The Sinister Mr. Corpse (8 page)

"Ferocity! Ferocity!"

Chop! Chop! Chopchopchopchop...

Not much left of poor Mr. Kabot. "Ferocity"
was almost over, but the CD actually had the same song on all
twenty tracks. Someday, when he finally retired from this business,
he was going to record a demo CD with all new cuts, but for now
"Ferocity" was the only song in his oeuvre.

Which was okay. It was a kick-ass song.

"Thanks for not trying to run away," Henry
told Mrs. Kabot and Trisha, who looked completely (but
understandably) freaked. "A lot of the time, people will be rolling
around on the carpet like idiots, as if they're actually going to
get somewhere with their feet all taped up. It bugs the hell out of
me. Show some dignity, y'know what I mean?"

When the song picked up again, he slammed the
hatchet into Mrs. Kabot's face. By the time it was done, she was
just as unrecognizable as her husband.

Henry dropped the hatchet on the floor and
stretched. There was a time when he would have felt a burst of
euphoria after finishing off a good murder, but now he was just
glad it was over.

He shut off the stereo and crouched down next
to Trisha. "Just so you know, I'm not going to chop you up like I
did your parents," he told her, putting his hand on her knee. She
flinched. "I've got to do this ritual. It's pretty disgusting and
it involves a lot of your parents' blood, so I'll need you to bear
with me for a few more minutes. Then we'll get you out to my van.
Sound okay?"

She didn't respond.

"Sorry I had to waste your mom and dad, but
really, it's all your fault. If you'd gone all the way with your
boyfriend like he wanted, you wouldn't be a virgin, and I wouldn't
have any use for you and your family. See, your parents and
teachers and priests are always saying that you should wait, but
when a guy like me needs a virgin, abstinence turns out to be a
real bitch."

The terror in her eyes wasn't particularly
exciting to him, and all he could really think about was what a
pain it was going to be to cover his tracks and get her out to the
van unseen. And then he had a long, long drive.

Oh well. Better than working in a
cubicle.

CHAPTER NINE

"Ahh! Damn it!"

"Stanley, he hasn't even started yet."

"I know, but this table is freezing!"

Veronica rolled her eyes and smiled
apologetically at Dr. Arnzin. "I'll make you a deal," she said to
Stanley. "I'll bet you twenty dollars that you can't make it
through this entire procedure without using a single swear
word."

"I don't have twenty dollars."

"You will."

Stanley shrugged. "Sure thing. I'm not a
slave to profanity. So how much cash do you think we'll rake in by
exploiting my zombieness?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

"Then we're fucked."

"Stanley..."

"The bet hasn't started yet."

Dr. Arnzin strapped Stanley's feet to the
table. "This will only be for a moment, to make sure you don't
thrash around and hurt yourself or me."

"No problem. I'm used to the whole bondage
thing by now. I'm the best sub ever."

After Dr. Arnzin completely strapped him to
the table, Stanley winked at Veronica. "Is this making you
frisky?"

"No."

"Not even gonna lie about it?"

"No."

"I'll need you to relax," said Dr. Arnzin.
"Just take a long, deep breath, like a butterfly in the
meadow."

"Don't I get any anesthetic?"

Dr. Arnzin shook his head. "It won't work on
you."

"How about a couple of lines of cocaine?"

"Sorry."

Stanley took a long, deep breath.

"Are you ready?"

Stanley nodded, and Dr. Arnzin slowly pried
open the gunshot wound with a pair of forceps.

"
Ow!
Frickin' son of a
berch!"

"Just relax."

"Farking fark! Cork-sucking freakin'
fark!"

"Keep breathing. You're a butterfly in the
meadow."

"This really hurts!"

Dr. Arnzin began to dig with a pair of
tweezers. "Just keep relaxing. You're doing fine."

"Ow! Fark! Ow! Fark!"

"It'll be over before you know it."

"You're a farking freakin' forkin' liar! Oh,
shint! Shint, shint, shint!"

"Almost got it."

"Shint!"

"Oops."

"Fark!"

