by Jeff Strand
"What do you think Veronica and Mr. Brant are thinking right now?"
"I'm sure they're pleased."
"Uh-huh. Because Mr. Brant wouldn't happen to be a control freak or anything like that."
"Brant is welcome to smooch my superhuman buttocks."
"Until you run out of injections."
"Yeah, until then." Stanley stuffed three pretzels into his mouth. "He's not gonna withhold them from me. You don't let your meal ticket ooze away. Anyway, I'm actually making myself more marketable for him."
The idea that Brant might withhold his injections out of spite had certainly crossed Stanley's mind, but he chose not to dwell on it. He had to do this. He had to justify his existence.
He hadn't told Martin that he was a supernatural abomination. Martin would probably understand (he was pretty liberal) but still, it wasn't something he was ready to admit. Hell, Martin might not even believe him. Black magic? Witchcraft? That stuff was all supposed to be a load of crap. And being kept alive by virgin blood...that was just plain creepy.
He wondered who the virgins were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The following evening, the criminal underworld let out a collective shudder as The Sinister Mr. Corpse prowled the streets. His rage was infinite, his mercy non-existent.
At least that's what Stanley hoped people were thinking. To tell the truth, hanging out in the shadows was pretty tedious. He had Martin researching the availability of police scanners, so that maybe they could get news about crimes in progress, but for now he was relying on his crime-seeking instincts, which apparently sucked.
Maybe he needed a Corpse Signal. A shining beacon that the mayor could use when evil was afoot. It could say "SMC" or, as Brant would no doubt suggest, "%$@*&!" because of his love for foul language.
He was actually sort of looking forward to calling Brant. He probably should've done it by now, but he wanted the bastard to sweat some more. Stanley could picture him now. Shirt drenched with sweat. Grey hair hanging down into his face in perspiration-soaked strands. Nervously twitching and saying "Oh dear...oh my...oh goodness..."
Heh heh.
He desperately wanted to get in touch with Veronica, but she was a good employee and would no doubt share everything with Brant. So if Brant had to sweat, Veronica had to sweat. It could be a festival of perspiration.
He perked up as he saw activity a block ahead. Two criminals in the act. Vandals.
Yes, there were two unfortunate high school students who would learn that spray paint belonged only on authorized surfaces. A lesson brought to them by The Sinister Mr. Corpse.
He removed his facemask and strode toward them. He was getting used to the contacts and the fangs, and knew that he was truly an image of terror.
The kids, who were apparently not the most perceptive humans ever birthed, didn't notice him until he was about a hundred feet away. "Freeze!" he shouted in his scariest voice. "Drop those cans or face my wrath!"
The kids turned and ran.
Shit. Exercise time.
Stanley took off after them. He hated running. It had nothing to do with his zombie-state, but rather that he'd become something of a lazy-ass over the past couple of months. Hopefully one of the kids would trip.
One of the kids tripped. His buddy stopped and quickly looked back and forth between his fallen comrade and the fearsome predator headed his way, and then selected the "shameful cowardice" option. He ran, turned a corner, and vanished from sight.
The kid who tripped scrambled to get back up, but Stanley was upon him before he could escape. Stanley grabbed him by the collar, pulled him to his feet, and stared into his eyes, grinning with malicious intent.
"What were you doing with that spray paint?" he asked.
"I...I...I...I..."
"Answer the question, felon!"
"Painting the wall!"
"Is that your wall?"
The kid shook his head. "I wasn't hurting anything. But, dude, I can't believe I finally get to meet you! I'm a big fan! I've got a Mr. Corpse t-shirt and everything!"
"Really?"
"Yeah! And my little brother, his name's Tyler, he's got posters, bed sheets, dolls..."
"They're not dolls, they're action figures."
"Sorry, dude. He's got action figures and everything. You're his hero!"
Stanley beamed as well as he could in fangs and eye makeup. "Thanks!"
"Dude, you've gotta sign an autograph for him. He'll wet himself when he finds out that I met you!"
"Sure thing. Do you have a pen?"
The kid patted his pockets. "No. Do you?"
"No."
"I've got the spray paint."
"I don't think that will work."
The kid gestured to the brick wall. "You could help me out, dude! C'mon, a collaboration with Mr. Corpse! That'd be sweet!"
Stanley looked at the artwork. It was a bizarre symbol. "What is that?"
"It's the Wheel of Dharma. It represents Buddha teachings and the way they move from country to country in accordance with changing conditions and people's karmic inclinations."
"Ah. Nice work."
"Thanks. We practice every night." The kid handed Stanley his own can of spray paint and picked up the one his partner had dropped.
"I can't help you vandalize this property," Stanley said. "I'm here to stop crime."
"But this is art! Are you trying to censor art? My history teacher says that art shouldn't be censored."
"Do you get good grades?"
"Sometimes."
"Let's do it."
* * *
Stanley walked away from the crime scene, feeling most ashamed indeed. The final product was pretty damn impressive (the kid knew how to use a can of spray paint) but Stanley wondered if he should mug an old lady to make the night complete.
