by Jeff Strand
"So, what, they'd let me ooze away?"
"Nobody would let you ooze away. What would happen is that somebody who could afford to pay would take over the project. What kind of experiments do you think the government would want to perform on you if they had the opportunity?"
"Ghastly ones, sir," said Martin, helpfully.
"Shut up, Martin." Stanley sighed in frustration. "You know, Veronica, this would have been much more effective if they'd sent you in here to bat your eyes and offer me a blow job."
"Trust me, I was much nicer than Brant would have been."
"Well, yeah, that goes without saying." He scowled and did his best Brant imitation.He "'If you don't sign that contract, your liver will be under a microscope by Thursday.'"
"That's not a bad impression," said Veronica.
"Thanks. It works better with a splintery stick up your ass, but I don't have one handy."
"I could get you one."
Stanley shook his head. "No thanks. But I've gotta say, you're hot when you resort to blackmail."
"It's not blackmail. It's just the facts."
"Uh-huh. Well, here's the deal. I'll think about signing this crap contract to avoid being sliced up by government scientists. Think about it. I'll also think about that blow job."
Veronica turned to Martin. "Is there an upper limit to how much he's willing to embarrass himself?"
"No ma'am."
"Actually, there is," Stanley told her. "But it's a few notches past bestiality, so you don't want to see it."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Don't I get any makeup?" Stanley asked as Veronica straightened his tie.
"Nope."
"C'mon, why do I have to go out there looking like a rotting zombie? I know you don't have much to work with, but can't you do something?"
"Stanley, you look fine. You look exactly the way you're supposed to look. Besides, they'll be focused on the fact that you're a snappy dresser."
Stanley was wearing a black three-piece suit. He'd half expected Veronica to insist that he walk out there in his boxers so that they could gape at his body, but the suit had been her idea.
"It's itchy."
"You're a big boy. You can handle being itchy for a while."
Stanley shifted nervously in his chair. "Are you sure they aren't, like, expecting me to bite the head off a chicken or something?"
"Just relax," Veronica told him. "Take deep breaths. Visualize yourself standing calmly in front of the audience, answering their questions in an articulate, charming manner."
"That sounds more like fantasizing."
"Do it. Close your eyes and picture yourself behind that podium."
Stanley closed his eyes. "Wow. Now whenever I close my eyes I see rabid elephants. I bet that's not a side effect you guys were expecting."
"Be serious. Or at least be funnier."
Brant, wearing his white lab jacket, walked into the dressing room. "We're ready to begin."
They left the dressing room and proceeded to the next door in the corridor. They were no longer in the underground bunker, which, surprisingly to Stanley, was in a regular town rather than hidden out in the desert. They'd climbed up a ladder and emerged in a small warehouse that was empty except for Brant, Veronica, and Dr. Arnzin's cars. They gotten into Brant's car with its tinted windows and drove about ten blocks to the building with the press conference.
Brant, Veronica, and Stanley walked into a small area covered by a curtain. They were standing right next to a stage, but the curtain blocked Stanley's view of the audience.
"You'll do fine," Brant told him. "Just keep the swearing under control."
"I'll do my gosh-darn heckin' best."
Brant walked up on stage to a smattering of applause. He stood behind the podium and addressed the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very pleased that you can be with us today for this historic event. You all saw the resurrection on live television, and now you're going to meet the scientific miracle of the past two millennia. I give you Stanley Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse!"
Veronica gave Stanley a light shove, and he walked up onto the stage.
Approximately one hundred people sat on folding chairs in the room, all of them holding notebooks or tape recorders. Several other people were in front of the stage with video cameras. CNN, CBS, FOX, NBC, ABC...hell, even MTV was here.
They were all gaping at him.
Stanley took his place behind the podium and fidgeted nervously with the microphone. "Uhhhhh....hi."
Virtually every hand in the place shot up at once.
Stanley coughed and cleared his throat, then pointed to an attractive young female reporter in the front row. "Your question?"