"Got it." Dr. Arnzin dropped the bullet onto
the table. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Bullshint!"

"Now there's just one more piece."

"Aw, fuck. I mean fark. Ah, fuck it. Keep
your twenty bucks."

* * *

"So why did that whack-job shoot me?" asked
Stanley as he sat having lunch with Brant and Veronica.

"He's not talking," said Brant.

"Are you torturing him or anything like that?
I know you've got implements of torture around this place. Don't
pretend that you don't."

"No, we are not torturing anybody. We'll
continue to question him until it's necessary to turn him over to
the proper authorities."

"Define 'proper authorities.' That sounds
kinda sinister and cool."

"None of your business."

"Ooooh, somebody's kind of pissy today.
What's your problem?"

Brant sighed. "I apologize. It's been a
stressful day."

"Yeah, you'd almost think you got shot."

Brant ignored him.

"So how did he get through security? I mean,
he had a real gun, right? It seems like it would've been pretty
tough to sneak a real gun past the kind of security you would
expect to have at such an important press conference."

"Enough, Stanley."

"I'm just saying, it should have been really,
really, really difficult to get a gun in there. You had metal
detectors, right?"

"Yes."

"And you made them run their stuff through an
X-ray machine, right?"

"Stanley, I'm only going to ask you one more
time to let this drop. I'm not in the mood."

"Okay, but I'm right, aren't I? You didn't
blow all this money on bringing me back to life just to protect me
with a minimum wage security guard, did you? Oh, did you know
you've got this vein in the center of your forehead that throbs
when you get pissy?"

"
Enough!
"

"Yes, sir."

Veronica cleared her throat. "Well, I thought
that before the gunfire, the press conference was going pretty
smoothly."

Stanley gestured to Brant. "What you should
do now is say something like 'Really? I thought the gunfire was the
best part of the press conference.' Then we'll all have a great big
chuckle at my expense. Try it. It'll be cool."

Brant sighed. "Next time, I'm going to
re-animate everything except the corpse's mouth."

"Whoa, good one!" Stanley exclaimed. "That
was like a genuine slam! I mean, I felt an actual sting. You go,
Brant." Stanley held up his hand for a high-five but didn't receive
one. "So let's get back to me wondering aloud how I got shot."

Brant glared at him. "Stanley, do you really
think we'd be sloppy enough to just let somebody stroll into your
press conference with a gun?"

"Before the bullet penetrated my chest, I
would've thought no."

"If you would spend more time thinking about
the situation and less time randomly running off at the mouth,
you'd realize that this was an inside job. The man who shot you was
a security guard who was, in fact, dutifully employed with us. This
makes me very uncomfortable and very unhappy, because it makes me
question whether other employees of Project Second Chance are
similarly hostile to our cause. So perhaps I'm justified in being
'pissy.' And perhaps I'm more interested in trying to figure out
where my trust was misplaced than in accommodating your childish
and obnoxious behavior. Stanley Dabernath, please shut the hell
up."

Stanley shut the hell up and picked up his
sandwich. He suddenly had no appetite.

* * *

Stanley and Martin sat in the interrogation
room across from Veronica and a lawyer named Bloodsucking Bastard.
It was not really an interrogation room, nor was the lawyer's real
name "Bloodsucking Bastard," but both seemed appropriate.

"I want at least two bodyguards at every
personal appearance," said Stanley, handwriting that clause on his
copy of the contract.

"Project Second Chance will take all
reasonable precautions to ensure your safety," the lawyer
explained.

"I can see that. The contract says 'all
reasonable precautions.' I don't want it to say 'all reasonable
precautions.' I want it to say 'two big-ass bodyguards at every
personal appearance.'"

"In instances where having two bodyguards
goes beyond what Project Second Chance would consider reasonable
precautions, the bodyguards would certainly be provided upon your
request, but the financial responsibility would be yours,"
Bloodsucking Bastard explained.

"Well, duh! I could have hooker twins at
every personal appearance if I wanted to pay for it myself! You
guys should be covering this. I got shot!"