He wandered around the city for the rest of the night, searching for dastardly deeds in the process of being committed, but found none. But he cleaned up some litter, which made him feel better.
* * *
"Hello?"
"Howdy."
"Stanley!" Brant actually sounded happy to hear him. "Where have you been?"
"Oh, you know, making the world a better place to live. It's my new hobby. Did you miss me?"
"Where are you now?"
"Right behind you."
"Seriously, where are you?"
"Did you look when I said right behind you? You looked, didn't you? It's okay if you did."
"Stanley..."
"What do you think of my new name? The Sinister Mr. Corpse sounds pretty spooky, doesn't it? I bet you'd be a little worried if I really were right behind you, huh?"
"Did you just call to annoy me?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"You'll run out of injections soon. Have you thought about that?"
"Yep. I don't suppose you'd FedEx me a few, would you?"
"No, I don't suppose so."
"Figured."
"Stanley, we need to talk. This type of behavior is irresponsible even for you. It's dangerous. You could get hurt."
"My pain is temporary. The lives I save are forever. Well, until they die of natural causes or something else, but you know what I mean."
"This isn't a joke."
"And yet I treat it as one. How odd."
"Do you think you have the upper hand, Stanley? Is that what this call is about? You believe that pulling a disappearing act and then behaving like a lunatic means that you have the power in our relationship?"
"Yep. You're the bottom now. Get used to it."
"This conversation is over."
Stanley blinked at the sound of the click on the other end. Wow. He wouldn't have expected Brant to be a hanger-up kind of guy. Stanley would let the uptight bastard stew in his own foul-tasting juices for a couple more days, and then he'd return to Project Second Chance and let him off the hook.
But first he pressed the "redial" button.
"Yes?" Brant asked, sounding sort
of testy.
"Give Veronica love and snuggles for me, okay?"
Brant hung up again. Stanley chuckled, felt briefly guilty about chuckling, then quickly got over it and chuckled some more.
* * *
Stanley continued to prowl the city streets. He gave a few bucks to a homeless person, but then accidentally scared the shit out of another one. He figured the two events balanced each other out.
He'd do one more night of secret nighttime security, and then he'd move on to something more dramatic. Perhaps he'd foil a bank robbery or defuse a hostage situation. They could bring him back as a creature of evil, but they couldn't make him behave like one.
A pair of thugs, who looked to be in their forties, were sitting on some steps. A shivering man stood in front of them, looking desperate. The thugs laughed at something that probably wasn't all that funny out of context, and then handed him a small packet.
Drug dealers were not welcome in the Sinister Mr. Corpse's city. Stanley walked over to them to share his dissatisfaction with their business transaction.
"What's that you're doing, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Who the fuck are you?" one of the thugs asked. He had long, stringy hair and wore a Band-Aid on his neck.
Stanley pulled off his facemask. "I'm Stanley Dabernath, the Sinister Mr. Corpse. Your kind isn't wanted around here. Flush your mind-killers down the toilet and don't make me devour your flesh."
"Fuck you, bitch." The thug pulled out a pistol and shot Stanley in the forehead.
He dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled up in his head.
Everything went black.
And stayed that way for a long time.
* * *
He woke up in a dark room that smelled of mold, piss, and moldy piss. His head hurt. He wanted to reach up and touch the hole in his forehead, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. His feet were tied together as well. He rolled over on his side and immediately had a dizzy spell so severe that he thought the room was spinning.
Or maybe the room was spinning. You could never tell with rooms these days. Rooms got all spinny sometimes.
"Spinny, spinny, spinny," Stanley whispered, because he liked the sound. "Spinny minny. That's what I'd name my daughter. Spinny Minnie."
Calm down.
I am calm. I'm entertaining myself by naming my potential daughter.
The bullet is still lodged in your brain.
That sucks.
It could be making you insane.
Wasn't I already insane?
No.
Oh. Good.
You have to get out of here.
Why? I'll get used to the smell in time.
You have to escape.
Who are you?
I'm you.
Who am I?
Dunno.
You don't think the bullet is laying eggs in my brain, do you?
Probably not.
"Open your eyes."
Was that you?
No.
Who was it?
Open your eyes and find out.
Why don't you open your eyes? Why do I have to do all the work?
Fine. Slacker.
Stanley opened his eyes. He was staring at a camera.
A talking camera? How odd.
A flash went off. The camera moved, revealing that it was not in fact a talking camera at all, but rather a camera held by one of the thugs. The thug grinned, revealing yellow, gunky teeth. "Can't believe you're still kicking. Guess you weren't a fake after all."
"Nope. Not me."
"Well, you're gonna be our ticket out of this shithole. They're gonna be paying out the ass to get you back."
Stanley frowned. His memory was fuzzy, but he seemed to recall greatly annoying somebody who he probably shouldn't have annoyed if large sums of money were going to be required for his safe return.