"How are you feeling?"
Stanley's mind went completely blank. How was he feeling?
"Alive," he finally said.
There was some light laughter from the audience. Stanley relaxed a bit. He glanced off-stage and saw Veronica giving him the thumbs-up sign.
"You," said Stanley, pointing to another attractive female journalist a couple of rows back.
"I hate to ask such a weighty question this early in the conference, but I think everybody here wants to know: when you were dead, did you see God?"
Stanley thought for a long moment. "I don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
Stanley shook his head.
"You don't think that maybe that's something you'd try to remember?"
"Let's not be antagonistic," said Brant. "Next question, please."
"Do you remember anything at all about being dead?" asked a heavyset guy in a tacky blue suit without being called on.
"Nothing," Stanley admitted. "In fact, if Mr. Brant here hadn't forced me to look at photos of my refrigerated corpse while he had me tied to the bed, I probably still wouldn't believe that I was dead."
Stanley glanced over at Veronica. She was no longer giving him the thumbs-up sign.
Brant seemed completely unphased. "Unfortunately, the process of resurrection is not a pretty one, and of course you all saw Mr. Dabernath's reaction when he first became aware of his surroundings. Certain precautionary measures were and will continue to be necessary to keep this scientific marvel from accidentally harming himself."
"I guess I can be kind of a klutz," Stanley told the audience. They laughed. He pointed to a drop-dead gorgeous brunette near the back. "Your question?"
"How do you feel about being dubbed The Amazing Mr. Corpse?"
Stanley shrugged. "It's not very scary, is it? Somebody who looks the way I do should have a spooky name. Maybe The Terrifying Mr. Corpse. The Grotesque Mr. Corpse. The Oozing Mr. Corpse."
"Of course, we prefer to stick with The Amazing Mr. Corpse for PR purposes," said Brant.
"Look at this, he brings me back to life and thinks he's my agent," said Stanley. "I owe him a hundred percent of my soul and twenty percent of my income."
The audience laughed again. Stanley relaxed some more. This wasn't so bad. At the very least it would probably drum up some business for Demented Whackos Video.
He called on another pretty girl. "What proof do we have that you really did come back to life and this isn't just an elaborate hoax?" she asked.
"You could come up and touch me."
"Seriously?"
"Sure."
The journalist stood up. Stanley watched the sexy way her hips moved as she made her way through the row of reporters and past the security guard in the back who was holding a gun and pointing it at--
As the bullet struck him, Stanley stumbled backwards against the curtain. A second gunshot rung out as he tumbled to the floor, a stinging pain in his chest. He heard screaming and the thunder of footsteps and felt two pairs of hands pull him to his feet and rush him off the stage.
A door behind him slammed shut.
"Stanley, can you hear me?" asked Brant.
Stanley was too stunned to respond.
Brant and Veronica hurriedly unbutton
ed his suit and then the white dress shirt underneath it. Stanley saw a bullet hole in his chest, just to the left of his solar plexus, but there was no blood.
It hurt like hell.
"Stanley, can you hear me?" Brant repeated. "Curse if you can hear me."
"Fuck!"
"He's fine," said Veronica.
"I'm not fine! I just got shot! I'm the exact opposite of fine, thank you very much! Maybe we should shoot you and see just how fine you feel, huh? Oh, I know, let's find the psycho in the back of the room and borrow his gun!"
Veronica put her hand on Stanley's shoulder. "Shhhhh. You're babbling."
"I'm not babbling! I'm ranting!"
"Either way, settle down. You need to stay calm."
"It hurts."
"I know it hurts, but you'll be okay. See? There's no blood."
Stanley looked at the gunshot wound again. "I know you meant that to be reassuring, but really, the lack of blood is kinda freaking me out." He touched the hole and winced.
"We'll have Dr. Arnzin dig out the bullet as soon as possible," said Brant.
"Oh, now that's making me feel calmer."
