by Jeff Strand
CASKET FOR SALE:
Only Used Once
Jeff Strand
* * * *
Chapter One
IF YOU ARE reading these words, then I am dead.
Well, okay, maybe not. I guess it's just as likely that some doofus screwed up and sent this out early. So let me clarify: If you're reading these words, I might be dead, but there's also a strong possibility that I'm very much alive and extremely annoyed.
Anyway, my name is Andrew Mayhem, and a couple of weeks ago I'd returned to my Florida home following an adventure that can best be described as "really truly seriously totally completely messed up in a big freakin' way." Not to be whiny or anything, but after an experience where you fight for your life against a half-dozen psychopaths and sustain injuries including, but not limited to, a direct knife hit to the right buttock, is it really so much to ask that the rest of your year be an improvement?
Apparently so.
In fact, as I pushed open the wooden doors and walked down the menacing corridor, I knew deep within my soul I was about to face my most terrifying experience yet.
My blood ran ice-cold as I entered Human Resources.
"Have a seat, Mr. Mayhem," said the elderly woman after I introduced myself. "I'm Ms. Bennett."
I almost sighed with pleasure as I sat down. It wasn't an especially comfortable chair, but I'd healed enough from the aforementioned buttock injury that sitting was no longer painful, so I was enjoying the experience as much as possible. You don't realize how many times you're required to sit in any given day until you've been stabbed in the rear. And because injuries to that particular region are inherently hilarious, nobody gives you any sympathy. It's a lose-lose situation all around.
While Ms. Bennett looked over my job application, I tried not to fidget. It wasn't the most impressive résumé in the world, but even if none of them lasted more than two or three weeks, the quantity of my previous jobs had to count for something, right?
I nervously scratched my cheek, and she noticed my left hand was wrapped in gauze. "Oh, what happened there?" she asked.
"Knife accident," I replied, shrugging it off.
"Really? Did you have to get stitches?"
"Yeah, a few. It's fine, though."
Ms. Bennett held up her thumb. "I had to get three stitches when I cut myself on a soup can lid. How many did you have to get?"
"Twenty-four."
"Twenty-four? My word!"
"Well, twelve on each side."
She set down the papers. "On each side?"
"Yeah, the hunting knife went all the way through my palm. It kind of hurt, but it's okay now. I can move it; it just looks a bit gross. The doctors said it'll be good as new."
"How on earth did you get stabbed through the palm with a hunting knife?"
"Uh, well, this guy did it. He's dead, though."
"He's dead? How did he die?"
"It's a long story. Self-defense ... you know how it goes."
Ms. Bennett glanced uncomfortably down at my application, but then tried to force a smile. "So, Mr. Mayhem, have you killed anybody else I should know about?"
"Yeah, a few," I admitted. I could feel the potential success of this job interview draining away.
Her smile vanished. "Seriously?"
"Uh-huh."
"How many other people?"
"Not too many. One guy died of a heart attack while I was threatening him with a piece of a broken plate, but that probably doesn't count. I threw a skull with sharpened fangs at a guy who kidnapped my children, but he shot me first, so I think it's justifiable."
At this point, it was pretty obvious I wasn't getting the job, so I figured, the hell with it. "I poked another guy through the neck with a rib bone, which actually makes two deaths by bone products, an interesting piece of trivia if you're into that kind of thing. One guy died from being stabbed by a booby-trapped gargoyle, another guy died when a pile of fake corpses fell on him, and a lady died from being hit by a box full of really sharp weapons, but in all of those cases my involvement was indirect."
Ms. Bennett was silent for a long moment. "Anything else?"
"No, that's it. And really, I think you can only count the skull, the rib bone, and the self-defense stabbing of the guy who put the hunting knife through my hand. So I guess I've only killed three people total. I'm surprised you didn't hear about any of this on the news."
"I avoid the news, Mr. Mayhem. Too violent."
