by Jeff Strand
"Yes. That would be Veronica. I explained that about two seconds ago."
"Don't be a prick. I was just surprised, that's all. I can't imagine that many walking corpses have personal assistants."
"You'll have your work cut out for you with this one," Brant told Veronica. "Especially his mouth. He has quite an affection for profanity."
"Oh, I think I'll tame him just fine."
Stanley sat there for a moment, thinking about how desperately he wanted to be tamed. Veronica gestured to his food. "Go on, eat up. You've got a busy day ahead of you."
Stanley took a bite of sausage, which was absolutely delicious. Veronica sat down next to him. "I guess you've had a lot to think about recently, haven't you?" she asked.
"You could say that."
"I admire your bravery. A lot of people wouldn't be able to cope with this."
"What makes you think I'm coping?"
"Well, for one thing, you're not lying on the floor in the fetal position. That's a good start. And you're mentally well-off enough to be rude to Richard here."
"Well, that's not so difficult." Stanley turned to Brant. "Fuck off, I'm eating."
"Actually, I am going to leave you two alone," said Brant. "I trust that Mr. Dabernath will behave himself."
"I'll do my best, but if she jumps me, it's not my fault."
"Understood." Brant nodded politely at Veronica and left the room.
"He's such a sweetie," said Stanley, shoving a bite of eggs into his mouth. "So what Personal Assistant organization did you get blacklisted by to get stuck with me?"
"Are you kidding?" asked Veronica. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Ooooh, that's a good one, too. If they ask you how you feel about being resurrected, you can say 'It was the opportunity of a lifetime.'"
"Seriously. You're the personal assistant to a corpse. That's gotta suck."
"I'm the personal assistant to a famous corpse. The Amazing Mr. Corpse. Let me tell you, Stanley, your fame is going to last for a lot more than fifteen minutes."
"What if I don't want the fame?"
"Then do it for the fortune."
"Maybe I don't want the fortune, either."
"I saw the movies that you distribute, if you can call them movies. Don't tell me that you're not in the exploitation business."
"Okay, fine, but there's a difference between selling weird movies and parading myself in public as a freak."
"You're not a freak, you're a--"
"--a scientific phenomenon, I know. But, c'mon, look at me. I've got a face that only a drunken coked-up lobotomized mother could love."
"I'm thinking we won't use that one as a sound bite. Don't be so caught up in your appearance. You're Mr. Corpse. People aren't expecting beauty."
"So I don't gross you out?"
"Not at all."
"What about now?" Stanley opened wide, showing her a mouthful of chewed-up eggs.
"I think we'd better get down to business."
"No, seriously. How can I not gross you out? I gross myself out. You should see my dick."
"Don't you think it's ironic that the world's first scientifically resurrected human being, a marvel beyond compare, feels the need to get attention by talking about his penis?"
"I just can't believe you're not grossed out by me."
"I don't find you gross. I find you fascinating."
"Nobody's ever told me I'm fascinating."
"Well, I'm not talking about your personality," Veronica said. "That I'd call adolescent."
"Okay, yeah, people have told me that."
"Stanley, focus. You'll have a psychological test as soon as Dr. Lamber gets here, and then a few physical tests just to make sure that undead body of yours is in good condition, and then you've got a press conference this evening. Are you comfortable talking in front of people?"
"I used to be, pre-zombie."
"Well, get back into it, because you'll be doing it a lot. They should be fairly generic questions. How do you feel, what was it like to be dead, that sort of thing. You'll probably be asked about the machine and chemicals that brought you back to life, but it's okay to admit that you don't know anything about them. Just be honest."
"Can I say that I was brought back by a DVD player and grape Kool-Aid?"
"No. Let me explain something to you. Your resurrection was shown on live television all over the world, but many people, perhaps even most people, think it was faked. They're sure you're phony. And when you do your press conference, I guarantee that somebody will accuse you of being some actor in makeup. So if you stand up there and make smart-ass comments, they're not going to believe that you're real."
"But that's what I am. A dead guy who makes lots of smart-ass comments. I'm thinking of eight or nine of them right now."
"Yes, but that's not what people expect from a resurrected corpse. I certainly encourage you to be funny, and especially to use the 'chance of a lifetime' joke, but you can't act like an idiot. Be charming and respectful. Can you do that for me?"
"Nobody is looking for a zombie to be charming and respectful. They're looking for me to devour human flesh and have body parts drop off. What if somebody decides to shoot me in the head?"
"Don't worry, the press conference will be secure. Would you like to watch your television special after you're done with breakfast?"
"You have it recorded?"
"Of course."
"Hell yeah!"
* * *
"Jeez, do you think they could pad this thing out any more?" asked Stanley, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth as they sat in his room; Stanley on the bed, Veronica on the recliner.
"Well, they had to fill a two-hour special," said Veronica.
"They didn't even get my biographical material right." Stanley picked up the remote control and fast-forwarded through a set of commercials. "Ah, here we go."
He watched on the television screen as Brant pulled the lever and the machine started pumping chemicals into his dead body.
