Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

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."

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.