I've Been Deader (5 page)

Can you say Amen?

In his mind Stanley shouted with rage, turned and swung the frying pan into Janet's flapping maw. He heard the satisfying thwack as it connected, Janet falling to her knees, her big mouth spewing blood instead of insults. He saw himself standing over her, screaming at her, swinging the pan over and over again - shutting her up forever.

"Is that my Costco drinking glass on the floor?" Janet shrieked. "I just ..."

Stanley let out a roar, but it came out as a high pitched squeal. He turned, eyes squeezed shut as he swung as hard as he could. The handle of the heavy frying pan, slick with soapy water, flew out of his hand and smacked Janet right in the middle of her fleshy forehead.

Big as she was, she spun around with the grace of a ballet dancer and collapsed to the floor.

Stanley stood there for a long time in shock. Not by what he had done but rather by the strange sensation of living with a silent Janet. Then he laughed out loud - something that was
verboten
until tonight.

"I guess maybe there is a God after all."

When Janet didn't stop him he laughed harder.

*  *  *

Stanley was not a strong man. But tonight he had the strength of the righteous.

And he used his righteous strength to drag Janet's heavy body into the garage. He had intended to roll her up in a rug, but righteous strength went only so far these days and he couldn't handle the extra weight.

He pulled her across the kitchen and into the adjoining mud room, where they kept coats and boots. There was a half step between the two rooms and Janet's head made a soft, sickening thud as he dragged her over it. But Janet's capacity for patience had increased dramatically in the last hour, and little things like broken glass and smacking her head against the floor didn't bother her any more.

His plan was to put her body in the trunk of the Cadillac, drive out into the Pine Barrens - like he had seen on that
Soprano's
episode - set the car on fire and bury the license plates somewhere in the woods. It would be a long walk to somewhere he could call a car service, but nothing a righteous man such as himself couldn't handle.

The garage was attached to the house and off of the mud room - a good piece of luck as Stanley didn't have to worry about being seen. He grabbed the car keys off the hook by the door and paused to look in the kitchen. A light smear of blood cut a trail across the white floor. He'd have to do something about that before he left. Just in case.

"First things first," he muttered. He put the car keys in his mouth, and with both hands he grabbed Janet's feet.

Ten minutes later she was in the trunk. Stanley was sweating buckets and panting like Lassie at Rin Tin Tin's bachelor party. He dropped the keys from his mouth and they landed somewhere in the vast territory of Janet's bosom. He took a few moments to catch his breath. It felt like hours had passed, but his watch insisted it was only about forty minutes.

"Okay. Okay."

He was going over the plan in his head one last time when the phone rang. Should he answer it or let it go to voice mail? Ideas about establishing an alibi tickled the back of his mind, but in the end he didn't trust himself to have a telephone conversation with anyone right now. He'd been proactive enough for one evening. He let the phone ring.

The answering machine picked up, but it was in the TV room and he couldn't hear who was speaking or what they were saying. He debated going inside and playing the message, but couldn't imagine that it could matter at this point.

He shut the trunk and went back into the kitchen to clean up.

It took him longer to straighten up than he thought it would, and his back ached something awful by the time he was done.

The strength of the righteous is well and good, but a few Advil might be a good idea.

He got the pills from the medicine cabinet and downed them with a diet Coke from the fridge.

Tired and in no hurry to start the drive to south Jersey, he went to the TV room and sat on the couch. As his ass met cushion he exhaled with that special mixture of pleasure and relief of the middle-aged. The answering machine sat on the end table, the blinking red light refusing to be ignored. He reached over and hit
play
, immediately regretting it. The message was from Janet's friend, Edith. Edith wasn't as mean or loud as Janet, but she was a close second.

"Hiya hon. Just got the new mahjong card. I'll make a copy and walk it over. Don't forget - " A loud thud interrupted her. "What the hell? - hold on a second."