Stanley shut off the video. "Maybe I don't want to see this."
"You've only been re-alive for a day," said Veronica. "You still need time to adjust."
"Yeah."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah, why? Do I look like I'm not?"
"You just look a bit disturbed."
"Nah." He ran a hand through his hair. "So if you died, would you want to come back?"
"Absolutely."
"Even if you looked like this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just would."
"That's a lousy answer."
"I'm not the one who's supposed to be giving answers," said Veronica.
An unknown voice crackled over the speaker. "Dr. Lamber is ready for Mr. Dabernath."
Veronica got up off the recliner. "Okay, let's go prove that you're sane."
CHAPTER SIX
Stanley shifted uncomfortably as he sat across the table from Dr. Lamber. They were in a small room with mold-green walls (though not from actual mold) and absolutely nothing in the way of decor. Dr. Lamber, who was middle-aged, clean-shaven, and completely bald, had a piercing stare that really creeped Stanley out. He wished there were posters on the walls, maybe something in an "It's Good To Be Sane!" motif, to distract him.
"Are you ready to begin?" asked Dr. Lamber in his quiet, emotion-free, oddly eerie voice.
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Stanley Dabernath."
"Are you certain?"
"Yeah."
Dr. Lamber nodded in a thoughtful yet eerie manner and wrote something in his notebook. "Do you know this because you remember your name, or because people in this bunker have recently explained to you that your name is Stanley Dabernath?"
Stanley stared at him for a long moment. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Dr. Lamber nodded thoughtfully again and wrote something else in his notebook.
"Did you write something bad?" Stanley asked.
"But did you write something bad?"
"Do you think you gave me justification to write something bad?"
"I don't know. I just don't want to get locked up in a padded cell as an insane cadaver."
Dr. Lamber nodded thoughtfully and wrote more in his notebook.
"You wrote something even worse, didn't you? Look, I'm sorry I dropped the f-bomb. I wasn't thinking. Let's just move on."
"When I asked you the question about your name, why did you think I might be kidding?"
"Because it was a very silly question."
"Why?"
"Because I know my name."
"I had no way of knowing that you knew."
"But you asked me again after I said I did know."
"I see. Did you think I looked like the sort of individual who would ask questions in jest?"
"I don't know. I just met you."
"I see."
They sat there in silence.
Dr. Lamber leaned forward. "What's your middle name?"
"Allen."
"Spell it."
"A-L-L-E-N."
Dr. Lamber shuffled through some papers, glanced at the top of one of them, and nodded, apparently satisfied.
Stanley sighed. "This is going to be a long interview, isn't it?"
"What made you call it an interview?"
* * *
Stanley felt at least thirty-five percent less sane as he walked out of his psychological examination, but he was pretty sure they'd stamp his file "Not a Whacko."
"I can't believe you made me go through that," he told Veronica as they walked down the hallway.
"You've been dead. We have to make sure that a professional finds you mentally competent to sign the contracts that are going to bring lots of money to you and Project Second Chance."
"Fair enough."
"Anyway, your physical exam is going to suck much worse."
* * *
"Well, helloooooo Stanley!" said Dr. Arnzin as Stanley walked into the examination room. This guy looked barely old enough to be playing doctor with a co-ed, let alone performing duties as a medical professional. His memory was fuzzy, but Stanley thought he might have been the scientist he punched out after his resurrection. "How are your dead bones doing today?"
"They've been deader."
"Good, good, good. That's good. Have a seat on that ice-cold stool and we'll look you over, okay?"
Stanley sat down on the metal stool and gave a friendly wave to the not-particularly-well-hidden camera on the wall. He didn't mind them recording him, but he did mind them insulting his intelligence by trying to hide it.
"Let's start by checking your pulse," said Dr. Arnzin, wrapping the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around Stanley's arm and inflating it. He glanced at the readout and nodded. "No pulse. Good."
"Can I see?"
Dr. Arnzin showed him the display screen. All three numbers read zero. "Pretty hard to have a pulse when you don't have any blood. Just wanted to make sure nothing was squirming around in there."
"I don't have any blood?"
"Not a drop. It's being stored in jars in a freezer somewhere in the facility. Do you want to see it?"
"Nah."
"I guess there isn't any reason to check your heartbeat," said Dr. Arnzin with a wink. "Not gonna hear a lot of activity in that area, now are we?"
Stanley pressed his palm to his heart. Nothing. "I'm not sure I like this," he admitted.
"Oh, don't let it bother you. I know I wouldn't."
"So isn't blood used to, y'know, carry oxygen around the body?"
"The red blood cells, yes."
"Then why do I need to breathe?"
"You don't. You're just used to it."
"Huh?"
"Try to hold your breath. Watch what happens."
Stanley sucked in a lungful of air and then held it.
And held it.
And held it some more.
"See? Isn't that great?" asked Dr. Arnzin.
"It's messed up," said Stanley, still not breathing.
"No, no, no, messed up would be if you needed to breathe but couldn't. I almost suffocated once and let me tell you, it's not an experience I plan to repeat any time soon if I can help it. I really envy you, Stanley. Do you realize that if you were buried alive you could keep living in your coffin until you were rescued?"
