by Eric Beetner
I did the drill, fit the guy in under the old lady and tried not to worry about the smell, which was more pungent than usual due to the stowaway’s improper storage. Any way you cut it a corpse + time = unpleasantness.
So I turn up at the funeral the next day and discovered the old lady is the mother of some top cop in the department. The place is crawling with dress blues and captain’s bars marking the shoulders of what seemed like every third guy in the room.
I stared to sweat. Fixing the A/C was next on the list with the newest envelope. I took one step into the room, saw all the uniforms, and the smell stood out to me as strong as if a skunk had wandered in. The flowers weren’t covering it. The harp music wasn’t either.
But people were in a rush, so I still felt okay. Just a tad nervous.
I made my rounds offering condolences to the family. They were, as I expected, going through the motions in double time in order to make escape flights later that afternoon. The cops, however, were intent on hanging their heads in silent prayer and engaging in copious backslapping and empathizing with their fellow officer.
Then they started to speak. You’d think this woman was Mother friggin’ Teresa. The woman I’d spoken to on the phone, the daughter, implored me to help speed it up. When yet another spit-shined cadet went to the podium casket-side to say a few words, I slid up next to him and tried to give him the hook.
The closer I got to the casket I could really notice the smell. If anyone else did they didn’t seem bothered by it. Maybe they just thought I was a really lousy mortician who can’t preserve a body for eternal slumber. Didn’t matter to me as long as they hurried the hell up and got out.
The longer the ceremony went, the more time the cops had a chance to nip over to the outer area where the bar was set up. I busted a few of them trying to cross into the viewing parlor with tumblers of scotch in their hands. I was gentle, but as long as I kept on my funeral director’s hushed and reverent tone, no one would argue with me. Mostly they shot back the rest of their drinks like cowboys in a saloon and then left their glasses to soak sweat rings into the sideboard.
So when I tried to keep the last speaker from even starting his homage to Margery, I encountered some resistance. The irony was not lost on me that it was a cop who was being the belligerent drunk and me who was trying to keep him calm and remind him of the proper tone of respect given where we were standing not two feet from the dead woman he was so intent on eulogizing.
A few emphatic raised-eyebrow looks from the daughter let me know she was going to miss her flight if Mom didn’t get put six feet under real soon. And I was just as eager to get this latest body disposal over with and all these cops out of my funeral parlor.
So maybe I dropped my mask of funereal calm for a split second.
All I really remember was after a few rounds of, “Sir, could you please…?” I found myself pulling the guy’s hands off my lapels. Or trying to anyway. We parried and waltzed, first knocking over a cascading arrangement of day lilies and sunflowers, then knocking knees-first into the casket and riser.
The shocked yelps from the crowd were in unison as the whole set-up tipped forward. The old lady rolled with her final resting place and when the casket came smashing down onto the new carpet, she pitched forward and slid most of the way out. To Hector’s credit, her hair and makeup stayed impeccable.
I didn’t know for sure if the gasp from the crowd was for seeing the old woman they loved being defiled on the floor of a funeral home, or if it was for the strange new body now peek-a-booing behind her, bringing his full three-day stench with him into the room. All I really know is that everyone out of uniform was locked in a stare at the disgraceful scene of an overturned coffin and a hitchhiker spooning their dead mother, while everyone in a uniform had eyes locked on me.
Nobody cared that the cuffs were hurting me. They took my statement, asked a lot of questions and got me to agree to testify against Bobby and whoever else they could snatch up for me to put the finger on.
I said yes to it all. But, I had a plan…
While they put out the dragnet, I got a few supplies ready. The body came in from up north. Closed casket, which is what I needed. The old buzzard had been dead a full week so nobody wanted to see that. Hector did his work embalming the body to keep it as fresh as possible. A closed lid meant no makeup so I sent him home with a “good job” then made the switch.
