The Sinister Mr. Corpse (6 page)

Stanley pressed his palm to his heart.
Nothing. "I'm not sure I like this," he admitted.

"Oh, don't let it bother you. I know I
wouldn't."

"So isn't blood used to, y'know, carry oxygen
around the body?"

"The red blood cells, yes."

"Then why do I need to breathe?"

"You don't. You're just used to it."

"Huh?"

"Try to hold your breath. Watch what
happens."

Stanley sucked in a lungful of air and then
held it.

And held it.

And held it some more.

"See? Isn't that great?" asked Dr.
Arnzin.

"It's messed up," said Stanley, still not
breathing.

"No, no, no, messed up would be if you needed
to breathe but couldn't. I almost suffocated once and let me tell
you, it's not an experience I plan to repeat any time soon if I can
help it. I really envy you, Stanley. Do you realize that if you
were buried alive you could keep living in your coffin until you
were rescued?"

"What if nobody rescued me?"

"Well, you'd have sufficient time to burrow
your way to the surface."

"You know, that just doesn't thrill me at
all."

Dr. Arnzin patted him on the shoulder. "Oh,
now, don't be that way. Do you want to embrace eternal life, or do
you want to be like those whiny vampires?"

"Sorry."

"The best part for you is that your body
heals itself at an absurd rate. In a day or two we'll be able to
take off that cast. Not bad, considering that your bone was
pulp."

"Okay, I will admit that it's a pretty decent
side effect."

"Let's take your temperature. Or I could just
look at the thermometer on the wall."

"I'm room temperature?"

"In theory. Open up."

Stanley opened his mouth and Dr. Arnzin stuck
a thermometer under his tongue. "Oh, Stanley, you have no idea how
much I wish it was me who'd been struck by that milk truck."

"It didn't strike me. It fell on me."

"Still, regardless of how your death came
about, I truly envy you."

"Have you seen my dick?"

"Yes. Not attractive. But that's a small
price to pay for what you've been given. You're destined for great
things, Stanley Dabernath."

"Well, not to seem ungrateful, but even with
a fully intact penis I'd trade you places in a second."

Dr. Arnzin nodded, looking forlorn. "If only
that were possible." He removed the thermometer from Stanley's
mouth and glanced at it. "Ah, it's a bit chilly in here. Now, if
you don't mind, we're going to get some hair samples, tissue
samples, saliva samples, fingernail samples, urine samples, and
stool samples."

"Would you like a booger, too?"

"Actually, yes, let's get a mucus sample
while we're at it."

"Y'know, maybe I
wouldn't
trade
places."

* * *

"Oh, now
this
isn't gonna happen," said
Stanley, marking the offending clause in his contract with a yellow
highlighter. "Neither is this. Or this. And a big fat 'hell no' on
this one."

"Sir, don't you think we should bring in a
lawyer?" asked Martin. They sat next to each other in Stanley's
room, pages of the contract spread out over his waterbed.

Stanley shook his head. "I've written up
plenty of contracts that screw people over. I know what to look
for."

"Still, I think an attorney would be a good
idea, just to be safe."

"I don't have any money for
an attorney, and I don't need to pay one of those bloodsuckers to
tell me that this contract is crap." Stanley went back to work with
his highlighter. "Hell no, hell no, hell no,
fuck
no, hell no..."

Martin looked over the contract pages. "Sir,
you should probably leave in a clause or two so that there's
something left to sign."

"But this contract is horseshit." Stanley
tapped one of the pages with his index finger. "Look at this,
seventy percent of my income goes toward the costs of my
resurrection and upkeep! Screw that! Look what they're charging me
for room and board! Bastards!"

"Yes, it's an unfair contract, but
technically you're a ward of Project Second Chance. You're lucky to
be getting this much say in the matter."

"I don't need them. I'll march right on out
of this dump."

"You need your injections."

"They can't keep those from me."