"Mr. Dabernath, I assure you that Project
Second Chance is even more concerned with your well-being than you
are."

"Then gimme the big-ass bodyguards!"

"I'll see what I can do."

"And see what you can do about getting me
some hooker twins at every personal appearance. Blondes with
heaving bosoms and 'come-hither' looks. Make sure they're identical
twins; none of that fraternal crap."

"I'll see what I can do."

"You're not even going to write that down,
are you?"

"No."

"Good for you. Because I was obviously just
being immature." Stanley flipped to the next page in the contract.
"Now what other cornholing clauses are in this thing? Oh, yes,
merchandising. I want final say on all of that."

"You won't get it."

"It's
my
face."

"Be that as it may, this part of the contract
is not negotiable. Your previous Stanley Dabernath face of course
belongs to you. Mr. Corpse's face belongs to Project Second
Chance."

"Well, if that's true, why don't I just rip
it right off and hand it over? Martin, get me a hacksaw."

"Sir, I think we need to get our own legal
counsel."

Stanley nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Who was
that guy who got Frank Konrath out of jail that one time? Remember
when he was drunk driving and he crashed into the side of that old
lady's house? Didn't he kill a few of her cats?"

"No. The woman just claimed that they were
traumatized."

"Oh. What about him?"

Martin bit his lip. "Actually, Frank is still
in jail for that. And perhaps we don't want to hire a criminal
defense attorney to negotiate a contract."

"Good point. We'll find somebody else."
Stanley nodded at Bloodsucking Bastard. "I guess we'll talk to you
later. Sorry to have squandered your generous hourly fee."

"Not a problem. I charge for mileage."

* * *

An hour later, Stanley was
beating the living crap out of Martin at video game boxing. "Who's
your daddy, punk?" Stanley asked as his on-screen boxer delivered
the knock-out blow. "I may be a zombie, but my reflexes
rule
!"

There was a knock at the door. "Anyone but
Brant can come in," Stanley called out.

Veronica opened the door and stepped inside.
"Brant wants to see you immediately."

"Brant's ass can wait until this game is
over."

"The game
is
over."

"We're playing two out of three."

"Stanley, shut off the television." She
sounded genuinely annoyed, so Stanley picked up the remote control
and did as she asked.

"What does he want?"

"I don't know."

"How did he sound? Angry? Sexually
frustrated?"

"He said immediately. Let's go."

Stanley and Martin set down their game
controllers and stood up. "You're the boss."

"Just you," said Veronica. "Martin can wait
here."

"Okay. He needs the practice anyway." Stanley
followed Veronica out of the room.

She was silent as they walked down the
corridor and unresponsive to small talk. Most likely she'd suddenly
realized that she was the personal assistant to a corpse. That had
to sting.

Veronica opened Brant's door and ushered
Stanley inside. "You're not going come in to protect me?" Stanley
asked.

Veronica didn't respond. She shut the door,
leaving Stanley alone with Brant, who sat behind his immense
desk.

"Have a seat," said Brant.

"Yes, sir." Stanley sat down. He considered
putting his feet up on Brant's desk, but Brant looked like he was
in a worse mood than usual.

"I understand you didn't sign the
contract."

"Nah. The contract was rabbit poop. We're
going to get a lawyer."

"You could have saved us some time if you'd
gotten a lawyer originally, instead of behaving like a jackass and
pretending that you could negotiate it yourself."

"I thought your lawyer would be more
reasonable."

"You thought wrong." Brant rested his arms on
the desk and glared at him. "Stanley, you are what I like to call a
'problem child.' You don't have children, but I have three of them,
and I know how to handle a problem child."

"Oh my God, I'm getting a spanking, aren't
I?"

"No. But you're going to be disciplined."

"Can Veronica do it?"

Brant grinned without humor. "Do you remember
what it was like to be dead, Stanley?"

"Nah. Blocked it."

"Well, we're going to refresh your
memory."

CHAPTER TEN

"I beg your pardon?" Stanley
asked. Brant didn't sound like he was joking. Brant
never
sounded like he was
joking, but this would've been a damn good time for him to
start.