"I suppose we could just leave it lodged in your body."
"Don't be a prick."
"I am not the one engaging in prick-like behavior, Mr. Dabernath. I don't expect you to be grateful for what we've done for you, but you could at least be somewhat less hostile."
Stanley sighed. "Okay, I'm sorry. It just hurts!"
"Did I hear right?" asked Brant. "Did the Amazing Mr. Corpse just apologize? What kind of surreal world have we entered?"
"Don't be a prick."
There was a knock at the door. "Mr. Brant?" asked a voice through a small speaker.
"Yes?"
"The shooter has been subdued and locked away, sir. We're evacuating the press."
Brant stood up. "Good, I want to be there for the questioning."
"He's unconscious at the moment."
"Not for long. Veronica, take Stanley back to the bunker and have the bullet removed."
"Yes, sir."
Brant exited the room, closing the door behind him.
"I'm sorry you got shot," said Veronica.
"That's okay."
"When you're a scientific miracle, it's only natural that some people are going to be afraid of what you could mean to the future and lash out like that."
"If you say so. Personally, I want to know why he just didn't assume that I was some idiot in a spooky mask."
"That's what most people believe, I'm sure."
"Which part? The idiot or the spooky mask?"
Veronica smiled. "You're really something, you know that?"
"Yeah, but think how much it would've sucked if you'd spent all that money to bring a boring guy back to life. You know, the pain in my chest is fading pretty quickly. Is that the natural order of things or should I be concerned?"
"No, it's fine."
"Good. So am I, like, immortal?"
"The Immortal Mr. Corpse?"
"I'm serious. I mean, can I die? What if he shot me in the brain?"
"I'm not sure."
"What if he threw a machete at me and lopped off my head? Would I just be this living head, rolling around on the floor?"
"That seems unlikely."
"Unlikely, but not impossible, right? What if I get burnt up? Will I be this pile of living ashes? So I could get cremated and scattered to the wind, and each individual ash would be alive, and some old guy might accidentally inhale me and I could be living in his stomach until his digestive juices start to--"
Veronica placed her finger on his mouth. "Stanley? Stop talking."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let's get you back so we can take care of that bullet."
"Is it going to hurt?"
"Yes, it's going to hurt, and you're going to use lots of vulgar language, and you're going to be sarcastic towards the nice doctor who's just trying to make your chest bullet-free."
"You think I'm a jerk, don't you?"
"No, I just think you like to behave like one."
"But you've got to admit that I'm justified in being annoyed with the way my life has turned out. I'm gross and people are shooting at me."
"Ah, yes, but there's a major hole in your argument."
"What's that?"
"I've done my research. You were a jerk before your resurrection."
Stanley held up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, you got me. I'll behave."
"Good. So let's go get you fixed up."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry Sweet sighed and impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. Six more minutes. Six long, tedious minutes. God, he hated this job.
Killing people had lost its allure several years ago. Oh, sure, when he got started in the business, there was nothing like the feeling of slamming his knife into an innocent (or not-so-innocent) target, but these days he just got annoyed when they bled on his shirt.
He yawned. Then yawned again.
Henry had turned fifty last week, and the sting had yet to wear off. Fifty. Five decades. Half a century. That was just wrong. Turning fifty was for decrepit, toothless, senile old men, not him.
At least he didn't feel half a century old. He still turned female heads at the gym, and he could bench press more than most guys half his age. His short brown hair didn't require that much dye to hide the gray, and his vision was absolutely perfect. Physically, he was in every bit as good of shape as he was twenty years ago. He was just bored.
He checked his watch again. Five more minutes. He should've brought a handheld video game.
The minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow manner. When only one remained, he got out of the car and went around to open the trunk. He took out a pistol with a silencer, a roll of duct tape, a compact disc, and a hatchet.
He hid these items from sight (the pistol in the outside pocket of his black leather jacket, the tape and hatchet in the inside pocket) and then walked across the street to the front porch of the white suburban home.
