The Sinister Mr. Corpse (7 page)

"I guess I can be kind of a klutz," Stanley
told the audience. They laughed. He pointed to a drop-dead gorgeous
brunette near the back. "Your question?"

"How do you feel about being dubbed The
Amazing Mr. Corpse?"

Stanley shrugged. "It's not very scary, is
it? Somebody who looks the way I do should have a spooky name.
Maybe The Terrifying Mr. Corpse. The Grotesque Mr. Corpse. The
Oozing Mr. Corpse."

"Of course, we prefer to stick with The
Amazing Mr. Corpse for PR purposes," said Brant.

"Look at this, he brings me back to life and
thinks he's my agent," said Stanley. "I owe him a hundred percent
of my soul and twenty percent of my income."

The audience laughed again. Stanley relaxed
some more. This wasn't so bad. At the very least it would probably
drum up some business for Demented Whackos Video.

He called on another pretty
girl. "What proof do we have that you really
did
come back to life and this isn't
just an elaborate hoax?" she asked.

"You could come up and touch me."

"Seriously?"

"Sure."

The journalist stood up. Stanley watched the
sexy way her hips moved as she made her way through the row of
reporters and past the security guard in the back who was holding a
gun and pointing it at--

As the bullet struck him, Stanley stumbled
backwards against the curtain. A second gunshot rung out as he
tumbled to the floor, a stinging pain in his chest. He heard
screaming and the thunder of footsteps and felt two pairs of hands
pull him to his feet and rush him off the stage.

A door behind him slammed shut.

"Stanley, can you hear me?" asked Brant.

Stanley was too stunned to respond.

Brant and Veronica hurriedly unbuttoned his
suit and then the white dress shirt underneath it. Stanley saw a
bullet hole in his chest, just to the left of his solar plexus, but
there was no blood.

It hurt like hell.

"Stanley, can you hear me?" Brant repeated.
"Curse if you can hear me."

"Fuck!"

"He's fine," said Veronica.

"I'm
not
fine! I just got shot! I'm the
exact opposite of fine, thank you very much! Maybe we should shoot
you and see just how fine you feel, huh? Oh, I know, let's find the
psycho in the back of the room and borrow his gun!"

Veronica put her hand on Stanley's shoulder.
"Shhhhh. You're babbling."

"I'm not babbling! I'm ranting!"

"Either way, settle down. You need to stay
calm."

"It hurts."

"I know it hurts, but you'll be okay. See?
There's no blood."

Stanley looked at the gunshot wound again. "I
know you meant that to be reassuring, but really, the lack of blood
is kinda freaking me out." He touched the hole and winced.

"We'll have Dr. Arnzin dig out the bullet as
soon as possible," said Brant.

"Oh, now
that's
making me feel
calmer."

"I suppose we could just leave it lodged in
your body."

"Don't be a prick."

"I am not the one engaging in prick-like
behavior, Mr. Dabernath. I don't expect you to be grateful for what
we've done for you, but you could at least be somewhat less
hostile."

Stanley sighed. "Okay, I'm sorry. It just
hurts!"

"Did I hear right?" asked Brant. "Did the
Amazing Mr. Corpse just apologize? What kind of surreal world have
we entered?"

"Don't be a prick."

There was a knock at the door. "Mr. Brant?"
asked a voice through a small speaker.

"Yes?"

"The shooter has been subdued and locked
away, sir. We're evacuating the press."

Brant stood up. "Good, I want to be there for
the questioning."

"He's unconscious at the moment."

"Not for long. Veronica, take Stanley back to
the bunker and have the bullet removed."

"Yes, sir."

Brant exited the room, closing the door
behind him.

"I'm sorry you got shot," said Veronica.

"That's okay."

"When you're a scientific miracle, it's only
natural that some people are going to be afraid of what you could
mean to the future and lash out like that."

"If you say so. Personally, I want to know
why he just didn't assume that I was some idiot in a spooky
mask."

"That's what most people believe, I'm
sure."

"Which part? The idiot or the spooky
mask?"

