The Sinister Mr. Corpse (21 page)

"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.

"We're gonna let you get the bullet out,"
Chauncey explained. "But don't try using it on us or anything."

"Thank you," Stanley said, forcing himself
not to say any of the 18,719 smart-ass comments that ricocheted
through his mind.

"We're going to untie your hands," said Tom.
"But we'll have a gun on you. If you try anything, I'll shoot you
in the head again and drive that bullet in even deeper. You
understand?"

"I understand."

Tom pointed the pistol at Stanley while
Chauncey bent down and unlocked the handcuffs. He quickly jumped
back as if Stanley was going to attack, but Stanley remained calm.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and then scooted back
against the wall. Though the wall was sticky, he didn't
complain.

He picked up the mirror, which was an
extremely girly one with a pink flowered frame. He took a moment to
brace himself for what he might see, and then looked at his
reflection.

It wasn't so bad. Yeah, there was a
disgusting gash in his right cheek, but the bullet hole in his
forehead wasn't as big as he would've expected. The lack of blood
probably helped with the aesthetics.

He picked up the tweezers, wondering if he
should use them for a daring escape attempt. He could fling them at
Tom. They'd lodge into his left eye, and in a blind panic Tom would
fire the pistol, shooting his partner in the heart. Tom would pluck
out the tweezers but then be so overcome by grief that he'd turn
the pistol on himself.

Stanley decided not to try it.

"I don't suppose I could call my doctor,
could I?" he asked. "He's a cool guy. You'd like him."

"Just get the bullet out and shut up."

Stanley checked out the bullet hole closely
in the mirror. "Any chance you've got a flashlight? I know I
should've asked sooner, but I wasn't thinking."

"No flashlight."

"Figures. Okay, here we go."

A long silence.

"So go," Tom urged.

"I'm about to stick a pair of tweezers in my
brain! A bit of lollygagging is to be expected!"

"You need to do it quick, man," said
Chauncey. "Like when you're tearing off a bandage or having a chest
wax."

"This isn't like a chest wax. This is
surgery."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Oh, sure, brain surgery by a
twitchy-fingered drug addict. Sign me right the fuck up."

"Hey, that was a
gesture
, man!"

"How about you two give me some privacy?"

Tom shook his head. "No way. You'd try to
escape."

"What am I gonna do? Scrape through the wall
with a pair of tweezers?"

"You might! Did you see that
movie with Tim Robbins?
The Shawshank
Redemption
?"

"It was a rock hammer, and it took him, like,
thirty years! The only way I'm gonna escape is to tie a message to
a rat!"

Chauncey nervously looked around for rats.
Tom smacked him in the shoulder.

"No privacy," said Tom. "You do it now or the
bullet stays."

"Fine." Stanley angled the mirror just right,
and then very, very slowly began to insert the tweezers into the
bullet hole.

"Oh, man, that is
nasty!
"

"Shut up! You're disrupting my
concentration!" Stanley shoved the tweezers in deeper.

"Did you get it?"

"I said shut up!"

"We should be taking pictures," said Tom.

"I mean it, be quiet so I can focus." He
shoved the tweezers in even deeper. "Okay, I've got something. No,
wait, that's just brain."

Tom and Chauncey both crouched down to get a
closer look.

"What does it feel like?" Tom asked.

"It doesn't feel like anything. You don't
have pain receptors in your brain."

"But it feels weird, right?"

"Enough with the questions! I'll give you a
full report when it's done!"

Chauncey poked at his own forehead with his
index finger. "I dunno, man, I don't think I could do something
like that."

"Nobody's asking you to."

"I didn't say that anybody was asking me to,
but if I were in that situation, I think I'd just leave the bullet
where it was."

Stanley frowned and jiggled the tweezers a
bit.

"Do you have it?" asked Tom.

"I'm not sure. I think so. I can't tell."

"Maybe you should lean your head down and
shake it."

Stanley started to tell him to shut up again,
but then decided that the advice was sound and took it.

"Anything?"

"Do you see any bullets dropping out of my
head?"

"No."

"Then it's not doing anything!"

"Don't be so goddamn testy, man. We got you
the tweezers and mirror like you wanted!"

Stanley raised his head, let go of the
tweezers, and pointed at both of them. "If you don't stop talking,
I swear to God, I'll beat the crap out of you."

Neither of the thugs looked intimidated.
Their lack of fear was probably directly related to the pair of
tweezers protruding from Stanley's forehead.

Stanley fished around for a few more moments
in blissful silence. "Oops, there went high school Algebra."

"No big loss," said Tom.

Stanley pulled out the tweezers and shook his
head. "No good, I can't get it. I'll need a medical professional to
do the brain surgery."

"That bites, man."

"Yeah."

And then Stanley realized that this was his
big chance. Tom had lowered the gun, and both men were still
staring at the hole in his forehead.

He slammed the tweezers into Tom's chest. Tom
screamed in pain as Stanley grabbed for the gun. He missed. Tom
swung it toward his face, but Stanley threw a punch that struck the
inside of his wrist. The gun fell to the floor.

Stanley got Tom with a devastating head-butt
that he was pretty damn sure hurt himself a lot more than the thug,
considering that he already had a hole in his skull.

Chauncey tackled him. They struggled on the
floor, Man against Zombie.

Zombie was getting his ass kicked.

Chauncey bashed Stanley against the floor
four, five, then six times until Stanley had to admit that he
probably wasn't going to emerge as the victor.

"Cuff him!" said Tom, groaning in pain.

Chauncey rolled Stanley over onto his stomach
and refastened the handcuffs. Then he bashed Stanley's face against
the floor a couple more times.

"What do we do with him?" Chauncey asked.

"I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're
gonna make sure that the folks paying his ransom know good and well
that this is the real Mr. Corpse. Go get a knife. Biggest one we've
got."

"Okay, that idea is
really
unnecessary,"
Stanley insisted, rolling over onto his back as Chauncey left the
room. "I'm very recognizable."

Tom plucked the tweezers out of his chest.
"You can fake pictures. You can't fake an arm."

"Aw, shit, c'mon, Tom--"

"Did you just say my name? Did he tell you my
name?"

"No, no, you just look like a Tom."

"This ain't good."

"What difference does it make if I know your
name? I know what you look like, too!"

Hey, Stanley, how about you not say anything
else that stupid for the rest of the day?

Chauncey returned to the room, holding a
butcher knife. "Did you tell him my name?" Tom demanded.

"No."

"How'd he know it was Tom?"

"Oh. Maybe."

"So,
Hugh
, how's it going,
Hugh
, did you get the
knife like I asked,
Hugh
?"

"What's the big deal? He's already seen our
faces, and Tom is a very common name."

Tom considered that. "Yeah, you're right.
Give me the knife and hold him down."

"Guys, you don't need to do this," Stanley
said, not even trying to be manly and keep the terror out of his
voice. "They'll pay the ransom. They've got too much invested in
me. I'll tell the press that you were kind, generous captors and
that we experienced that weird bonding thing that you hear people
talk about."

Tom shook his head. "You're losing an
arm."

"At least just take a thumb. My thumbs are
distinctive. They'll know it's mine."

"Arm. It'll grow back, right?"

"No! I heal, but I don't regenerate body
parts!" Or did he? After all, he was a supernatural being...

Nope, the arm wouldn't grow back.

Hugh/Chauncey shoved a dirty tube sock into
Stanley's mouth. It tasted like foot. Then he tied a gag around his
mouth. Stanley screamed a few times to test it out.

"Roll him on his stomach and hold him down,"
said Tom.