by Jeff Strand
"I thought that sounded wrong."
"You don't even have New Mexico on here. We're in New Mexico."
"New Mexico! Thanks!" Stanley grabbed the paper and hurriedly wrote down the state. "Why is this limo going so fast? Isn't there a speed limit in New Mexico?"
"Give it up, Stanley," said Veronica. "You only have twelve capitals on there."
"I have fifteen."
"No, three of them are wrong."
"Really? Which ones?"
"Anchorage, Miami, and Vermont City."
"Damn. So I get a one second flash instead, right?"
"No."
"A one second flash of one breast?"
"You get nothing. But I got two hours of relative peace. It's a win-win situation for me."
"You're a tease."
"And your U.S. geography skills are pathetic. We're going to have to work on that if you're going to be speaking to our nation's youth."
Stanley crumpled up the paper. "I challenge you to a rematch. Name the Three Stooges."
"No time for that," said Brant. "It's time to meet up with the Mr. Corpse Cavalcade."
* * *
"Oh my God," said Stanley as they turned the corner, so astounded that he couldn't even think of a sarcastic remark, let alone deliver one.
Both sides of the street were jam-packed with people as if it were a parade at Disneyland. Cheering people with balloons and confetti. A huge banner stretched out over the street read "SANTA FE WELCOMES MR. CORPSE."
"All these people are here for me?" Stanley asked.
Brant nodded. "Miles of them."
"I thought I was supposed to be a freak."
"No, you're a celebrity," said Veronica. "Now stand up and make thousands of people happy."
Stanley was almost too dazed to get to his feet. This was incredible. He was a zombie, for God's sake!
He stood up through the small section of open roof and waved at the crowd. Their cheers intensified a hundredfold.
They'd gone over the security precautions beforehand. Supposedly lots of highly trained individuals were monitoring the crowd very closely, and at the first sign of trouble Stanley would be given the signal to duck back down into the limousine. Stanley had personal safety concerns, but still, he had to trust that Project Second Chance would do everything it could to protect its investment, and he sure as hell didn't want to spend the rest of his life underground.
The limo moved slowly down the street, flanked on all four sides by police cars with their lights flashing. Stanley waved, blew kisses, and hoped that his smile wasn't too creepy.
Some college-age girls were holding a banner that read "WE LOVE YOU MR. CORPSE!"
"I love you, too!" he shouted back.
He gave a thumbs-up sign to a crowd of children. Why hadn't they brought candy along to throw out? He'd have to rectify that at the next parade.
Another sign: "MR. CORPSE IS AMAZING!"
And another: "I WANT YOU DEAD OR ALIVE."
"I love you, Santa Fe!" Stanley shouted into his microphone. "All of you, remember that life is precious! Help a neighbor! Give blood to the Red Cross! Feed a stray cat! And then go PARTY TILL YA PUKE!!!"
The crowd roared.
There seemed to be no end to the people, all of them cheering and shouting their support. Stanley knew that there was an alternate gathering of angry protestors, and he would've loved nothing more than to drive by, give them all the finger, and request that they all pluck their thumbs out of their rectums, but he suspected that Brant would veto the suggestion.
An amazingly hot blonde held a sign that said "MARRY ME MR. CORPSE."
"But think of the babies!" Stanley shouted to her. She laughed and waved her sign at the camera crew.
Finally, what seemed like hours later, the crowd thinned out and Stanley ducked back down into the limo. His legs were sore from standing for so long but he was feeling great.
"People love me!" he said, plopping down into the comfy seat.
"Of course they do," said Veronica. "You're the Amazing Mr. Corpse."
"But I thought our culture worshipped youth and beauty."
"That's for female celebrities," said Martin. "You're a guy. You're allowed to be ugly."
"Ah, so that's it," said Stanley. "Still, I never would've expected this. I was thinking lynching, burning at the stake, voodoo dolls...that kind of stuff."
"That's six blocks away," said Brant.
