The Amish Spaceman

AS EVENING APPROACHED, Dean slumped below the windowsill and slowly banged the back of his head against the wall.

  “No escape,” he muttered. “What would Ray Liotta do in this situation?”

  Emerson sat next to him and patted his hand. “Do not worry, husband.”

  “Of course––I’m just being silly. Nothing to worry about. We’ve only been prisoners of a bloodthirsty Amish farmer for ten hours, my favorite actor in the entire world has been murdered, made into a walking corpse slash robot, and I have to be in Charleston tomorrow morning or never work as a motivational speaker again! Good times.”

  “I promised that we would die together,” said Emerson.

  She glanced at the door and held up the silver, two-shot pistol.

  “Where’d you hide that?”

  Emerson shrugged. “These Amish men are too shy to look under my dress. They are opposite of Japanese man, who looks up skirt everywhere on bus and train, stair and sidewalk. Camera under skirt here, camera under skirt there.”

  “Right,” said Dean. “How about we don’t kill ourselves until the absolute last moment? Let’s agree on that.”

  Emerson waved the pistol. “How do you know this is not last moment?”

  Dean grabbed her hand and gently lowered it. “Dear girl, I want to die as much as you do, maybe even more, but let’s table that option for the moment. We could use the gun to escape.”

  “This has only two bullets: one for me and one for you. When it is last moment, I will shoot you in face and then shoot myself in face.”

  “That’s very romantic.”

  Emerson smiled. “Of course. All boys in Kamchatka say this to girlfriend.”

  She lifted her skirt and hid the gun as steps thudded in the corridor. Metal clicked, and the door opened to reveal a pair of stout Amish men.

  “Dinner’s ready,” said one.