"Sir, you're a zombie. You should probably
stay in the care of those people who know what to look for if there
are any...zombie-related problems."

"I know, I know, I'm not going anywhere,"
said Stanley, pushing the contract page aside. "But c'mon, they're
trying to take merchandising rights! If there's going to be a Mr.
Corpse action figure, and I think there will be, I want final say
on that decision, not that Brant wanker." He looked over at the
camera. "Sorry, Brant wanker!"

"I completely understand, sir," said Martin.
"That's why I'm pushing for a lawyer."

"You know, Martin, technically I'm not your
boss anymore. You don't have to keep saying 'sir' to a zombie."

"Okay."

"You can if you want to, though."

"No, I'm fine to drop it."

"Oh. Well, good. It was weird anyway." He
gathered the pages of the contract into a pile. "I should just
throw this whole thing away and make them start from scratch. No
way in hell am I signing this. I'm dead, not brain-dead."

There was a knock at the door.

"Since they're actually knocking, that must
not be Brant," Stanley remarked. "Come on in!"

Veronica opened the door and stepped into the
bedroom. "Hello there," she said with a smile. "The people spying
on your every move tell me you're unhappy with the contract."

"Yeah, I'm not signing it. They can go fuck a
monkey."

"May I ask what the problem is?"

"It's a crap contract."

"It's actually very fair. It allows Project
Second Chance to recoup their investment while making sure that
you're given a reasonable percentage of the profits. You'll be a
rich man."

"I'm glad to hear that, but we've got some
serious negotiating to do."

"The contract isn't negotiable."

"Every contract is negotiable."

"Not this one."

"Aw, c'mon, they're asking me to sign my
whole life away!"

"No, you signed your life away when you died.
You belong to Project Second Chance, Stanley. If you sign the
contract, all of us will benefit. If you don't, you'll do nothing
but spend your days sitting in this room, watching television and
waiting for your next injection. Do you want to be a superstar or a
couch potato?"

"Will you feed me grapes while I watch
TV?"

"Stanley--"

"Sorry, but I'm not signing it. These
monkey-fuckers can keep me locked up all they want. I don't give a
shit; I've got TiVo."

"They're privately funded.
Without being able to financially exploit your celebrity, they may
not be able to afford your
extremely
expensive
injections."

"So, what, they'd let me ooze away?"

"Nobody would let you ooze away. What would
happen is that somebody who could afford to pay would take over the
project. What kind of experiments do you think the government would
want to perform on you if they had the opportunity?"

"Ghastly ones, sir," said Martin,
helpfully.

"Shut up, Martin." Stanley sighed in
frustration. "You know, Veronica, this would have been much more
effective if they'd sent you in here to bat your eyes and offer me
a blow job."

"Trust me, I was much nicer than Brant would
have been."

"Well, yeah, that goes
without saying." He scowled and did his best Brant
imitation.
He
"'If
you don't sign that contract, your liver will be under a microscope
by Thursday.'"

"That's not a bad impression," said
Veronica.

"Thanks. It works better with a splintery
stick up your ass, but I don't have one handy."

"I could get you one."

Stanley shook his head. "No
thanks. But I've gotta say, you're
hot
when you resort to
blackmail."

"It's not blackmail. It's just the
facts."

"Uh-huh. Well, here's the
deal. I'll think about signing this crap contract to avoid being
sliced up by government scientists.
Think
about it. I'll also think about
that blow job."

Veronica turned to Martin. "Is there an upper
limit to how much he's willing to embarrass himself?"

"No ma'am."

"Actually, there is," Stanley told her. "But
it's a few notches past bestiality, so you don't want to see
it."

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Don't I get any makeup?" Stanley asked as
Veronica straightened his tie.

"Nope."

"C'mon, why do I have to go
out there looking like a rotting zombie? I know you don't have much
to work with, but can't you do
something
?"