"I think I know what was missing from my life before," said Stanley, settling back into his comfy seat. "I wasn't an adored celebrity. I guess now it seems like such an obvious solution to my lack of direction, but hindsight is fifty-fifty."
"Twenty-twenty," Veronica corrected.
"Right." Stanley frowned. "Martin, did I say dumb stuff like that before?"
"No, sir."
"I didn't think so. Why am I suddenly becoming a bimbo?"
"Don't worry about it," said Veronica. "I'm sure it's just stress and excitement."
"Yeah, you're probably right," Stanley agreed, with more conviction than he felt. His mouth spewed out a gigantic waterfall of stupid comments on a regular basis, but he'd always said them on purpose. Being an accidental dullard was something new. Did sudden celebrity turn one into an idiot? It would certainly explain a lot...
* * *
Next up was a press junket, where Stanley got the unbearable thrill of sitting in a room and talking to a series of reporters for five minutes each. This was not quite as cool as the parade, because it was pretty much the same questions over and over and he eventually quit trying to think of new ways to answer them. He only had two decent answers for What was it like to be dead? ("Like being alive, but without quite as much breathing" and "Sort of like living in Iowa") and so he just alternated between them, until Veronica suggested that he try not to annoy his Iowa fan base, forcing him to stick with a single answer.
Several of the female reporters were damn attractive, though. He flirted with the first one ("What's your sign? Mine's a tombstone") but she seemed kind of creeped out by it and lost her place in her notes, so he stopped.
After the assembly line was finished, they went to a private room in an exquisite steakhouse, where Stanley ordered the New York Strip and lobster. He usually preferred his steak rare, but was concerned that the rumor mill might equate that with a desire for raw human flesh, so he went with medium well.
The food was delicious. It had been a ridiculously long time since Stanley had a restaurant meal, and the waiter was sufficiently snotty enough to make the whole experience seem like he was living the high life.
Which he was.
Stanley Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse, had finally found his niche.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day was more of the same. Interviews, cheering fans, and great food. After a seafood lunch, Stanley, Veronica, Martin, and Brant sat in a luxurious hotel room. Several boxes were piled on the bed.
"Most of these have already been approved," said Veronica, "but I wanted you to see what we've got." She reached into the first box and took out a shirt. "T-shirts, of course." She unfolded the shirt and held it up to her chest. It was a close-up of Stanley's face.
"I'm sure teachers will love seeing their students wearing that," said Stanley.
"Don't forget, you're educational." She modeled several more t-shirts, including a couple with the annoying skeleton version of him.
"A lot of bootleg shirts are already on the streets," said Brant, "but that's only to be expected given your instant popularity."
"There aren't any with Calvin peeing on me, are there?"
"No, but I've seen one depicting you as an African American that says 'Mista Corpse.'"
Stanley thought about that. "I can't decide if that's racist or not."
"It was a black teenager wearing it."
"Then I guess it's not."
"There are lots and lots of t-shirts, so I won't show you all of them," said Veronica. "But I've got a prototype of the Mr.
Corpse action figure."
"Wow, that was quick."
"Oh, they started on it before you came back to life, then they did some tweaks after the resurrection." She tossed the action figure to him.
Stanley inspected the figure carefully. "It doesn't look anything like me."
"Between you and me, I think they just painted a Luke Skywalker figure."
Stanley walked the Mr. Corpse figure up his leg. "They should make a super-villain figure of Brant." He suddenly wished he hadn't said that, but Brant chuckled and seemed genuinely amused.
"Let me see that," said Martin. Stanley tossed the figure to him. "Does it have Super Punching Action or anything like that?"
Veronica shook her head. "Nah."
"What a lame toy."
"Well, most of them will probably be kept in their original packaging anyway."
"Like my first condom," said Stanley.
"There's serious interest from several different companies in doing a Mr. Corpse video game," said Veronica. "We haven't yet decided which bid to accept. Obviously, the development period on that will be fairly long, but we intend to keep your popularity going strong."