"Yeah, I don't blame you. The news sucks."
Ms. Bennett leaned back in her chair. "I'm afraid that with your history of ... er, justifiable homicides, this is probably not the best place for you to seek employment."
"I can assure you, I'll try my best not to justifiably kill any of my co-workers," I said, trying to keep things lighthearted.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayhem. I'll keep your résumé on file."
* * * *
AFTER I GOT INTO my car, I cursed and smacked my palm (not the stabbed one ... I learned that particular lesson the hard way) against the dashboard. I should have taken the interview much more seriously. I'd vowed to "straighten up," as it were. I was thirty-three years old and it was time to become a responsible human being. Get a real job. Be a better father and husband. Quit accepting money from strangers to perform tasks that went terribly, terribly, terribly wrong.
Oh well. I'd find a real job soon/eventually. And the lady in Human Resources had said she'd keep my résumé on file, right?
I drove away from the building and listened to lousy music on the radio for a few minutes until I noticed red and blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Great. I pulled over, rolled down my window, and tried to think of a good excuse for whatever it was I'd done.
The cop exited his vehicle and hurried to mine. "Andrew Mayhem?"
"Yes."
"We've got an APB out for you. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me. It's an emergency."
"Is there a problem?" Considering the officer had just pulled me over and told me it was an emergency, it was pretty safe to assume there was, in fact, some sort of problem, but I've never claimed to possess intelligence.
"Yes, a big one. Please come with me."
* * * *
THERE WERE SEVERAL police cars and an ambulance outside of Hector's Subs-N-Suds, a beer and sandwich shop, as we drove up. I've only eaten there once. It was okay, although they were stingy with the black olives and my daughter refused to eat more than a bite of her sub because the roast beef had that weird rainbow sheen thing.
As soon as I got out of the police car, Lieutenant Bruce Frenkle walked over. He'd been promoted from Sergeant last week, and his identical twin brother Tony, who remained a Sergeant, still wasn't speaking to him.
"Andrew! Glad you're here, man."
The cop had briefed me about what was going on during the drive over. I looked at the restaurant, but I couldn't see anybody through the glass doors. "Are they still in there?"
Bruce nodded. "Yeah, they're hiding. He's not talking anymore, but we haven't seen anything to indicate the situation has changed."
"How's the woman?"
"I think he cut her pretty good."
I winced. Considering what this guy was capable of, though, the woman had little reason to complain. Most of his victims ended up headless.
Bruce put his hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to go in there, you know."
"It would be nice if that were true."
I guess technically it was true. The guy inside of Hector's Subs-N-Suds was Ned Markstein, otherwise known as The Headhunter. I don't want to overwhelm you with my past history of encounters with psycho killers, so let's just say The Headhunter was trying to
capture me to deliver to another group of psycho killers as part of a fun-filled weekend of Games-o-Death, but he ended up being captured, tortured, and stored in a bathroom while I impersonated him during the games. If you haven't read about my previous wacky adventures, you're just going to have to trust me on some of this.
Now The Headhunter held an innocent woman hostage, demanding that I be brought in for a chat. Really, it would've been well within my moral rights to say "No offense, anonymous innocent woman, but I'm staying way the hell out of there!"
Unfortunately, though I may be an irresponsible slacker, I'm not the kind of irresponsible slacker who can stand back and let somebody die. While a cop fitted me with a comfy bulletproof vest, Bruce touched a button on his cell phone. "I'll let him know you're here."
"I can't believe he's making you use your daytime minutes."
Bruce didn't acknowledge my joke, which didn't bother me because he never acknowledged my jokes. "He's here," he said into the phone. He listened for a moment, nodded, and glanced at me. "He says you can go right in. But, Andrew, you don't really have to do this."
I ignored him and walked to the front doors.
It's okay, I told myself. You're not breaking your vow to quit being stupid. This is bravery, not stupidity. This is honorable. Stupidity remains far in your past. You're a smart, responsible individual now.