"Stanley, you look fine. You look exactly the
way you're supposed to look. Besides, they'll be focused on the
fact that you're a snappy dresser."

Stanley was wearing a black three-piece suit.
He'd half expected Veronica to insist that he walk out there in his
boxers so that they could gape at his body, but the suit had been
her idea.

"It's itchy."

"You're a big boy. You can handle being itchy
for a while."

Stanley shifted nervously in his chair. "Are
you sure they aren't, like, expecting me to bite the head off a
chicken or something?"

"Just relax," Veronica told him. "Take deep
breaths. Visualize yourself standing calmly in front of the
audience, answering their questions in an articulate, charming
manner."

"That sounds more like fantasizing."

"Do it. Close your eyes and picture yourself
behind that podium."

Stanley closed his eyes.
"Wow. Now whenever I close my eyes I see rabid elephants. I
bet
that's
not a
side effect you guys were expecting."

"Be serious. Or at least be funnier."

Brant, wearing his white lab jacket, walked
into the dressing room. "We're ready to begin."

They left the dressing room and proceeded to
the next door in the corridor. They were no longer in the
underground bunker, which, surprisingly to Stanley, was in a
regular town rather than hidden out in the desert. They'd climbed
up a ladder and emerged in a small warehouse that was empty except
for Brant, Veronica, and Dr. Arnzin's cars. They gotten into
Brant's car with its tinted windows and drove about ten blocks to
the building with the press conference.

Brant, Veronica, and Stanley walked into a
small area covered by a curtain. They were standing right next to a
stage, but the curtain blocked Stanley's view of the audience.

"You'll do fine," Brant told him. "Just keep
the swearing under control."

"I'll do my gosh-darn heckin' best."

Brant walked up on stage to a smattering of
applause. He stood behind the podium and addressed the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm very pleased that
you can be with us today for this historic event. You all saw the
resurrection on live television, and now you're going to meet the
scientific miracle of the past two millennia. I give you Stanley
Dabernath, the Amazing Mr. Corpse!"

Veronica gave Stanley a light shove, and he
walked up onto the stage.

Approximately one hundred people sat on
folding chairs in the room, all of them holding notebooks or tape
recorders. Several other people were in front of the stage with
video cameras. CNN, CBS, FOX, NBC, ABC...hell, even MTV was
here.

They were all gaping at him.

Stanley took his place behind the podium and
fidgeted nervously with the microphone. "Uhhhhh....hi."

Virtually every hand in the place shot up at
once.

Stanley coughed and cleared his throat, then
pointed to an attractive young female reporter in the front row.
"Your question?"

"How are you feeling?"

Stanley's mind went
completely blank. How
was
he feeling?

"Alive," he finally said.

There was some light laughter from the
audience. Stanley relaxed a bit. He glanced off-stage and saw
Veronica giving him the thumbs-up sign.

"You," said Stanley, pointing to another
attractive female journalist a couple of rows back.

"I hate to ask such a weighty question this
early in the conference, but I think everybody here wants to know:
when you were dead, did you see God?"

Stanley thought for a long moment. "I don't
remember."

"You don't remember?"

Stanley shook his head.

"You don't think that maybe
that's something you'd
try
to remember?"

"Let's not be antagonistic," said Brant.
"Next question, please."

"Do you remember anything at all about being
dead?" asked a heavyset guy in a tacky blue suit without being
called on.

"Nothing," Stanley admitted.
"In fact, if Mr. Brant here hadn't forced me to look at photos of
my refrigerated corpse while he had me tied to the bed, I probably
still wouldn't believe that I
was
dead."

Stanley glanced over at Veronica. She was no
longer giving him the thumbs-up sign.

Brant seemed completely unphased.
"Unfortunately, the process of resurrection is not a pretty one,
and of course you all saw Mr. Dabernath's reaction when he first
became aware of his surroundings. Certain precautionary measures
were and will continue to be necessary to keep this scientific
marvel from accidentally harming himself."