Stanley did not hold on a second. Ignoring the machine he turned and looked around the room, searching for what, he didn't know. Ignoring the aches and pains he stood up.

"Time to go," he said to the room. "Job's still half done."

Back in the garage he got into the car and fished for his keys. Except his keys weren't there. He'd put them right in the passenger seat, hadn't he?

No. He hadn't. The keys, he recalled, were resting somewhere on the great bosom of Janet. Stanley didn't panic. Even when Janet started banging against the trunk, he didn't panic.

Laughing so hard that tears started streaming down his face, he got out of the car and walked to the back of the trunk. He could hardly breathe.

Janet, still banging away, made Stanley laugh even harder. He went to the corner of the garage where the lawnmower was kept. Next to it was a two-gallon can with about half a gallon of gasoline in it. He took the canister and made the short journey back to the trunk, where Janet had added a little moaning to her thumping routine.

Someone knocked against the garage door. Probably Edith, with mahjong card in hand. This too he found hysterical and redoubled his laughter. Trying his best to choke back the giggles, he started spilling gasoline over the car. A lot of it sloshed onto his pants, but that hardly mattered now.

"You know," he wheezed between laughs, "you were right, Janet."

He took out a match book and struck a light.

"I can't do anything right."

Chapter 8

The Critic

Special Agent Christopher Jenkins took the still smoking cigarette that he was holding in the corner of his mouth and then he put it out against his foot, leaning against the old and beat-up coffee machine. He grabbed the suspect who was sitting slumped in a chair in the middle of the room by his coat and shook him very roughly, making the suspect's eyes jiggle in his head.

"Tell me again, scumbag."

"I already told you earlier that I have already told you everything that I know," the suspect lied. "Like I said, the shipment is coming by boat sometime tomorrow night and Mr. X is supposed to be there with the cash, the guns and some people to help move the stuff. I was going to be one of the people who helped move the stuff. That's all I know."

Jenkins took another pull on his still smoking cigarette and frowned in concentration.

The suspect was crying. Special Agent Christopher Jenkins knew the suspect was probably telling the truth. But he needed more information, so he shook the suspect even harder.

"How much of the shit are they bringing in? Tell me!"

Osborne leaned back in his chair and adjusted his trousers. He was sporting a nice little pup tent. As far as he was concerned, stories this bad were better than hardcore porn. This one wasn't as deliciously insipid as the latest
Twilight
book, but it would do.

He intended to go straight to his blog,
writeorwrong.com,
and begin shredding while the bad taste in his mouth was still fresh. But his stiffy had other ideas. This piece wasn't published of course. Random House and the like had enough sense to stay away from drivel of this sort. But even for a high school writing assignment, it was spectacularly bad.

It was no use. He was too worked up now to sit still. He needed a little something to take the edge off, and that little something was sleeping in the next room.

He got up from his desk, and like every man other than Al Gore let his erection lead the way. With a quick detour to the bathroom for a splash of Listermint and a courtesy wipe of his ass, he gave himself a once over in the mirror. Hmm. For a critic, he was surprisingly handsome. Short dark hair, a pimple free complexion and light blue eyes. His teeth were white and even. There was nothing obviously repulsive about him.

Kelly's toothbrush had fallen into the sink. With a frown he returned it to its rightful place. She was always doing things like that. He sighed then headed to the bedroom.

Kelly, already sleeping, lay before him like a Caligula buffet. She wore a long white T-shirt that ended just above her knees. Osborne frowned again and pulled back a few strands of hair that had fallen over her face. She was always letting her hair get loose, even though she knew it drove him to distraction sometimes.

He pulled down his trousers. His cock, much less discriminating than the rest of him, sprang to attention. He turned Kelly's head toward his own and gently shook her.

"Hey, wake up," he whispered. "I need you."

Kelly's eyes fluttered open to see the all too familiar sight. She started to turn away.

"Not tonight, Oz. Leave me be."

