Jeff Strand: Casket For Sale

The third book in the Andrew Mayhem series, 2004

IF YOU ARE reading these words, then I am dead.

Well, okay, maybe not. I gue ss it's just as likely that some doofus screwed up and sent this out early. So let me clarify: If you're reading these words, I might be dead, but there's also a strong possibility that I'm very much alive and extremely annoyed.

Anyway, my name is Andrew Mayhem, and a couple of weeks ago I'd returned to my Florida home following an adventure that can best be described as "really truly seriously totally completely messed up in a big freakin' way." Not to be whiny or anything, but after an experience where you fight for your life against a half-dozen psychopaths and sustain injuries including, but not limited to, a direct knife hit to the right buttock, is it really so much to ask that the rest of your year be an improvement?

Apparently so.

In fact, as I pushed open the wooden doors and walked down the menacing corridor, I knew deep within my soul I was about to face my most terrifying experience yet.

My blood ran ice-cold as I entered Human Resources.

"Have a seat, Mr. Mayhem," said the elderly woman after I introduced myself. "I'm Ms. Bennett."

I almost sighed with pleasure as I sat down. It wasn't an especially comfortable chair, but I'd healed enough from the aforementioned buttock injury that sitting was no longer painful, so I was enjoying the experience as much as possible. You don't realize how many times you're required to sit in any given day until you've been stabbed in the rear. And because injuries to that particular region are inherently hilarious, nobody gives you any sympathy. It's a lose-lose situation all around.

While Ms. Bennett looked over my job application, I tried not to fidget. It wasn't the most impressive résumé in the world, but even if none of them lasted more than two or three weeks, the quantity of my previous jobs had to count for something, right?

I nervously scratched my cheek, and she noticed my left hand was wrapped in gauze. "Oh, what happened there?" she asked.

"Knife accident," I replied, shrugging it off.

"Really? Did you have to get stitches?"

"Yeah, a few. It's fine, though."

Ms. Bennett held up her thumb. "I had to get three stitches when I cut myself on a soup can lid. How many did you have to get?"

"Twenty-four."

"Twenty-four? My word!"

"Well, twelve on each side."

She set down the papers. "On each side?"

"Yeah, the hunting knife went all the way through my palm. It kind of hurt, but it's okay now. I can move it; it just looks a bit gross. The doctors said it'll be good as new."

"How on earth did you get stabbed through the palm with a hunting knife?"

"Uh, well, this guy did it. He's dead, though."

"He's dead? How did he die?"

"It's a long story. Self-defense… you know how it goes."

Ms. Bennett glanced uncomfortably down at my application, but then tried to force a smile. "So, Mr. Mayhem, have you killed anybody else I should know about?"

"Yeah, a few," I admitted. I could feel the potential success of this job interview draining away.

Her smile vanished. "Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

"How many other people?"

"Not too many. One guy died of a heart attack while I was threatening him with a piece of a broken plate, but that probably doesn't count. I threw a skull with sharpened fangs at a guy who kidnapped my children, but he shot me first, so I think it's justifiable."

At this point, it was pretty obvious I wasn't getting the job, so I figured, the hell with it. "I poked another guy through the neck with a rib bone, which actually makes two deaths by bone products, an interesting piece of trivia if you're into that kind of thing. One guy died from being stabbed by a booby-trapped gargoyle, another guy died when a pile of fake corpses fell on him, and a lady died from being hit by a box full of really sharp weapons, but in all of those cases my involvement was indirect."

Ms. Bennett was silent for a long moment. "Anything else?"

"No, that's it. And really, I think you can only count the skull, the rib bone, and the self-defense stabbing of the guy who put the hunting knife through my hand. So I guess I've only killed three people total. I'm surprised you didn't hear about any of this on the news."

"I avoid the news, Mr. Mayhem. Too violent."

"Yeah, I don't blame you. The news sucks."

Ms. Bennett leaned back in her chair. "I'm afraid that with your history of… er, justifiable homicides, this is probably not the best place for you to seek employment."

"I can assure you, I'll try my best not to justifiably kill any of my co-workers," I said, trying to keep things lighthearted.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayhem. I'll keep your résumé on file."

AFTER I GOT INTO my car, I cursed and smacked my palm (not the stabbed one… I learned that particular lesson the hard way) against the dashboard. I should have taken the interview much more seriously. I'd vowed to "straighten up," as it were. I was thirty-three years old and it was time to become a responsible human being. Get a real job. Be a better father and husband. Quit accepting money from strangers to perform tasks that went terribly, terribly, terribly wrong.

Oh well. I'd find a real job soon/eventually. And the lady in Human Resources had said she'd keep my résumé on file, right?

I drove away from the building and listened to lousy music on the radio for a few minutes until I noticed red and blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Great. I pulled over, rolled down my window, and tried to think of a good excuse for whatever it was I'd done.

The cop exited his vehicle and hurried to mine. "Andrew Mayhem?"

"Yes."

"We've got an APB out for you. I'm going to have to ask you to come with me. It's an emergency."

"Is there a problem?" Considering the officer had just pulled me over and told me it was an emergency, it was pretty safe to assume there was, in fact, some sort of problem, but I've never claimed to possess intelligence.

"Yes, a big one. Please come with me."

THERE WERE SEVERAL police cars and an ambulance outside of Hector's Subs-N-Suds, a beer and sandwich shop, as we drove up. I've only eaten there once. It was okay, although they were stingy with the black olives and my daughter refused to eat more than a bite of her sub because the roast beef had that weird rainbow sheen thing.

As soon as I got out of the police car, Lieutenant Bruce Frenkle walked over. He'd been promoted from Sergeant last week, and his identical twin brother Tony, who remained a Sergeant, still wasn't speaking to him.

"Andrew! Glad you're here, man."

The cop had briefed me about what was going on during the drive over. I looked at the restaurant, but I couldn't see anybody through the glass doors. "Are they still in there?"

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, they're hiding. He's not talking anymore, but we haven't seen anything to indicate the situation has changed."

"How's the woman?"

"I think he cut her pretty good."

I winced. Considering what this guy was capable of, though, the woman had little reason to complain. Most of his victims ended up headless.

Bruce put his hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to go in there, you know."

"It would be nice if that were true."

I guess technically it was true. The guy inside of Hector's Subs-N-Suds was Ned Markstein, otherwise known as The Headhunter. I don't want to overwhelm you with my past history of encounters with psycho killers, so let's just say The Headhunter was trying to capture me to deliver to another group of psycho killers as part of a fun-filled weekend of Games-o-Death, but he ended up being captured, tortured, and stored in a bathroom while I impersonated him during the games. If you haven't read about my previous wacky adventures, you're just going to have to trust me on some of this.