by Jeff Strand
Stanley couldn't think of any particular benefit to imagining waves of confidence emanating from his body, so he imagined Veronica naked instead. Supple breasts with sensitive nipples that responded to the gentlest touch. A firm, luscious, massage-seeking ass. And, proving that she was a natural brunette, a tight--
"Are you imagining the ochre waves of confidence?"
"You know it."
"You are relaxed. You are confident. You know exactly what you're going to say, and you do so in an articulate, highly quotable manner."
Why, Veronica, you seem to have dropped your notebook! Perhaps you should crawl around the floor on your hands and knees to retrieve it.
"I'm quotable."
"You chuckle at Donald Mandigan's jokes."
Veronica, you keep accidentally bumping into me during your crawling expedition. What's that? My shirt looks too constricting? Now that you mention it, the A/C is on a bit too high in here...
"Heh heh heh."
"Still too macabre."
"Hee hee hee."
"Much better."
What's that? You want me to grasp your hips tightly and thrust into you repeatedly from behind in a most rapid manner? Goodness gracious, I've never known a woman to be so forward. My mind says no, no, no but my heart says yes, yes, yes...
"You can open your eyes now."
Stanley opened his eyes. "That was very productive."
"At least your erection thinks so."
Stanley glanced down at the surprise bulge in his pants. "Whoa! Hey, it still works! How about that? I thought I was gonna be Mr. Limpy forever. I wonder how I did that without blood? That's pretty weird."
Veronica didn't look as amused as he hoped she would. "Do you need some privacy?"
"Nah."
"Well, I think it's time for a break. Let me know when your emergency backup brain has gone back into hiding."
* * *
"How did he do?" asked Brant.
Veronica shrugged. "I think he's getting better. We did three sample run-throughs of the interview. It would've been easier if the producers had been willing to give us the actual questions, but I think we've got a pretty good idea about how it's going to go."
"That's good to hear. Is he still an obnoxious cretin?"
"He's getting better. I think he'll be fine during the interview. I really do."
Brant nodded thoughtfully. "I'm going to trust you, then. Because ultimately his behavior is your responsibility."
"It's not like I can sit behind his chair and zap him with a cattle prod if he gets out of line. I've been working with him. I'm comfortable putting him on television. But he's not going to be Cadbury."
"Cadbury?"
"Richie Rich's butler. The perfect gentleman."
"Ah."
"How come nobody ever gets my pop culture references?"
"The only pop culture reference I'm interested in right now is Stanley Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse."
"He hates that nickname."
"Woe is him. The interview is tomorrow evening. Do I have your assurance that he won't humiliate Project Second Chance?"
"Yes, sir."
"Perfect. Then I very much look forward to reaping the fruits of our labor. I'll have three bottles of the finest champagne waiting here. I sincerely hope that we'll be in a celebratory mood."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stanley sat on the comfortable brown chair, feeling extremely nervous. He wasn't used to that. He suspected that it had something to do with the fact that his last public speaking engagement had ended with a bullet puncturing his chest.
He was in the same building where they'd held the press conference, although now it had been redecorated into a fairly cozy set where the interview would take place. Various members of the television crew were scurrying around, finishing all of the last-minute setup. Donald Mandigan was seated against the far wall, having his makeup done.
"You'll do fine," said Veronica, placing a reassuring hand on Stanley's shoulder.
"I know."
"Just be eighty percent yourself and everyone will love you," she said with a wink, as she left to discuss something with Brant.
Stanley fidgeted with his tie. He wasn't in a three-piece suit this time, but rather a light blue dress shirt and dark blue slacks. He thought he looked pretty good in it, all things considered, but he just wasn't a tie man.
"Three minutes!" announced one of the stagehands.
Donald walked onto the stage and over to Stanley's chair. "Hey there, you're looking a lot better than when I saw you last!"
"Thanks."
"You've got some pretty good lungs for a dead guy. Anyway, just relax. The interview will be done before you know it."
The director ushered Donald aside, and so Stanley resumed his fidgeting. It had never really occurred to him before that this was his chance not to be a complete outcast in the world. He was, after all, a zombie. A dead guy. A freak. If the public didn't like him, he could end up in a circus, shouting "Booga-booga!" at people for fifty cents a head. Or living in the bunker forever, with nothing to look forward to except the next ghastly medical experiment performed upon him.
He had to make a good impression. Not for that creep Brant, but for himself. Hell, if he made enough money off of his newfound celebrity, he could pay for his own damn injections and live wherever he wanted.
Witty and charming...grateful to be alive...chuckle at Donald's crappy jokes...
Donald sat down in his own brown chair across from Stanley. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's great."
"Outstanding."
Stanley closed his eyes and visualized himself giving an amazing interview, one that professors would be teaching to students for centuries to come ("Now that, class, is how a zombie should give an interview!"). Then he visualized Veronica naked again, just because it was an enjoyable visual.
* * *
Brant hadn't felt this queasy since...well, since the resurrection. It was crucial that Stanley be likable; the project was controversial enough without the end product being disagreeable to the general public. There were plenty of "bad boy" celebrities, but they had some leeway from audiences in that they were usually physically attractive and had never been dead. If people were repulsed by Stanley's appearance and his personality, the money just wouldn't materialize.