"What if nobody pays out the ass?" he inquired.
"Then we see if you keep living in pieces."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As he lay in the stinking room, his entire body aching, wavering between sanity and insanity, Stanley had to admit that everybody had been right when they suggested that the whole crime fighter thing had been a poorly conceived idea. But he was a zombie! He couldn't follow the beaten path! What was he supposed to do with his abilities, rent himself out at a shooting range?
He briefly went insane again and daydreamed about being rented out at a shooting range. It was not a fun daydream.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been in the room, but he did know that he hadn't brought any injections with him on patrol. He'd taken one right before leaving, so he had until tomorrow evening (assuming it wasn't already tomorrow evening), but the need for escape was pretty substantial.
The second thug, the one who wasn't wearing a Band-Aid on his neck and hadn't shot him in the head, walked into the room. He held a small opaque cup, which he held to Stanley's mouth as he crouched down.
"Here, drink this."
"What is it?"
"Water."
"How do I know that?"
The thug shrugged and poured the liquid out onto the floor. "Guess you don't. Try not to get too thirsty." He stood up and headed for the doorway.
"No, wait, I need your help!"
"Is that so?"
"I need injections every twenty-four hours. You've got to let me go or I'll miss my next one and die."
"We'll let you go when we get our money."
"When's that?"
"We haven't decided on a deadline yet."
"If I don't get my injection, there won't be anything left to ransom off."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious! At the very least, let me call my friend Martin. He can leave one for me, and you can pick it up."
"Martin a cop?"
"No. He's just a friend."
"What's in the injection? We've got all kinds of stuff we could stick in you. You into crystal meth?"
"It's not drugs. It's...it's just not drugs."
"When we get our money, you can get your fix."
"They won't pay if I'm dead!"
"They might. I bet your remains are pretty valuable to a museum or something."
It was obvious that this wasn't going to work, so Stanley decided to focus on the second problem. "Listen to me, I got shot in the head--"
"No kidding."
"I'm a fast healer. The bullet, it's really screwing with my mind, and I'm scared that my skull will heal around it and seal it in there. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"That's one fucked up problem, man."
"I know. I'm okay for the moment, but any second now I could start seeing chickens in the walls, so I need to get the bullet out. You've got to get me a mirror and some big tweezers."
"I ain't getting you shit."
"Listen, Project Second Chance will pay much less for an insane zombie! What if they want to talk to me on the phone before they drop off the ransom? If I'm babbling incoherently, they won't believe it's me."
"We don't have any tweezers."
"I'll give you the money to buy some. They're cheap. But, see, the bullet is messing with my mind so bad that I didn't even realize something important. I can pay the ransom myself. I'm rich! Get me to an ATM and I'll get you all the money you need!"
"There's a limit on ATM withdrawals."
"We'll go to multiple ATMs."
"I've tried that before. It retained the dude's card."
"Then let me withdraw the money from my account. We can try a drive-through teller or something. How much are you asking?"
"Twenty million dollars."
"That's...generous. Look, I really got screwed on the contract, you know how those things go, and I don't have that much available, but Project Second Chance can come up with that, I'm sure."
"No shit. That's why we're holding you for ransom."
"Oh. That's right. Bullet in my brain, remember?"
"I remember."
"So what's your name?"
"None of your business."
"Well, Chauncey, all I'm asking for are some tweezers and a mirror so that I can get this bullet out of my brain. I'm a living corpse who dresses up in Halloween gear and goes after bad guys; do you really want my sanity slipping even further?"
"I'll have to ask Tom."
"Are you Tom's bitch?"
"No."
"You sure? It sounds to me like we might have a bitch situation going on here."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Is he cruel when you make love?"
The thug kicked Stanley in the face. "Your dead ass can just sit in here alone."
"No, no! Let's be reasonable about this. We're both entrepreneurs, right? You need to protect your investment. If you leave the bullet in here I'll...oh, fudge, here come the chickens..."
* * *
When Stanley's mind returned to functionality, there were three rats chewing on his feet. They'd burrowed through his shoes and were going at his toes with great enthusiasm. This was rather disturbing, although less disturbing than the rat that was chewing on Stanley's face.
He shook his head violently and kicked his feet to get rid of the vermin, then decided that maybe a good old fashioned sob session was in order.
No. He'd be strong. He was no longer Stanley Dabernath, that pathetic failed movie distributor crying in his trailer. He was the Sinister Mr. Corpse, that pathetic failed superhero being held for ransom by drug dealers. If you discounted the rats, it was an improvement.
His cheek really hurt, but by testing the inside with his tongue it didn't appear that the rat had gotten all the way through.
If he got out of this, he'd definitely figure out another way to use his abilities for good. Martin's "soaking up wisdom" idea was sounding good. He could be a traveling bard, sharing stories of the ages ("This one time these drug dealers tied me up and let rats chew me.").
The door opened and both thugs entered. Chauncey held a small mirror and a long pair of metal tweezers.