I opened the door and walked inside Hector's Subs-N-Suds. The Headhunter stood up from behind a counter at the back of the restaurant, holding a knife to the throat of a young woman with puffy red eyes and a tearstained face. He wore orange prison garb and didn't quite have the same look of malicious glee he had when I'd encountered him several weeks before.
He giggled maniacally. "Glad you could make it," he said in a high-pitched voice. "Oh, yes, it's always such a pleasure to see my favoritest friend Andrew!"
"Why are you doing the goofy voice thing? I already know it's an act, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," he said in his normal voice. "Glad you could make it anyway."
"No problem. I'd been wanting to see your new fashion statement. That orange suit really brings out the evil in your eyes."
He sneered. "Aren't you going to ask me to let the woman go?"
I gave a casual shrug, even though sweat poured down my sides. I couldn't let him know how nervous I was. "Would you do it?"
"There's only one way to find out."
"Okay. Would you care to let the woman go?"
"Sure. Come over here and take her spot."
I shook my head. "I hope you don't think I came in here just to let you kill me. That would be nutty."
The Headhunter pressed the knife more tightly against the woman's throat. "You want her to die?"
"C'mon, Ned, I know you're not stupid. You kill your hostage and those cops outside will mow you down in about three seconds. Why didn't you just run? You haven't gone to trial yet, so why go to all the trouble of escaping from prison just for this kind of revenge nonsense?"
"I've gotta be honest with you. The whole 'bring me Andrew Mayhem' thing is only because I got stuck here and needed a way to buy myself some time."
For the briefest of moments I was actually kind of offended. "So, what now?"
"Now? Well, I've had some time to think things over, and revenge nonsense sounds like a good idea." He shoved the woman out of the way, dropped his knife, and kicked it across the floor toward me. "One-on-one. Let's see what you can do."
I picked up the knife. It had some blood and mustard on it. "I don't want to fight you."
The Headhunter grinned. "This is your chance to beat me fair and square. I don't even have my sword. We'll find out if you're as tough as you say you are."
"I never said I was tough."
"Yes, you did."
I shook my head. "No, I didn't."
"I'm sure you did."
"Nope. Not something I would say."
The Headhunter looked confused for a moment, and then shrugged. "Either way, it's time for a rematch. This time you don't have your wife to protect you. You and me, Mayhem. You with the knife, me with my bare hands. May the best man win."
We stared at each other.
"You've gotta be kidding me." I casually stepped out of the way. A gunshot rang out, shattering the window, and the Headhunter dropped to the ground, screaming and clutching his bleeding leg. Within moments, several cops burst into Hector's Subs-N-Suds, their guns pointed at the fallen kidnapper.
Wow. The Headhunter, a savage serial killer who'd come terrifyingly close to murdering my wife and I, had turned into a complete idiot.
I smiled. If even a lunatic like the Headhunter posed no real threat these days, then my vow to stay out of trouble would be no problem to uphold.
Chapter Two
Six Months Later
WEDNESDAY NIGHTS WERE typically spent hanging out with my friend, Roger Tanglen, at the Blizzard Room, which was the lamest coffee shop in Florida and possibly the world. Most of our conversation was devoted to the low quality of the coffee. It was a long-running, if pathetic, tradition.
But the Blizzard Room was no more. It had burned to the ground (faulty wiring) last week. We'd actually noticed a few sparks the last couple of times we were there, but thought they were meant to be decorative.
So now we sat in the Java Joint, an upscale, modern coffee shop with tables that didn't wobble if you breathed near them and a menu selection longer than my children's combined Christmas lists.
I sipped my cappuccino. "Wow," I said. "It contains heat."
"And the foam doesn't make your tongue numb."
"And the cup retains most of the coffee."
We drank in silence for a long moment.
"Now what do we talk about?" I asked.
"I dunno."