The old man went into one of our display models in the showroom. It was the most expensive one so I knew it was the least likely to be looked at too closely, let alone opened and the interior examined. I’d be long gone before anyone discovered the body.
Meanwhile, I’d be inside his ride. I’d taken out most of the padding like I’d done so many times before. This gave me room to be inside without my face being pressed against the silk pillows of the lid. My portable oxygen tank fit easily inside with me. My wallet was uncomfortable to lie on because it contained all the cash I had in the world and my passport was in my other pocket.
I arrived early the next morning before anyone else. I’d told them all I wouldn’t make it in that day due to a doctor’s appointment. Maybe they’d think I kicked the bucket myself when I never came to work again.
Being inside a coffin wasn’t as bad as I thought. Back when I was studying to be a mortician we all took turns getting inside coffins. When your dad runs a funeral home, it’s part of growing up, too. Everyone wants to take a turn inside to see what it’s like. So I wasn’t freaking out or panicked in any way.
When my assistant came down to wheel me upstairs I was giddy with excitement, in fact. It was all working.
What most people don’t know is that some models have interior releases. This is a leftover from the paranoid point in time when being buried alive was much more common than it is now since embalming. Partly out of superstition, partly out of the universal fear of premature burial, most caskets come with some method of easily freeing yourself from within.
And once we were on the way to the cemetery, that’s exactly what I did. I’m sure more than a few people freaked out when a live man climbed out of the back of a hearse while stopped at a traffic light, but I was moving so fast at that point they probably all thought they were dreaming.
The money ran out pretty quick, but this island is nice. Bobby can’t reach me here, at least. I used my skills to start a small taxidermy business. Mostly marlins and other big fish tourists pull out of the Caribbean. I love it. My little shack doesn’t even have carpet. It’s only reggae music over the speakers. And all my clients go on a wall somewhere, not in the ground.
Yeah, business is good.
Back to TOC
RATCHETING
Ryan Sayles
It’s when they kick your door in with you six inches inside it you finally realize that frantic call from Jennifer was real and not some sick joke.
There’s nothing like noticing you’re being followed home from the bar. No matter which left and right turns you make, those same two headlights stalk at your back, making no effort to conceal themselves. No trickery. You’re not worth it. They know as well as you do if you called 911 or drove to a police station the cops would have you in handcuffs for the parole violation you’ve got hanging over your head. Nope. You’re on your own.
You’re on your own because you lied to, cheated on and stole from everyone else in your life. All those friends who liked having you around until they realized that when they turned their backs you turned your knives.
Then you made that left onto your street after figuring you’d make a stand at your house, your territory. That’s when your phone lit up with Jennifer on the caller ID.
“Yeah?” you said, eyeballing the rearview mirror as those two headlights methodically make that same turn. A call from her only meant one thing: she needs money. Inopportune time.
“Dad! Dad! Stop! I’m in the car behind you—” she says in that voice she used back when she was a little gir
l and her doll’s head came off and she’d come running over to you to put it back on. Panic with an expectation that Daddy would fix everything. Your life lesson to your fragile daughter? “Sometimes, honey, when it comes off it stays off.”
But right now you look into that rearview with renewed interest and say, “What the hell are you doing following me, Jennifer? It looks like—”
“You owe them money, Dad! They want it—”
“Who?”
“They said you’d know. Dad…” her voice drifts off and you picture a thousand different snarling men—all your old friends who now want to taste your blood—sitting in the seat next to her while some other guy drives the car. Jennifer, her face weathering from the drugs she picked up after her mother died. Traded in her magician’s kit for it; the tall hat and the fake rabbit. The wand. All the “ta-da’s!” she’d sing as she showed you something magical. That dream gone. The dope rushed in to fill the void. Now her kit consists of a spoon and a rubber band. A dirty needle. You don’t care; you only stayed with her mom because she got pregnant and even then when she contracted AIDS from the third or fourth dude after you left, you decided to stop pretending to care. Hell, you couldn’t find a comforting word to say to your only daughter.