At exactly eight o'clock he rang the doorbell.
The door opened, revealing an annoyed-looking Mr. Kabot. "May I help you?"
"Hi. I'm here to murder you. May I come in?"
Henry didn't wait for Mr. Kabot to ask if this was some kind of joke. They always asked if this was some kind of joke. Henry was tired of the question. Instead, he whipped out his gun and pointed it at Mr. Kabot's chest to indicate that no, this was certainly not some kind of joke.
Mr. Kabot blanched and his mouth dropped open.
"Inside," said Henry. "Now."
As they stepped inside the house, Henry immediately swung his gun toward Mrs. Kabot and their daughter Trisha, who were seated on the sofa watching the asinine reality television show that they never missed. "Not one noise!" he said, closing the door behind him. "If I hear so much as a squeak I'll kill all three of you."
To their immense credit, the women didn't scream. Mrs. Kabot whimpered a bit, but he'd let it pass.
He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed it to Mr. Kabot. "Tape their hands, feet, and mouths. If you want to whisper some reassuring nonsense at the same time, that's fine, but don't try anything. I've seen it all."
Mr. Kabot stood there helplessly.
"I'm not here because I want to admire your new carpet," Henry told him. "Tape them up or I'll do it for you, and I won't be gentle."
Mr. Kabot continued standing there long enough that Henry thought he might actually have to use the gun, but then he nodded and began to unspool the tape. He wrapped it around his wife's hands while Henry watched impatiently.
He glanced over at Trisha. She was eighteen years old, blonde, and incredibly hot despite a couple of pimples. Hard to believe she was a virgin.
Once Mr. Kabot had finished taping up his wife he went to work on his daughter. The guy was trembling, but at least he wasn't bawling like a baby. The last one had blubbered from beginning to end, an
d it made Henry want to gag.
With the two women sufficiently taped up, Henry walked over to Mr. Kabot and pressed the gun to his nose. "I'm going to tape you up," he said. "There is to be no kicking, hitting, biting, or any other aggressive move. If you disobey, or even look like you're going to disobey, I'll shoot your wife. Understand?"
Mr. Kabot nodded.
"Good. Start the roll for me."
Mr. Kabot stared at him quizzically.
"I can't do it with one hand," Henry explained, annoyed. "I need you to get it started."
Mr. Kabot obligingly unrolled a couple inches of tape. Henry took the roll from him, stuck the end to Mr. Kabot's ankle, and then tightly wrapped the tape around his feet. Once that was done, Henry taped up his hands and mouth.
Henry lowered the gun. All three of them sat on the couch, looking terrified, but not so terrified that he thought they might panic and do something stupid.
"You're all doing fine," Henry informed them, walking over to their entertainment center. He shut off the television. "Why do you watch that crap? Are you worried about becoming too smart or something? I'm going to borrow your stereo, if that's okay."
He bent down next to the stereo and ejected the CD holder. He removed the CD that was already in there and grimaced. "Kenny Rogers? Are you kidding me?" He flung the CD, Frisbee-style, against the far wall, and then began to flip through the CDs stacked next to the stereo. "Garth Brooks, Kenny Loggins, Faith Hill...you can't be serious." Life was too short to listen to hicks moping about their lost love.
He took his own CD out of his pocket, tenderly placed it in the machine, and pressed play. At the sound of the wonderfully familiar piano melody he turned up the volume.
"That's me," he told the family. "I'm playing that. Not bad, huh?" None of them acted as if they understood what he was talking about. "It's mood music. Kind of mellow now, but it'll pick up."
An electric guitar joined the piano. "That's me, too. I did everything on this song but mix the tracks. No, that's not right, I didn't do the drums, that was a drum machine, but everything else was me."
Henry could feel the music boosting his spirits a bit. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the hatchet. Mrs. Kabot gasped, but Henry put a finger to his lips. "You'll like the vocals," he said. "I'm singing out of my usual range, but it works."
