Oh, and then I get to burn down everything when I'm done. Hopefully the people inside will escape unscathed.
I scratch my head as I shuffle through the papers again. The night is about to get interesting. This wish shouldn't take too long—I won't even need to stay overnight—but I'm going to need supplies.
***
I've never burned down a building before.
Hell, I haven't even started a campfire. Maybe I should have asked Counselor Robert to teach me.
Luckily, Internet access is available everywhere. I have no idea how the other suckers stuck in this role managed without Google. They must have been smarter, because my first inclination to ignite a building was gasoline and a match.
Come to find out, this is not the most realistic idea. It would have been about as efficient as lighting a bunch of candles on a birthday cake and throwing it. Sure, it would catch the place on fire, but probably just make a sizable hole in one wall and do some smoke damage before the fire department put it out.
Karl said he wanted the place to be ash. Gasoline isn't going to cut it.
No, the Internet tells me I need to make thermite. So that is what I am going to make.
This wish is going to take longer than anticipated.
My GPS and I find ourselves at a home improvement store right before closing. The staff are not amused when I ask for iron oxide.
The Internet has led me astray.
I have no choice but to make the ingredients myself.
I am not Mister Wizard. I might be the first genie to blow himself up.
After spending more than two hours at a big box store, I leave with a plastic bin, mason jars, coffee filters, convertors, a car battery, cables, rubber bands, a package of balloons, salt, a gram scale, all of the Etch-A-Sketch toys, and gum.
The gum is for my nerves. Everything else is going to make an enormous mess and, possibly, a bomb.
***
The more my mind wraps around what I'm up against, the more I realize this is going to take at least a solid day of prep work.
I check into the first hotel that has an available room, unload my car, and setup a lab right there between the coffee maker with Wolfgang Puck coffee grounds and the the little card asking me to re-use towels to save water.
On second thought, I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Last thing I need is the maid walking in while I have nails rusting at super-speed and video streaming to my phone on repeat about how to make my own thermite.
I brew and drink the Wolfgang Puck coffee while I strain mixtures and lay the results out to dry. I bash open the front of the Etch-A-Sketch toys and pour the contents into a clean jar.
The night passes, the sun rises. I've gone through the entire package of gum, all the coffee provided by the hotel, and at least a quarter of my sanity.
Before I resign to sleep for a few hours, I run through the scenario one more time. Measure the ingredients, combine in the balloons, light, and run.
Light … and run.
How the hell do I light this?
I plug in my phone because it has another long hour ahead of it, and so do I. As it turns out, I need magnesium ribbon, and there are only two places to buy it:
The Internet, but I find no one who can overnight it. Plus, I can't exactly have it delivered to the hotel.
Or, a local lab store. I bet the bastards have iron oxide too.
The catch is, I have to be a student to make a purchase.
It is seven in the morning in Arizona. I call Karl.
He picks up on the second ring. “Dimitri?”
Doesn't he ever sleep?
“Hey, yeah,” I say. “I need a student ID pronto, pendejo.”
He hesitates.
Ah, shit. I hope he hasn't picked up any Spanish recently. Probably not in my best interest to call him an idiot in any language, even if he is one.
He finally speaks. “What do you need a student ID for?”
“To study classical music.” I cringe at my words. Maybe I shouldn't call him when I'm damn near delirious with nerves and exhaustion. “For supplies. Please just send one over.”
“What wallet do you have?”
I make an “uh” sound because I have no idea who I am today.
I work the wallet out of my pocket and flip through it. “Alex Parker.”
“This is very last minute, Dimitri,” he says.
Great. He's pissed.
“Learning curve.” I fight back a yawn. “Can you make sure they set me up as a science major?”
He says, with some hesitation, “The student badge doesn't state your program. Send me your hotel, and I'll get a delivery to you this afternoon.”
He hangs up. I text over the information, pick up my empty paper cup, frown at the lack of coffee, then kick off my shoes.
I need to sleep. My eyes feel like I've been shining them with sandpaper.
From the bed, I survey my work area and let reality sink in: I'm building a bomb.
No one should try this at home. Or at a hotel room. Ever.
Especially me.
But I kind of don't have a choice.
***