Chapter 9: The Second Dose

Chapter 9: The Second Dose

The beige Toyota Camry became a daily torment. It wasn't loud or offensive like the Cavalier had been. It didn't spew smoke or rattle down the street. It was worse. It was a quiet, beige, four-door symbol of their unearned redemption. Every time it glided past his house, Jake felt a fresh spike of the cold fury he’d felt when Sarah first told him the news. And every time, Billy’s insolent wave played in his mind’s eye, a mocking salute to cosmic injustice.

The conversation with Boris had cemented his resolve. This wasn't about anger anymore. Anger was a hot, messy emotion. What Jake felt now was a cold, clear sense of purpose. He was an educator, and his pupils had failed their exam. It was his duty to administer it again. Class wasn't over.

A week and a half after the Camry’s miraculous appearance, the perfect opportunity arose. Sarah announced she would be spending Saturday afternoon at a baby shower for one of her teacher friends. The house, the yard, and the garage would be his.

The moment her car disappeared down the street, he walked into his sanctuary. The garage felt charged, alive with potential. He retrieved the painted gas can—the one they had so graciously returned to his truck bed at the disastrous family dinner—from its place on the shelf. It was the instrument of their first lesson, and it was ready for an encore.

His movements were no longer those of an alchemist discovering a new formula; they were the practiced, efficient motions of a master. He worked with a calm, deliberate precision that was far more terrifying than any fit of rage. First, the four gallons of clean gasoline, the tempting bait. Then, he fetched the drain pan of waste oil. He remembered Randy’s slip of the tongue—"like that time I put diesel in the lawnmower"—and a grim smile touched his lips. Some people were simply incapable of learning. He poured in a quart of the black sludge, watching it swirl into the gasoline like a dark poison.

He reached for the jug of diesel fuel, his secret ingredient, the agent of true mechanical chaos. As he measured it out, he thought of the Camry's quiet, dependable engine. A well-made machine, designed for longevity. It was a shame. A true shame to have to put down a fine animal because its owners were rabid. He added a little extra diesel this time, a booster shot to ensure the infection would be total and immediate. He swirled the can, the familiar, foul scent of ‘Rotten Egg Gas’ filling the air. It smelled like inevitable consequences.

The bait prepared, he moved on to setting the stage. He wheeled out the lawnmower, its engine still fouled from the dregs of the last performance. It took him six hard pulls to get it started, the sputtering coughs a perfect, authentic touch. He mowed two strips of the front lawn, just enough to make the scene look real. Then, near the sidewalk, he let the engine die. He gave the cord a few theatrical, frustrated tugs before leaving the mower and the painted gas can sitting on the grass, a tableau of abandoned chores. It was the exact same setup. The same can, the same location, the same pretense. It felt audacious, almost arrogant. He was counting on a level of stupidity that defied the laws of probability.

He retreated to his sniper's nest at the living room window, a cold bottle of water in his hand. The waiting began. An hour passed. Then two. The afternoon sun beat down on the abandoned mower. Jake felt a flicker of doubt. Maybe the trauma of the impound lot had been enough. Maybe Boris was wrong, and their luck had actually changed them.

The thought was almost as infuriating as their initial success. He had brewed the poison, set the trap. If they didn't take it, his carefully measured justice would remain undelivered, sitting uselessly in a red plastic can on his lawn.

Just as the shadows began to lengthen, painting the street in the soft hues of early evening, he saw it. The beige Camry turned onto their street. It parked in its usual spot. For a long moment, nothing happened. Jake held his breath. Then, the driver’s side door opened, and Randy Jenkins emerged. He stood by the car, stretching, and his eyes immediately locked onto the gas can sitting on Jake's lawn.

Jake could practically see the greasy gears turning in Randy's tiny brain. A flicker of recognition. A flash of greed. A calculation of risk versus reward. It was a battle between a single, traumatic memory and a lifetime of entitled laziness.

Laziness won. It always did.

Randy said something to Billy, who was now getting out of the passenger side. They had a brief, animated discussion, their gestures pointing first at the can, then at Jake’s house. Billy shook his head, a rare flicker of self-preservation showing through his dullard’s exterior. But Randy was insistent. He was the brains of this particular operation, and he had made a decision.

As dusk settled, the scene replayed itself like a recurring nightmare. Billy stood lookout, his bulky form a laughable attempt at stealth. Randy scuttled across the street, his movements low and furtive. He grabbed the can, heavier this time with the extra dose of diesel, and scurried back to the car. He didn't even put it in the trunk. He opened the Camry's fuel door right there and, with the help of the can's built-in spout, began to pour Jake’s gift directly into the tank.

Jake watched, his disbelief warring with a profound, soul-deep satisfaction. They had done it. They had actually, unbelievably, done it again. He was no longer just an avenger; he was a prophet, and these two idiots were his most faithful disciples, marching obediently toward their own destruction.

The news didn't come until the next morning. Jake was on the porch, sipping his Sunday coffee, when he heard a commotion from across the street. Sarah’s grandfather had come over and was now standing with Randy and Billy, all three of them staring at the front of the beige Camry, its hood propped open.

An hour later, Sarah's phone rang. Jake watched her through the screen door, saw her expression shift from a pleasant Sunday morning greeting to a mask of weary, resigned disbelief.

"You're kidding me," she said into the phone. "The new car?… No, I don't know what could have happened… It just died? Where?"

She listened for a long moment, her eyes drifting across the street to the sad little gathering around the dead Toyota.

"Oh," she said, her voice flat. "Well, at least they were home. Okay… yeah, I'll ask him, but I doubt it. Okay, love you too."

She came to the door, shaking her head as she slid it open. "I don't know if our family is cursed or just monumentally stupid."

"What's up?" Jake asked, taking a placid sip of his coffee.

"The Camry is dead," she announced, as if reporting a death in the family. "Completely dead. Billy went to start it this morning to go get donuts, and it wouldn't turn over. He tried again, and it made this awful grinding sound, then a loud clunk, and now… nothing. It's a brick. A beige brick sitting in their yard."

A small mercy. Jake’s methodical mind registered the key difference. There would be no public spectacle this time, no tow trucks or impound fees. The evidence of his work was sitting on private property. It was a cleaner, more direct result.

"Grandpa is furious," Sarah continued, collapsing into the chair beside him. "He keeps saying, 'How could a perfectly good Toyota just die overnight?' He thinks the church gave them a lemon. Can you imagine the luck? Their one blessing, their second chance, and it turns out to be a dud."

Jake stared across the street at the three men staring helplessly into the silent engine bay. They hadn't been given a lemon. They had been given a perfectly good apple, and they had willingly injected it with poison. He had given them the means of their own destruction, and they had used it without a moment's hesitation.

"That's a real shame," he said, his voice a perfect blend of sympathy and detachment.

The charity car was dead. Their salvation had been revoked. They were stranded once again, with no one to blame and no one to rescue them. The lesson had been administered a second time, with brutal efficiency.

He took another sip of his coffee. The taste was rich, dark, and deeply satisfying. Round two was over. And as he watched them finally give up and lower the hood on their dead dream, he wondered what desperate, idiotic move they would make next.