She was twelve.
“I need a name, Jennifer.” You say as you pull into the driveway. And that’s when they floor the gas and the engine roars as the car flies up into your yard. You run, your back to the threat, your back to your little girl all grown up, and even as you hear Jennifer screaming, being wrestled from the car and at least three sets of pounding feet charging after you, you just throw open your front door and slam it shut.
They mount the steps and you allow a surreal thought that maybe this is a doper prank. Jennifer’s not above some bullshit shenanigans like this. She’s got her mother’s vengeful streak. Even when she was playing magician she got you with a gag every now and then. And after the way you left her in jail last month, you’ve got this coming. So maybe—
The running mule kick destroys your flimsy front door just as fast as it destroys your paper-thin delusion that this isn’t going to end in blood.
You fall forward as the door caves in at your back. Go ahead and regret renting the house with hardwood. It hurts more as your face bounces off it. Sure, carpet would have stained, but you might have retained most of your consciousness after a hit like that.
Roll around for a second and take a deep swim through the black waters of your knock-out. Taste those pennies? Good. Your mouth is full of them. Your ears pick up every sound of them dragging Jennifer inside. She kicks and thrashes but they must have a good hold of her hair because for as feisty as she is, she ain’t gettin’ nowhere.
They grab you, whip you over on your back. A boot on your face pins you to the floor and the fresh scent of dirt and oil in his treads invade you. It’s all you can smell. Jennifer’s whimpers are all you can hear. The shadows of the men moving against the backdrop of their headlights streaming through the broken door are all you can see. Got a head count? Four, at least. How big was their car?
One man kneels down beside you and with him comes the looming presence you imagine Darth Vader had. Looming death. But first, whatever he wants from you, you’re gonna give. Then death. This guy is like that. Oh, and he smells expensive too. That cuts through the soil stench.
“You live in a shitty neighborhood, Gil,” he says and your mind races like a mouse in a maze when it realizes a cat had been let loose in there also.
“I’m not Gil,” you say as best you can with two hundred pounds of goon leaning on your face. You’ve used fake names in the past. You’re not really the long-con type of guy, but you’ve seen into the future far enough to know whoever it is you met today will want to kill you next week so it’s better off just starting with a lie about who you are.
“Are you familiar with the word ‘reckoning?’” he asks. His voice is even-keeled the way a man of gravity’s can be, knowing that his power allows him to choose life or death for his enemies on a whim and not pay for the consequences. “Reckoning means to settle the accounts. It’s simple. You owe me, and I have decided to cash in.”
Jennifer tries to scream but whoever is wrangling her does too well a job. She squeaks and sobs lightly. Tired.
“Did I steal from you?” you do your best to ask.
“You owe me money,” is all you’re gonna get. This Gil name? Could be an honest mistake on their part, but they know Jennifer is your daughter and apparently you have an unpaid account. Even if it’s all some insane mix-up, you can’t argue with reality.
“How much?” you ask, deflated and wonder if the question made it to his ear or got lost in the size fourteen flattening your skull.
“Good, dog,” he says. Leans in, says, “All of it.”
A tear runs down your face. All of it means so much in your world. You’ve spent your life nickel and diming other people, taking what you can when you can, then moving on. Locust. Tucking it away. Some for now, some for later.
All of it means the some for later part. You have been doing this a long time, and that later part has gotten big.
“I hear,” he says, “you got something like forty large in here.”
“Twenty,” you eek out around the rubber sole. How’d he hear?
“I smell bullshit,” he says. He stares and you try and place his face. So many mugs over the years. This guy’s jaw, the way his brow creases, you have no idea. And you want to so bad. He snarls. “Oh, it reeks, all right.”
He stands up. “Do it,” he says with a flick of his head to the guy wrangling Jennifer. Without thinking about it, without hesitation, the guy grabs Jennifer’s hand and his own mitts are so big you’re startled at the way her little fist disappears into his. Just one little finger sticking out of his giant hand.