Veronica smiled. "You're really something,
you know that?"

"Yeah, but think how much it would've sucked
if you'd spent all that money to bring a boring guy back to life.
You know, the pain in my chest is fading pretty quickly. Is that
the natural order of things or should I be concerned?"

"No, it's fine."

"Good. So am I, like, immortal?"

"The Immortal Mr. Corpse?"

"I'm serious. I mean, can I die? What if he
shot me in the brain?"

"I'm not sure."

"What if he threw a machete at me and lopped
off my head? Would I just be this living head, rolling around on
the floor?"

"That seems unlikely."

"Unlikely, but not impossible, right? What if
I get burnt up? Will I be this pile of living ashes? So I could get
cremated and scattered to the wind, and each individual ash would
be alive, and some old guy might accidentally inhale me and I could
be living in his stomach until his digestive juices start to--"

Veronica placed her finger on his mouth.
"Stanley? Stop talking."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's get you back so we can take care of
that bullet."

"Is it going to hurt?"

"Yes, it's going to hurt, and you're going to
use lots of vulgar language, and you're going to be sarcastic
towards the nice doctor who's just trying to make your chest
bullet-free."

"You think I'm a jerk, don't you?"

"No, I just think you like to behave like
one."

"But you've got to admit that I'm justified
in being annoyed with the way my life has turned out. I'm gross and
people are shooting at me."

"Ah, yes, but there's a major hole in your
argument."

"What's that?"

"I've done my research. You were a jerk
before your resurrection."

Stanley held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Okay, you got me. I'll behave."

"Good. So let's go get you fixed up."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Henry Sweet sighed and impatiently drummed
his fingers on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. Six more
minutes. Six long, tedious minutes. God, he hated this job.

Killing people had lost its allure several
years ago. Oh, sure, when he got started in the business, there was
nothing like the feeling of slamming his knife into an innocent (or
not-so-innocent) target, but these days he just got annoyed when
they bled on his shirt.

He yawned. Then yawned again.

Henry had turned fifty last
week, and the sting had yet to wear off.
Fifty
. Five decades. Half a century.
That was just wrong. Turning fifty was for decrepit, toothless,
senile old men, not him.

At least he didn't
feel
half a century old.
He still turned female heads at the gym, and he could bench press
more than most guys half his age. His short brown hair didn't
require that much dye to hide the gray, and his vision was
absolutely perfect. Physically, he was in every bit as good of
shape as he was twenty years ago. He was just bored.

He checked his watch again. Five more
minutes. He should've brought a handheld video game.

The minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow
manner. When only one remained, he got out of the car and went
around to open the trunk. He took out a pistol with a silencer, a
roll of duct tape, a compact disc, and a hatchet.

He hid these items from sight (the pistol in
the outside pocket of his black leather jacket, the tape and
hatchet in the inside pocket) and then walked across the street to
the front porch of the white suburban home.

At exactly eight o'clock he rang the
doorbell.

The door opened, revealing an annoyed-looking
Mr. Kabot. "May I help you?"

"Hi. I'm here to murder you. May I come
in?"

Henry didn't wait for Mr.
Kabot to ask if this was some kind of joke. They
always
asked if this was
some kind of joke. Henry was tired of the question. Instead, he
whipped out his gun and pointed it at Mr. Kabot's chest to indicate
that no, this was certainly not some kind of joke.

Mr. Kabot blanched and his mouth dropped
open.

"Inside," said Henry. "Now."

As they stepped inside the house, Henry
immediately swung his gun toward Mrs. Kabot and their daughter
Trisha, who were seated on the sofa watching the asinine reality
television show that they never missed. "Not one noise!" he said,
closing the door behind him. "If I hear so much as a squeak I'll
kill all three of you."

To their immense credit, the women didn't
scream. Mrs. Kabot whimpered a bit, but he'd let it pass.

He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed
it to Mr. Kabot. "Tape their hands, feet, and mouths. If you want
to whisper some reassuring nonsense at the same time, that's fine,
but don't try anything. I've seen it all."

