struggle for a few moments (while holding one’s breath), then fake passing out. The villains could drag me to the car and throw me in (thinking I’d be out for a while) and then I’d make a run for it.

If you went back in time and asked me when I was 11 if I thought I’d have to use my carefully curated abilities, there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d laugh in your face.

“Use them? Look pal, I’ll be an Avenger when I’m 20. Ask me then.”

I was sure I’d have to use these skills that I was building at one point. That I’d leave youth group and find that the car I got into was not in fact my Aunt’s blue minivan but instead a drug trafficker’s who’d parked in Grace Baptist Church’s lot. A guy with a red handkerchief wrapped around his bald head would turn around, half a gram of coke stuck up his nose, and I’d kick the coke into his brain before making a mad dash for the church.

11-year-old me would be incredibly disappointed that nothing exciting has happened in the nine years we’ve been apart. And although the kidnapping hasn’t happened yet, I have gotten more prepared in case. Now this wasn’t necessarily of my own volition, but because I recently told my Uncle how exciting it would be to be kidnapped.

He had sat perfectly still in his chair and stared at me.

“You what?

“I want to be kidnapped.” I said this like it was obvious (because it was).

“Why?”

I was surprised that he wasn’t nodding along remarking upon my genius and the similar desire he had.

“Why? Because it would be fun.”

My Uncle was not convinced. He was even more unsettled when I told him how I walk around town after dark.

“Do you carry a weapon?”

The answer to that was again, no. Why would I carry a weapon if I wanted to get kidnapped? That would be a deterrent.

Apparently that was “the point”.

Later the next week, I went to visit my Uncle and he handed me a knife. It was strung on a necklace which felt like a message that said, “To be worn at all times”.

So far, I’ve lost the knife twice but it’s turned up again like a bad penny. I’ve decided maybe it would be a good idea to keep it around. Kidnappers aren’t going to think to look for a knife necklace when they grab me.

Whatever idiot who thinks to kidnap me will be in for a surprise when they check the backseat to find my “unconscious” body missing, zipties cut, and the car door unlocked, swinging open as I tear cheek in the opposite direction.