"What if nobody rescued me?"
"Well, you'd have sufficient time to burrow your way to the surface."
"You know, that just doesn't thrill me at all."
Dr. Arnzin patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, now, don't be that way. Do you want to embrace eternal life, or do you want to be like those whiny vampires?"
"Sorry."
"The best part for you is that your body heals itself at an absurd rate. In a day or two we'll be able to take off that cast. Not bad, considering that your bone was pulp."
"Okay, I will admit that it's a pretty decent side effect."
"Let's take your temperature. Or I could just look at the thermometer on the wall."
"I'm room temperature?"
"In theory. Open up."
Stanley opened his mouth and Dr. Arnzin stuck a thermometer under his tongue. "Oh, Stanley, you have no idea how much I wish it was me who'd been struck by that milk truck."
"It didn't strike me. It fell on me."
"Still, regardless of how your death came about, I truly envy you."
"Have you seen my dick?"
"Yes. Not attractive. But that's a small price to pay for what you've been given. You're destined for great things, Stanley Dabernath."
"Well, not to seem ungrateful, but even with a fully intact penis I'd trade you places in a second."
Dr. Arnzin nodded, looking forlorn. "If only that were possible." He removed the thermometer from Stanley's mouth and glanced at it. "Ah, it's a bit chilly in here. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to get some hair samples, tissue samples, saliva samples, fingernail samples, urine samples, and stool samples."
"Would you like a booger, too?"
"Actually, yes, let's get a mucus sample while we're at it."
"Y'know, maybe I wouldn't trade places."
* * *
"Oh, now this isn't gonna happen," said Stanley, marking the offending clause in his contract with a yellow highlighter. "Neither is this. Or this. And a big fat 'hell no' on this one."
"Sir, don't you think we should bring in a lawyer?" asked Martin. They sat next to each other in Stanley's room, pages of the contract spread out over his waterbed.
Stanley shook his head. "I've written up plenty of contracts that screw people over. I know what to look for."
"Still, I think an attorney would be a good idea, just to be safe."
"I don't have any money for an attorney, and I don't need to pay one of those bloodsuckers to tell me that this contract is crap." Stanley went back to work with his highlighter. "Hell no, hell no, hell no, fuck no, hell no..."
Martin looked over the contract pages. "Sir, you should probably leave in a clause or two so that there's something left to sign."
"But this contract is horseshit." Stanley tapped one of the pages with his index finger. "Look at this, seventy percent of my income goes toward the costs of my resurrection and upkeep! Screw that! Look what they're charging me for room and board! Bastards!"
"Yes, it's an unfair contract, but technically you're a ward of Project Second Chance. You're lucky to be getting this much say in the matter."
"I don't need them. I'll march right on out of this dump."
"You need your injections."
"They can't keep those from me."
"Sir, you're a zombie. You should probably stay in the care of those people who know what to look for if there are any...zombie-related problems."
"I know, I know, I'm not going anywhere," said Stanley, pushing the contract page aside. "But c'mon, they're trying to take merchandising rights! If there's goi
ng to be a Mr. Corpse action figure, and I think there will be, I want final say on that decision, not that Brant wanker." He looked over at the camera. "Sorry, Brant wanker!"
"I completely understand, sir," said Martin. "That's why I'm pushing for a lawyer."
"You know, Martin, technically I'm not your boss anymore. You don't have to keep saying 'sir' to a zombie."
"Okay."
"You can if you want to, though."
"No, I'm fine to drop it."
"Oh. Well, good. It was weird anyway." He gathered the pages of the contract into a pile. "I should just throw this whole thing away and make them start from scratch. No way in hell am I signing this. I'm dead, not brain-dead."
There was a knock at the door.
"Since they're actually knocking, that must not be Brant," Stanley remarked. "Come on in!"
Veronica opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. "Hello there," she said with a smile. "The people spying on your every move tell me you're unhappy with the contract."
"Yeah, I'm not signing it. They can go fuck a monkey."
"May I ask what the problem is?"
"It's a crap contract."
"It's actually very fair. It allows Project Second Chance to recoup their investment while making sure that you're given a reasonable percentage of the profits. You'll be a rich man."
"I'm glad to hear that, but we've got some serious negotiating to do."
"The contract isn't negotiable."
"Every contract is negotiable."
"Not this one."
"Aw, c'mon, they're asking me to sign my whole life away!"
"No, you signed your life away when you died. You belong to Project Second Chance, Stanley. If you sign the contract, all of us will benefit. If you don't, you'll do nothing but spend your days sitting in this room, watching television and waiting for your next injection. Do you want to be a superstar or a couch potato?"
"Will you feed me grapes while I watch TV?"
"Stanley--"
"Sorry, but I'm not signing it. These monkey-fuckers can keep me locked up all they want. I don't give a shit; I've got TiVo."
"They're privately funded. Without being able to financially exploit your celebrity, they may not be able to afford your extremely expensive injections."