Osborne cursed to himself.
Always the same with her.
Climbing on the bed, he straddled her chest, his all too average sized erection bobbing in a non-threatening manner.

"What's with the shirt? I told you I hate this shirt. You should sleep in the gray one. It's more comfortable and looks better on you."

Kelly turned her head away from the would-be intruder.

"Goddammit, Oz! I said leave me be, and stop telling me what I should wear. I know what I feel comfortable in and it isn't your god damn gray shirt."

Osborne shimmied up a little closer to his goal.

"It’s God damned," he whispered. He could feel her breath tickling his hairs.
Yum.

Kelly tried to roll over, but Osborne's knees kept her trapped on her back.

"What?"

"It's 'God damned,' not god damn. It isn't your god damn white shirt. Lots of people make that mistake, especially when their -"

As Kelly bit down as hard as she could - which was pretty god damned hard - Osborne screamed.

In fact, she bit clean through. Blood quickly soaked the Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled off the bed and onto the floor, screaming louder and higher, his groin a riot of agony.

Kelly sat up and spat out a nice chunk of his manhood. It hit the top of his remaining head and bounced onto the floor, landing on last month's issue of Oprah magazine.

"Next time when I say I'm too god damned tired maybe you'll leave what's left of your god damned prick in your god damned pants."

He started crawling for the door. "You didn't ... say ... you were ... tired," he panted. "You never ..."

"What was that?" Kelly screamed. She spat on the floor again, discharging a fair amount of red tinged saliva. "What did you say?"

Still on hands and knees, Osborne was out the bedroom door and making his way to the stairs, a long dark red skid mark painted in his wake. His screams had died down to a quiet mewling. He still had the presence of mind to note that even in this situation, Kelly was capable of over-reacting.

The stairs were carpeted in the most god-awful green shag imaginable. Why he had let her talk him into that fiasco he couldn't remember. He was halfway down the stairs when he thought about his severed head.

The doctors would need that, wouldn't they?
These days people got things reattached all the time.

The thought of turning around and crawling back up the stairs was too much, and he was pretty sure Kelly was not in the mood to behave rationally. In the back of his mind, he took a small satisfaction in hearing sobbing coming from the room.

He'd let the cops deal with it.
First things first.

It wasn't until he was at the bottom of the stairs that he thought about calling 911. He sluggishly fished his cell phone out of his shirt pocket. Somehow it hadn't fallen out during all the mayhem.

Must be my lucky day
.

It took him a few moments to focus and dial. He'd lost a lot of blood and was having trouble staying awake. The phone kept ringing and ringing. He started thinking that maybe he misdialed when someone answered.

"You have reached the 911 emergency line. All circuits are currently busy. Do not hang up. Someone will be with you shortly. You have reached the 911 ..."

What the fuck
? Since when did 911 have call waiting?

And why use '
currently busy
'? If all circuits are busy, then of course they are
currently
busy. When would people learn the right time and place to use adverbs?

Osborne struggled to his feet, vomited from the pain and nearly collapsed. He lurched over to the front door. He'd get his neighbor to drive him to the hospital. Earlier he'd noticed Mr. Caulkin's car, a hideous yellow VW Bug, parked in the driveway. On the
left
side of the driveway, for some reason; should have been on the right. Osborne didn't relish the idea of driving up to the emergency room dickless and in a yellow Volkswagen bug, but it beat bleeding to death.

He opened the door and took a painful step outside.

His last breathing thought was:

What are all these people doing outside?

Chapter 9

Eating Aleta

After Aleta tried to reject his advances, Fred aimlessly walked the streets, heartbroken and disgusted. He knew it was more infatuation than love but he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, or the taste of her out of his mouth.

Eventually he found himself in some breather's backyard, leaning against the trunk of a large weeping willow. Its long whip-like branches hid him from the breather's home a few dozen yards away. Waiting for darkness to fall, he kept replaying in his mind’s eye the final encounter with Aleta.