We drank in silence for a longer moment.
"We could talk about our relationships," Roger suggested.
"Pass."
"I don't understand why you don't like her."
"I said, pass."
"C'mon, Andrew, she's a nice person. She's gorgeous, we get along great, and I'm learning more about menstruation than I ever thought possible."
"Don't even joke about that. Your continued emasculation is a serious problem."
"I'm just saying, she's the best thing that ever happened to me. She might be The One."
The horrid creature in question was Samantha. Samantha Tracer. Samantha the Demon Monster from Planet Wretch. He'd met her maybe a month ago, and she'd immediately latched onto him the same way that crab thing latched onto John Hurt's face in Alien. I half-expected a phallic-looking extraterrestrial to burst out of Roger's stomach at any moment.
Even though he's a loser like me, Roger dates fairly regularly. He's short, kinda pudgy, losing his hair, and has a big nose, but he's got these beautiful blue eyes (so I'm told, since I'm really not the best judge of a guy's beautiful blue eyes) that just about bring women to their knees. I'm taller, have more hair, more muscles, and a nose that's in proportion, but my eyes are a non-bringing-women-to-their-knees dingy brown color. We both dress like slobs.
So I wasn't surprised when Roger started dating Samantha, who is admittedly, for all her life-sucking evil, a blonde bombshell. I was surprised it got so serious so fast. My best friend shouldn't be talking about "The One" after a month of dating, and he certainly should not have reached the point where phrases like "we could talk about our relationships" came up in our man-to-man conversations.
"She's not The One."
"She might be," Roger insisted.
"She's not."
"I'm serious, I don't get this. Why don't you like her?"
"Because she's Satan."
"Be more specific. What about her makes her Satan?"
"I don't know, it's just ... it's just this Satan-vibe I get from her."
Roger glared at me. "That's not good enough. If you've got a problem with my girlfriend, I want to know what it is. Don't give me this vague Satan-vibe crap. What don't you like about he
r?"
"She's needy."
"She is not needy! She's one of the most independent women I know! And I've dated plenty of needy women you've liked. C'mon, Andrew, you've gotta do better than that."
I sighed and took a drink of my coffee. The honest truth is I didn't know why I disliked Samantha so much. It was a purely emotional response, based on nothing I could describe, but I wanted her out of my and Roger's life.
"She has head lice," I said.
"Damn it, Andrew, you're really starting to piss me off. Do you want me to stop seeing her? Is that what you want?"
"Yes, please."
"Well, it's not gonna happen, so you'd better get over whatever issues you've got with her. You're supposed to be happy for me. You've got a wife and kids. Maybe that's what I want, too."
"I don't think she has child-bearing hips."
"Okay, you know what, you seem pretty determined to be an asshole tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Roger pushed back his chair, got up, and walked out of the Java Joint, leaving his obscenely overpriced coffee behind.
Fine. If he wanted to continue with that fatality-laden train wreck of a relationship, who was I to save him? He could marry her for all I cared. Have six or seven hellspawn. But when he came crawling back to me, shriveled and burnt and coughing up flames, I'd just invite him to pucker up those scorched lips and kiss my--
"Hi," said a woman, sliding into the seat Roger had vacated.
"Uh, hi," I responded. She looked to be in her early twenties, with flowing black hair draped over her shoulders, lipstick a good six shades too red, and sexy wire-framed glasses.
"You look lonely."
"No, I'm fine."
"Just so you know, I'm not here to hit on you. You're Andrew Mayhem, right?"
"Yeah."
"I have a proposition for you."
"No," I said.
"Hear me out. I'm willing to offer you--"
"No."
"It's a lot of--"
"No."
"But--"
"Nooooo," I said, singing the word.
"I don't think you--"
"No, no, no, nope, nein, nix, negative, nyet, non, nada, nein ... I already said nein, didn't I? ... no, no, no. No."
"Nada means 'nothing.'"