Mr. Kabot stood there helplessly.

"I'm not here because I want to admire your
new carpet," Henry told him. "Tape them up or I'll do it for you,
and I won't be gentle."

Mr. Kabot continued standing there long
enough that Henry thought he might actually have to use the gun,
but then he nodded and began to unspool the tape. He wrapped it
around his wife's hands while Henry watched impatiently.

He glanced over at Trisha. She was eighteen
years old, blonde, and incredibly hot despite a couple of pimples.
Hard to believe she was a virgin.

Once Mr. Kabot had finished taping up his
wife he went to work on his daughter. The guy was trembling, but at
least he wasn't bawling like a baby. The last one had blubbered
from beginning to end, and it made Henry want to gag.

With the two women sufficiently taped up,
Henry walked over to Mr. Kabot and pressed the gun to his nose.
"I'm going to tape you up," he said. "There is to be no kicking,
hitting, biting, or any other aggressive move. If you disobey, or
even look like you're going to disobey, I'll shoot your wife.
Understand?"

Mr. Kabot nodded.

"Good. Start the roll for me."

Mr. Kabot stared at him quizzically.

"I can't do it with one hand," Henry
explained, annoyed. "I need you to get it started."

Mr. Kabot obligingly unrolled a couple inches
of tape. Henry took the roll from him, stuck the end to Mr. Kabot's
ankle, and then tightly wrapped the tape around his feet. Once that
was done, Henry taped up his hands and mouth.

Henry lowered the gun. All three of them sat
on the couch, looking terrified, but not so terrified that he
thought they might panic and do something stupid.

"You're all doing fine," Henry informed them,
walking over to their entertainment center. He shut off the
television. "Why do you watch that crap? Are you worried about
becoming too smart or something? I'm going to borrow your stereo,
if that's okay."

He bent down next to the stereo and ejected
the CD holder. He removed the CD that was already in there and
grimaced. "Kenny Rogers? Are you kidding me?" He flung the CD,
Frisbee-style, against the far wall, and then began to flip through
the CDs stacked next to the stereo. "Garth Brooks, Kenny Loggins,
Faith Hill...you can't be serious." Life was too short to listen to
hicks moping about their lost love.

He took his own CD out of his pocket,
tenderly placed it in the machine, and pressed play. At the sound
of the wonderfully familiar piano melody he turned up the
volume.

"That's me," he told the family. "I'm playing
that. Not bad, huh?" None of them acted as if they understood what
he was talking about. "It's mood music. Kind of mellow now, but
it'll pick up."

An electric guitar joined the piano. "That's
me, too. I did everything on this song but mix the tracks. No,
that's not right, I didn't do the drums, that was a drum machine,
but everything else was me."

Henry could feel the music boosting his
spirits a bit. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took
out the hatchet. Mrs. Kabot gasped, but Henry put a finger to his
lips. "You'll like the vocals," he said. "I'm singing out of my
usual range, but it works."

He fondled the hatchet as
his voice sounded over the stereo. "
Ferocity...ferocity...must control my own
ferocity...
" he sang in a slow, soothing
manner. Yeah, this was doing the trick. It always did. Once the
song kicked into high gear with the next verse, the bloodbath could
begin.

"
The feelings inside me...think I'll have to hide me...before
I unleash my (unleash my) ferocity..."

The electric guitar suddenly grew louder and
faster.

Henry raised the hatchet.

"
Ferocity! Ferocity! Gotta be somethin' wrong with
me!
"

As Mrs. Kabot and her daughter screamed
through their duct tape, Henry rushed at the man of the house and
let the poor doomed bastard have it. He chopped in time with the
pounding drumbeat, singing along with himself.

"
Insanity! Brutality! Gotta love ferocity!
"

Chop! Chop! Chop!

"
Cruelty! Mean ol' me! Gotta love
...damn it!" Henry stopped singing and spat out some blood
that got in his mouth. God, he hated the taste of that crap. He
wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand and then went back to
work.