Coop sat back as the van rumbled on to wherever the hell it was rumbling to. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. He went back to trying not to look scared. In fact, he was less anxious than he had been a few minutes before. He’d run and hadn’t been shot. They’d even saved him from being devoured by Cujo. They obviously wanted him for something. He hoped it was something he could handle. He felt bad because one bag of clothes the shithead kicked out of the van had been the ones he borrowed from Morty. He considered for a minute whether that made up for Morty ratting him out and landing him in jail.

Nope, he decided. But it was close.

They drove for another thirty minutes. The gunman kept his pistol aimed at Coop the whole time.

“Your bosses don’t mind you pointing guns at people when you’re half crocked?” Coop said.

The gunman took another drink. “It cuts down on the office riffraff.”

“Do they have a special form for when you shoot your dick off?”

The woman snickered again. She pecked at her laptop. Coop quickly went from panicky to nervous to bored.

Finally, the van slowed, made an abrupt left turn, and went down a short incline before stopping.

“We’re here, Cinderella. Time to meet your prince,” said the gunman. He slid the side door open and stepped down. All Coop could see was what looked like an underground parking garage. Yellow lines on the ground spaced a few feet apart. Other vans. Concrete support columns. He stepped out and the woman followed.

“Pull a runner here, pal, and I’ll be the least of your worries,” said the gunman.

“In the future, you should say that with a Clint Eastwood squint. It’ll scare more rubes.” Yet as much as Coop lipped off, he didn’t want to move. He hovered near the van and looked around. Yes, it was nothing but an underground parking lot. He was both relieved and disappointed. After all the drama, he’d expected a secret lair in a dormant volcano or an abandoned missile silo. This looked like the basement of a Walmart. At least it wasn’t a police station. He’d been in enough of those that he could smell them.

“Where are we?” said Coop.

“Disneyland. Be good and I’ll let you take a picture with Daffy Duck.”

“You mean Donald Duck. Daffy Duck is Warner Brothers, not Disney.”

“Christ,” said the gunman. “You and her ought to get married and have boring babies.”

“It’s not my fault. You’ve got to do your research if you’re going to taunt people properly.”

“I should have let the dog eat you.”

“But then I wouldn’t be around to help you with your duck problem. Admit it. I’m already an asset.”