Still, he wondered if it had been a bad idea to take such severe measures with Stanley so soon. He never wanted to be a cruel person, but it wasn't like he could simply run out and resurrect another, less annoying cadaver. He wasn't happy that it was Dabernath who met the conditions for resurrection, but he had to play the hand he was dealt. Unfortunately, he'd received a joker, and so he had to be heartless.
And if Dabernath botched the interview tonight, Brant could be much more heartless.
* * *
Some uncatchy theme music began to play, and Stanley watched on the large monitor as "THE AMAZING MR. CORPSE - THE LIVE INTERVIEW" appeared. Snazzy logo, using a skull in place of the letter "O." This was followed by "WITH DONALD MANDIGAN." Donald's "O" wasn't a skull.
Donald turned to the camera closest to him. "Hello, I'm Donald Mandigan. This week, a record number of households witnessed the live resurrection of Mr. Stanley Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse. When he first returned to the world of the living, he looked like this."
The image on the monitor switched to Stanley in his underwear, sitting up and shrieking. The bad words were bleeped out.
"Following that, The Amazing Mr. Corpse gave a press conference. I'm sure you know the results."
The image shifted to Stanley getting shot in the chest. Damn, thought Stanley. I look like a complete sissy.
The image switched back to Donald. "But now, Mr. Corpse is sitting right in front of me, and I have to say, he looks just fine. Welcome, Stanley."
"Thanks, Donald," said Stanley, a bit surprised by the squeak in his voice. "Glad to be here."
"Tell me about the underground bunker where you
've been living since you started living again. How are your accommodations?"
"They're okay."
Be quotable, damn it! Quotable!
"This is our first time to actually get to sit down and talk. Tell me, when you look at the video of your resurrection, how does it make you feel?"
"It's kind of embarrassing, actually," Stanley admitted. "Now I know how celebrities feel when talk show hosts show really bad clips from early in their careers. I just want to say that I was not responsible for the choice of boxers."
Donald chuckled. Stanley relaxed.
"So how do you feel?"
"Alive." Crap, I can't start recycling material this early! "I have to admit, I don't feel all that much different than I did before. I look different, obviously, but I feel about the same."
"Really? So you're not in any pain?"
"None. And you'd think that my rot spots would itch, but they don't."
"Let's talk about your rot spots," said Donald, leaning forward in his chair. "Clearly, your body has undergone quite a bit of decomposition. Is that going to continue?"
"I'm told that it isn't. They could just be saying that to keep my morale up. Nobody wants to be around a disgruntled zombie."
"Let's talk about that word zombie. When I think zombie, I'm thinking about creatures that eat human flesh. What's the story with that?"
"Give me your hand and I'll show you."
Donald chuckled again, but it seemed a bit forced.
"No, actually, I have no interest in eating human flesh. I think the idea is every bit as gross now as I did before. Your arm would be perfectly safe if you waved it in front of my mouth."
"And that's very reassuring. What about the word zombie itself? Do you find it offensive?"
"Not at all. It's kind of badass."
"As I'm sure you know, a lot of people think that you're a fraud, that you're just some guy in a Halloween mask. In fact, that's the question you were asked at your press conference right before you were shot. I saw and touched your dead body, so I know that you're the real deal, but how do you convince people watching television who think it's all a scam?"
"I'm not sure. I guess you could have a bunch of designated representatives from around the world try to yank off my face."
"Could I host that TV special?"
"Anything for you, Donald."
They both chuckled.
"What's next for Project Second Chance? Are they cooking up a Mrs. Corpse?"
"I'm not sure. I'd hate to lose my bachelorhood this soon."
"Understood. So tell me, what's the best thing about being alive again?"
"Knowing that I'll get to see another sunset as soon as they let me out of the underground bunker for more than an interview. Knowing that the dew glistening on a leaf in the morning sun is within my reach. Donald, life is precious. Life is more precious than you can imagine. Life is filled with rainbows and puppies and babies and flowers and waterfalls and rivers and golden stalks of wheat and mountain ranges and corn and moonlit walks on the beach and kittens and ice cream and Valentine's Day and bubble baths and birds. Treat every moment as if it were your last."
Stanley looked into the camera. "Life is so very precious. Be grateful that you're on this beautiful earth. Dance. Sing. Turn off that television--not now, but around 9:00 Eastern Standard Time--and go out and live." He wiped a tear from his eye. "Live. If you ignore everything else I say tonight, just hear that one word: Live."
He turned back to Donald. "I'm sorry, I just get worked up when I think about this sweet gift that I've been given." He looked out past the set at Brant. "Richard Brant, my savior, I just want to say how much I deeply appreciate what you've done for me. I love you, man. Everyone in this room, everyone at home, let's give him a big round of applause, what do you say?"
Stanley began to enthusiastically applaud, as did Donald and the rest of the camera crew and onlookers. Brant looked as if he weren't sure whether to be deeply touched or deeply pissed. Veronica was obviously trying very, very, very, very hard to stifle a grin.
