The Sinister Mr. Corpse (20 page)

"I did! I said it eighty times! You told me
to shut up about it!"

"I think you should go back to calling me
'sir.'"

"I think you should keep dreaming."

"Well, I'm the one out there making the world
safe for democracy, so I get to pick the name. You can pick your
own sidekick name."

"I'm not your sidekick. I'm your
handler."

"How about this? The Sinister Mr. Corpse and
his trusty sidekick Alive Boy?"

"Bite me."

Stanley chuckled. "I did save a woman
tonight, though. It felt good. I think I was destined to be a crime
fighter. I've already got the action figures."

"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.