The Interrogation of Mike Patterson – Episode #4

December 4, 2009 on 1:50 pm | In Mountain Biking | 4 Comments

I called Patterson at 11:43 p.m. at his yuppie abode on Taylor Avenue, just two blocks from Lipton’s house.

When Patterson picked up, I could hear someone from the Shopping Channel hollering about closeout prices on cleaning supplies.

“Come over to Lipton’s,” I said. “We need to talk.”

“It’s late,” Patterson said. “I’m getting ready for bed.”

“We just popped a growler of Ace of Spades Imperial IPA from Hopworks.”

“I’ll be right there.”

It took him nearly 25 minutes to cover the two blocks between his house and Lipton’s. He was breathing hard when he hobbled through the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane.

“Let me get that cane for you, Patterson,” Lipton said.

Patterson handed over the cane and shuffled into the room. Lipton closed the door and whacked Patterson hard across the back of the neck with the cane. Patterson went down like Tiger Woods on the wrong end of a 3-iron.

It was tough for two of us to transport Patterson’s portly frame without the aid of a forklift, but we managed to drag  him into the garage and load him into the trunk of Lipton’s car.

Patterson mumbled something and started to raise his head, but Lipton hit  him across the forehead with the cane and Patterson went back to dreaming about life as a sex puppet in Japan when he was in the service.

Lipton slammed the trunk lid, and we headed for Growlers Gulch.

Sher was in Los Angeles, visiting her sister, and wouldn’t be back for several days, so we had as much time as we needed. Patterson remained unconscious as we hauled him into the garage and duct-taped him to a chair.

When I laid down a triple layer of plastic that covered the entire garage, Lipton said, “Do you think that’s overkill?”

“Blood spatter can travel long distances,” I said.

I had Lipton keep an eye on our guest while I went to the basement refrigerator and dug out a Heineken that someone had left at the Tour de Gulch in 2002.

When I returned to the garage with the Heineken and an opener, Lipton said, “Don’t come near me with that thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “It’s not for drinking.”

I popped the top while Lipton held Patterson’s mouth open and I poured. Patterson’s eyes flashed open, and he began spitting and wretching in an attempt to rid himself of the vile substance.

“Okay, Patterson,” I said. “Now that we have your attention, let’s talk about those cups.”

“You guys don’t intimidate me one bit,” Patterson gurled. “I know this is just a game. You might be a little volatile, but Lipton is about as dangerous as Tiny Tim.”

Lipton grabbed a pair of pruning shears that were hanging on the wall.

“This is different, Patterson. I’ve had to listen to your boring Navy stories over and over again since 1987. Now it’s time for payback. You violated a sacred trust when you took those Fist of Five cups. If you don’t give us the answers we want, I won’t have any problem taking these pruning shears to your Tiny Tim.”

For the first time, Patterson looked alarmed.

“We want you to think of this garage as your own little Abu Graihb,” I said.

“I got nothing to say.”

“We know you’re jealous of the Fist of Five guys, Patterson. You took the cups because that’s as close as you can get to being a real rider.”

“I don’t care about that stupid Fist of Five stuff. I gave myself two spokes for coming out after this year’s Tour de Gulch and drinking with everyone, so I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Fine, Patterson. Stick with the Ollie North approach. But if you don’t start talking, this is going to be a long, painful evening.”

“All right, I admit it. There was a banana on your counter when I was going out the door last Saturday. I needed it for my Sunday morning smoothie, so I slipped it into my pants. That’s what Lipton saw.”

“You really expect us to believe that?”

“It’s the truth. I don’t have the cups and, even if I did, you guys aren’t going to get anything out of me. The Navy schooled me in counter-interrogation techniques during the ’60s.”

“Then I guess we’ll use this opportunity to see how well that Navy training holds up under Level 10 pain.” 

We started on Patterson with pruning sheers, to no avail. Lipton kept snipping and Patterson kept insisting that he didn’t know where the cups were. 

Finally, the frustration got to be too much. I cranked up the Stihl Mini Boss chainsaw with the 12-inch bar and went to work. It was light, easy to maneuver, and perfect for situations like this. It was Saturday night on Growlers Gulch Road, so no one paid any attention to the screaming.

I learned a valuable lesson that night. Never let Lipton use power tools.