"I could fight zombie Pac-Men."
"Anything's possible." Veronica took more items out of the box. "Of course, we've got the Mr. Corpse watch, in both realistic and skeleton models. Tomorrow we'll be taking you in to record some dialogue for the Mr. Corpse Talking Alarm Clock."
"They'll have to record his dialogue on a five-second delay," Brant noted.
"Hey, I uttered nary a swear word in any of my interviews or during the Corpse Caravan."
"And I applaud you for it."
"But I think there'd be a market for a swearing alarm clock. 'Get the fuck out of bed, you lazy zombie.'"
"There was very little interest in food tie-ins," Veronica admitted. "The closest we came was Sour Gummi Corpses, but they didn't want the word 'Corpse' in the name of the candy. We tried to sell them on Sour Gummi Stanleys, but that's still up in the air."
"That's probably for the best," Stanley said. "I don't need any more reason to tell people to bite me."
"You certainly don't. There was also no real interest in Mr. Corpse toothpaste, soap, shampoo, or really any kind of personal hygiene products except deodorant, for obvious reasons. But--and this would be way off in the future--there may be a Mr. Corpse theme park ride."
"No way!" Stanley exclaimed.
"What would happen in that?" asked Martin. "They'd kill off the riders and bring them back to life?"
"No concepts have been discussed yet."
Stanley grinned. "We could do the Mr. Corpse Glory Hole Experience."
"You know what?" asked Veronica. "That may well be the single most disgusting thing you've ever said to me. I'm impressed."
"I'm sure I've said worse."
"No, no, actually, you've never...oh, wait, yes you have. I'd blocked it. Now it's back. Wonderful."
Veronica continued to show off the merchandising options. Stanley had never realized that there were so many possible zombie spin-offs. He entertained the others for a couple of minutes doing tricks with the Mr. Corpse yo-yo, and then they headed back out for the next round of publicity.
* * *
The Saturday Night Live sketch parodying his interview with Donald Mandigan was, without a doubt, the single lamest thing Stanley had ever seen. The cast member playing Stanley (badly) couldn't even get through it without almost cracking up and blatantly glancing at cue cards.
An animated spoof on YouTube, on the other hand, caused Mountain Dew to jettison out of his nose. He also noticed that there were countless online discussions about him, and the temptation to participate was almost unbearable, but Veronica informed him that there simply wasn't time. He had a commercial to shoot.
* * *
"Hi, I'm Stanley Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse. As I well know, death can strike at any time. But you probably won't come back like I did, and if you don't, will your loved ones be cared for? Do you have all the life insurance you need? Take a tip from Mr. Corpse and call the number at the bottom of your screen..."
* * *
ANNOUNCER #1: And we're back with our live coverage of the 18th Annual Bardsley Celebrity Charity Golf Tournament.
ANNOUNCER #2: And at the tee is The Amazing Mr. Corpse himself, Stanley Dabernath.
ANNOUNCER #1: Of course, Stanley has proven himself to be quite a bit less than amazing today. [Both announcers chuckle.]
ANNOUNCER #2: He's lining up the shot...now he's getting down on his hands and knees to line up the shot from another angle...
ANNOUNCER #1: And he's back on his feet, ready to swing. In this announcer's opinion, his form is not good.
ANNOUNCER #2: I'd have to agree with that. And he swings...and he misses the ball and the club flies out of his hand.
ANNOUNCER #1: And now he just kicked the ball well past the hole.
ANNOUNCER #2: I don't think the Humane Society will be saving many puppies from the proceeds of this tournament.
* * *
"Uh, okay," said Stanley, gazing in terror at the thirty-five fifth graders who sat in their seats, staring at him expectantly. He'd vigorously protested the idea of speaking to schools, on the basis that 1) He had no useful wisdom to impart to their young minds, and 2) Little kids were fine from a distance, but they terrified him up close.
"We need this photo op," Brant had explained. "This isn't going to be a coast-to-coast school tour; it's just one class to show that you care about our nation's youth."
