Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"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."

"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.

Brant gestured to a red vinyl recliner in the corner of his office. "Have a more comfortable seat."

"I'm fine," Stanley said.

"That was not a request."

"Okay, look, I can see that you're on a power trip. How about I come back later?"

"How about you sit in the recliner before I kill you?"

Stanley gaped at him. "You didn't just…yes, you did. You can't be serious."

"Let me explain something to you. Your mental health was not guaranteed upon your return. We were not one hundred percent sure what we'd be dealing with. Yes, we were concerned with protecting our investment, but we were more concerned with the safety of our staff. Therefore, we set up a contingency plan in case you went berserk."