Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"No shit. That's why we're holding you for ransom."

"Oh. That's right. Bullet in my brain, remember?"

"I remember."

"So what's your name?"

"None of your business."

"Well, Chauncey, all I'm asking for are some tweezers and a mirror so that I can get this bullet out of my brain. I'm a living corpse who dresses up in Halloween gear and goes after bad guys; do you really want my sanity slipping even further?"

"I'll have to ask Tom."

"Are you Tom's bitch?"

"No."

"You sure? It sounds to me like we might have a bitch situation going on here."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Is he cruel when you make love?"

The thug kicked Stanley in the face. "Your dead ass can just sit in here alone."

"No, no! Let's be reasonable about this. We're both entrepreneurs, right? You need to protect your investment. If you leave the bullet in here I'll…oh, fudge, here come the chickens…"

When Stanley's mind returned to functionality, there were three rats chewing on his feet. They'd burrowed through his shoes and were going at his toes with great enthusiasm. This was rather disturbing, although less disturbing than the rat that was chewing on Stanley's face.

He shook his head violently and kicked his feet to get rid of the vermin, then decided that maybe a good old fashioned sob session was in order.

No. He'd be strong. He was no longer Stanley Dabernath, that pathetic failed movie distributor crying in his trailer. He was the Sinister Mr. Corpse, that pathetic failed superhero being held for ransom by drug dealers. If you discounted the rats, it was an improvement.

His cheek really hurt, but by testing the inside with his tongue it didn't appear that the rat had gotten all the way through.

If he got out of this, he'd definitely figure out another way to use his abilities for good. Martin's "soaking up wisdom" idea was sounding good. He could be a traveling bard, sharing stories of the ages ("This one time these drug dealers tied me up and let rats chew me.").

The door opened and both thugs entered. Chauncey held a small mirror and a long pair of metal tweezers.

"We're gonna let you get the bullet out," Chauncey explained. "But don't try using it on us or anything."

"Thank you," Stanley said, forcing himself not to say any of the 18,719 smart-ass comments that ricocheted through his mind.

"We're going to untie your hands," said Tom. "But we'll have a gun on you. If you try anything, I'll shoot you in the head again and drive that bullet in even deeper. You understand?"

"I understand."

Tom pointed the pistol at Stanley while Chauncey bent down and unlocked the handcuffs. He quickly jumped back as if Stanley was going to attack, but Stanley remained calm. He pushed himself to a sitting position and then scooted back against the wall. Though the wall was sticky, he didn't complain.

He picked up the mirror, which was an extremely girly one with a pink flowered frame. He took a moment to brace himself for what he might see, and then looked at his reflection.

It wasn't so bad. Yeah, there was a disgusting gash in his right cheek, but the bullet hole in his forehead wasn't as big as he would've expected. The lack of blood probably helped with the aesthetics.

He picked up the tweezers, wondering if he should use them for a daring escape attempt. He could fling them at Tom. They'd lodge into his left eye, and in a blind panic Tom would fire the pistol, shooting his partner in the heart. Tom would pluck out the tweezers but then be so overcome by grief that he'd turn the pistol on himself.

Stanley decided not to try it.

"I don't suppose I could call my doctor, could I?" he asked. "He's a cool guy. You'd like him."

"Just get the bullet out and shut up."

Stanley checked out the bullet hole closely in the mirror. "Any chance you've got a flashlight? I know I should've asked sooner, but I wasn't thinking."

"No flashlight."

"Figures. Okay, here we go."

A long silence.

"So go," Tom urged.

"I'm about to stick a pair of tweezers in my brain! A bit of lollygagging is to be expected!"

"You need to do it quick, man," said Chauncey. "Like when you're tearing off a bandage or having a chest wax."

"This isn't like a chest wax. This is surgery."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Oh, sure, brain surgery by a twitchy-fingered drug addict. Sign me right the fuck up."

"Hey, that was a gesture, man!"

"How about you two give me some privacy?"

Tom shook his head. "No way. You'd try to escape."

"What am I gonna do? Scrape through the wall with a pair of tweezers?"

"You might! Did you see that movie with Tim Robbins? The Shawshank Redemption?"

"It was a rock hammer, and it took him, like, thirty years! The only way I'm gonna escape is to tie a message to a rat!"

Chauncey nervously looked around for rats. Tom smacked him in the shoulder.

"No privacy," said Tom. "You do it now or the bullet stays."

"Fine." Stanley angled the mirror just right, and then very, very slowly began to insert the tweezers into the bullet hole.

"Oh, man, that is nasty!"

"Shut up! You're disrupting my concentration!" Stanley shoved the tweezers in deeper.

"Did you get it?"

"I said shut up!"

"We should be taking pictures," said Tom.

"I mean it, be quiet so I can focus." He shoved the tweezers in even deeper. "Okay, I've got something. No, wait, that's just brain."

Tom and Chauncey both crouched down to get a closer look.

"What does it feel like?" Tom asked.

"It doesn't feel like anything. You don't have pain receptors in your brain."

"But it feels weird, right?"

"Enough with the questions! I'll give you a full report when it's done!"

Chauncey poked at his own forehead with his index finger. "I dunno, man, I don't think I could do something like that."

"Nobody's asking you to."

"I didn't say that anybody was asking me to, but if I were in that situation, I think I'd just leave the bullet where it was."

Stanley frowned and jiggled the tweezers a bit.

"Do you have it?" asked Tom.

"I'm not sure. I think so. I can't tell."

"Maybe you should lean your head down and shake it."

Stanley started to tell him to shut up again, but then decided that the advice was sound and took it.

"Anything?"

"Do you see any bullets dropping out of my head?"

"No."

"Then it's not doing anything!"

"Don't be so goddamn testy, man. We got you the tweezers and mirror like you wanted!"

Stanley raised his head, let go of the tweezers, and pointed at both of them. "If you don't stop talking, I swear to God, I'll beat the crap out of you."

Neither of the thugs looked intimidated. Their lack of fear was probably directly related to the pair of tweezers protruding from Stanley's forehead.

Stanley fished around for a few more moments in blissful silence. "Oops, there went high school Algebra."

"No big loss," said Tom.

Stanley pulled out the tweezers and shook his head. "No good, I can't get it. I'll need a medical professional to do the brain surgery."

"That bites, man."

"Yeah."

And then Stanley realized that this was his big chance. Tom had lowered the gun, and both men were still staring at the hole in his forehead.

He slammed the tweezers into Tom's chest. Tom screamed in pain as Stanley grabbed for the gun. He missed. Tom swung it toward his face, but Stanley threw a punch that struck the inside of his wrist. The gun fell to the floor.

Stanley got Tom with a devastating head-butt that he was pretty damn sure hurt himself a lot more than the thug, considering that he already had a hole in his skull.

Chauncey tackled him. They struggled on the floor, Man against Zombie.