"Those are very inspiring words," said Donald. "I think your message is one that everybody should take to heart. Because let's face it, most of us who die aren't going to come back to life. Unless you believe in reincarnation, but that's a topic for a different show. Now let's talk about some of the controversies surrounding your resurrection. Obviously, there was the incident at your press conference. Let's take a look at that clip again."
On the monitor, they showed the clip of Stanley getting shot. He still looked like a sissy.
"I guess my first question is, how's your chest?"
"They dug the bullet out, but there's still a hole."
"Can we see it?"
"Uh, yeah. I don't see why not." Stanley unbuttoned his shirt as one of the cameramen rolled his camera forward to get a close-up. Stanley draped his tie over his shoulder to get it out of the way and then opened his shirt, revealing the bullet hole.
"Wow," said Donald. "You could almost stick your finger in there."
"I'd rather you didn't."
The cameraman moved back and Stanley buttoned his shirt. "Did it hurt?" Donald asked.
"It definitely stung."
"I can imagine. This whole incident has to be disturbing for you because he's obviously not the only person who believes that you're--pardon my choice of words--an aberration that should be destroyed."
"Well, I got that a lot from my teachers in high school, so I don't let it bother me too much."
"But seriously, you're a corpse that was brought back from the dead. To a lot of folks that's pretty scary stuff. And a lot of people think that we've entered territory that mankind was never meant to touch. What do you say to the people who think your existence is blasphemy?"
"I invite them all to kiss my dead ass."
Stanley froze. He and Veronica had practiced a very similar question to this, and the agreed-upon answer had not involved the kissing of any deceased ass.
"I'm just kidding, of course," he said with a smile. "I can understand their point of view. But blaming me is like blaming Frankenstein's monster for the actions of his creator. Which is what they did in the movie when the angry mob destroyed him, so that's a poor example. I'm just saying, I'm a regular guy who was given a second chance, and I'd have to be an ungrateful hooligan not to run with this chance. Because life is so very precious, and I know this now, and I don't think I knew it before, and if being a blasphemy is what it took for me to appreciate the beauty of life, well, then maybe the good Lord above doesn't mind a little blasphemy every now and then."
"And with that, we're going to take a short break, but we'll be right back with more from The Amazing Mr. Corpse. Don't go away."
As they went to commercial, Veronica and Brant walked up on stage. "I'm sorry about the whole Frankenstein thing," Stanley said. "I got a little nervous."
"No, no, that's fine," Brant assured him. "No harm done. You did slip near the end, but aside from that I think you're doing a marvelous job. Keep it up and I think we're in business."
"Cool. Thanks."
"Great job, Stanley," said Veronica. "I knew you could do it."
"You thought I was going to make dick jokes the whole time, didn't you?"
"I thought you might try to squeeze in fifteen or sixteen of them, yes."
"You should have more faith in your client. I clean up very nicely."
"Indeed you do."
"Great stuff," said Donald. "So what do you think if I try to yank off your face in the next segment?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The idea came to me when you gave that answer about people thinking you were a fake. We could get a close-up and I could tug on your cheek or something. It wouldn't convince everybody, but it might switch over a few non-believers."
Stanley turned to Brant. "My skin won't actually rip off, will it?"
"Not any more than if he were to tug on my cheek."
"So, Donald, how about you tug on Bra
nt's cheek to see what happens?"
"Don't worry, if it feels like anything is actually coming off, I'll stop," said Donald. "And I'm going to wear surgical gloves, if that's okay. No offense, right?"
"No offense."
"Good. If you could get me a pair of surgical gloves, that would be great."
"I'll get right on it," said Brant, walking away from the stage.
"Places, everyone!" said the director.
Stanley found his stride again as they launched into the second segment of the interview, though he wasn't sure it was necessary to repeat the clip of him screaming in his underwear. He was (mostly) witty without being sarcastic (often), and managed to convey a (partially simulated) grateful tone.
"So you wouldn't mind if I tugged on your face, would you?" asked Donald, slipping on the surgical gloves.
"Of course not. I'd welcome it."
Donald stepped over to Stanley's chair and knelt down next to him. "I have to say, if this is a makeup job, it's the best makeup job in the world. There is not a seam to be found. And you can see how close up our high-def camera is getting. I also would like to assure the viewing audience at home that there is no post-production tampering going on here. We are indeed broadcasting live, and to prove it I can share that the Cowboys just went into their third quarter with a 14-6 lead." Donald hesitated. "Hopefully none of you were recording the game to watch later. If so, you have my apologies."
Donald poked Stanley's cheek, somewhat harder than Stanley would have liked. "I know that you at home can't feel what I'm feeling, but you can at least see that this is not rubber or foam latex. And watch when I tug on his skin." Donald pinched his cheek and yanked on it. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is genuine flesh."
"You can stop now," said Stanley.
"Can I squeeze your nose?"
"Uh, no."
"Stanley, I'm trying to prove that you are truly what you say you are."
"Can I squeeze your nose?"
Donald blinked. "Certainly," he said, uncertainly.