"But I don't. They're generally miscreants."
"Then pretend, like you pretend about everything else. And don't mess it up."
"So what happens if I mess it up? Are you gonna inject me with the Wacky Fluid?"
"I didn't say that. And I won't say it. But I'm pleased that your mind is moving in that direction."
And thus Stanley found himself standing in a school classroom, the one place he'd swore to never return, facing an army of menacing children.
"Drugs," he said. "A lot of you will probably at some point in your life feel pressured into trying drugs. Well, drugs are a loser's game. A few years ago I scored some pot--that's also known as marijuana--and I lit it up and I was getting all mellow, and then my cat jumped up on the coffee table. And she had two heads. Now, my cat didn't really have two heads, I saw that image because I was under the influence of the marijuana cigarette. But to me, she had two heads, and I thought, 'Hey, I don't want some funky two-headed cat that's going to end up in the circus.' So I'm running all over the place trying to catch this cat so I can pop off the extra head, you know? But the cat jumped up on the refrigerator, and inside the refrigerator I hear all these voices saying 'Help me! It's cold in here! It's cold in here! And the pickle relish is trying to eat us!' The pickle relish wasn't really trying to eat anybody, but that's the kind of thing you might hear when you're under the influence of marijuana."
Several of the kids giggled and were shushed by their teacher.
"I'm scared to go near the refrigerator and get the cat, so I just walk back over to the couch and sit down. And I'm there for, like, three hours. I didn't even notice when my cat jumped into my lap. It was a complete waste of an evening. What's ironic is that now that I've been resurrected, marijuana wouldn't have any effect on me. I could smoke it all day long and I wouldn't see a single two-headed cat. But I'm not going to, because it's illegal and wrong. Don't do drugs. And always do your homework, and study hard, and listen to your teachers. And your parents. And cops. So, uh, are there any questions?"
At least twenty hands shot up. Stanley pointed at a little boy in the front row.
"If you were in a fight with Spider-Man, who would win?"
Stanley flexed his muscles. "I would destroy him!"
The children cheered and applauded. Maybe kids weren't so bad after all.
* * *
"You don't have to be dead to stink," Stanley told the camera, holding up the deodorant conta
iner. "That's why you need the guaranteed protection..."
* * *
Stanley flipped through the magazine covers. Newsweek, Time, People, TV Guide, Entertainment Weekly...he'd made them all. Of course, the Newsweek headline was "Are They Squandering a Miracle?" Newsweek could kiss his ass.
"Two different networks have expressed interest in a Mr. Corpse reality show," said Veronica. "Don't worry, that's something we'll save until you're washed up and desperate for publicity."
"Thank God."
"But how do you feel about doing a rap music video?"
"I'd feel like it was a really stupid, shamelessly commercial idea that probably pays extremely well."
"And you'd be right. And you don't have a choice. We'll be shooting in a couple of weeks."
"Sweet."
"So how do you think things are working out? Seriously?"
Stanley smiled. "Getting killed was the best damn thing that ever happened to me."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A week after his whirlwind publicity tour began, Stanley sat alone in a hotel bar in New York City, nursing a beer at a corner table. Since he couldn't get drunk, there was no sense chugging it.
Brant, Veronica, and Martin had all gone up to bed, leaving Stanley alone to enjoy a rare quiet moment. It wasn't a private moment (he was being monitored by hotel security), but at least it was relaxing.
The bar was set to close in about ten minutes, and aside from the bartender, the only other occupants were a pair of girls, a blonde and a brunette, seated on stools at the bar. They looked to be in their early twenties. Incredibly hot. Downing numerous shots.
Stanley noticed that they kept glancing at him, whispering, and giggling. He wondered what they were saying. Probably something along the lines of "Eeeeewwwwwwww!" That was okay. They could ridicule him all they wanted as long as they kept displaying that ample cleavage. The blonde in particular had a superb rack.