It’s when the ratcheting clippers come up and her finger drops off like a dead tree limb that you feel piss warm your pants. Her screams immediately go in the background of your mind. You knew she was going to howl the instant you saw the flash of light dance along those metal pieces. Didn’t need to hear it. Same sound Jennifer made back when she’d trip and skin a knee. Kid stuff, you blew off. Adult stuff, mutilation stuff, you lock onto.
“She’s got nine more,” he says. “And then you’ve got every digit on your body after that.” You feel him punch your groin. Just a straight-up cock shot. You try and cough with the pain, but nothing comes out. “I start there on men, though,” he says. “You’d be surprised how a man will let someone else suffer in front of them without cooperating, but when you cut off their dick they fall in line.”
You openly cry. Try to talk. The boot eases up and your jaw throbs now that blood can flow through it again. “Bedroom closet. Shelf. Shoe box.”
As soon as the last word comes out they hit you hard enough to leave a crater. Where it came from, who knows. You’re on your back and just got thumped one for the record books. The air leaves your lungs and your guts wiggle the way a suspension bridge does in an earthquake. Like lightning: handcuffs. Leg shackles. Hog tied. They yank open your pants and your limp friend comes up for air. They snap those ratcheting clippers around him and with a couple of quick, well-practiced squeezes both the blades hold themselves onto your penis. Not cutting. Not yet. But they’re like bulldogs with their jaws locked on to where they’re biting. Make your next move carefully.
“I better count forty when I get that shoe box,” the man says. “Or else we turn this up a notch.” He kneels down and flicks the clippers. Sweat beads never ran so fast off your forehead.
You try to shout it’s all there, but who cares. The way this guy rolls you know if there’s a dollar short of forty grand you’re singing falsetto for the rest of your days.
Somebody goes into the bedroom. Somebody comes back with the box. You think about how your life just lost any meaning as they pillage your retirement. You hear the bills flipping and flapping, rubber banded rol
ls being un-rubber banded. End it with this, please you beg to whoever you think listens to your thoughts.
“There ain’t forty grand here, Gil,” the man’s voice says.
“Yes there is! Yes there is!” you shout, so nervous you don’t hear how much like a child you sound.
A hand pats your forehead, mockingly reassuring. “Relax, Gil. There’s almost forty-three.”
“Who the fuck is Gil? I ain’t Gil—” But a kick to the stomach cuts off that question.
The man walks into your line of vision and all you see is your daughter slumped into a heap, holding her hand in a bloody, white-knuckled embrace. They let her go; she’s broken and she’s been all the use she’s gonna be now. She’s sobbing quietly. Her stringy hair dangling over her face like curtains hiding a terrible show outside. She’s shoeless. Her babydoll dress—something you thought died in the ’90s—is dirty. Mangy. You think she looks like one of those stray dogs with the matted hair and burrs.
Pathetic, you think, even now. At your bottom, hog tied with your dick in a vice, you can’t stop the vitriol for that precious girl you left to rot. Hell, she drug these people here. You were just at a bar, minding your own business.
“What goes around comes around, Gil,” the man says as they gather by the door. “Thanks for making this easy.”
And with that, they leave. Just like that. In like a lion, out like a lamb. Just you and Jennifer.
“Jenny, get me up,” you say. “Stop blubbering and get these cuffs offa me.”
Jennifer uses a sniff to stop her crying. She flips her head up, as if that motion would draw enough self-esteem to hit the reset button on tonight. She stands, shaky at first but determined. You see her mother right there. The way her mother would have her emotional roller coaster moments and the drama queen stuff you always hated. Her mother would use her broken heart to manipulate you. Remember always telling yourself that? The manipulation? The lies? How she’d always be crying or always be boiling over with energy. The way she pissed away your money, or the way she’d stay in bed for days.
