Jeff Strand: The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"Whooooo-eeeeee, take a look at the size of that thing, willya?" The elderly fisherman grinned and winked at the camera as he lifted the thrashing bluegill out of the lake and into his net. "Now that is a prize fish. Just like I said, all the fancy mechanical lures and baits in the world can't compare to a good ol' fashioned hook and worm."

He set his pole on the floor of the small wooden boat and carefully removed the hook from the fish's mouth, then proudly held his prize, still in the net, up to the camera. "Sixteen inches. You see, any good fisherman knows that it ain't about the technology, it's about patience and skill. Yep, patience and skill."

The fisherman winked at the camera again. He held the bluegill up to his face and made some kissy sounds at it. "Betcha wish you hadn't gone for that worm, huh? Not quite as comfortable in my net as it is in the cool fresh water, is it, little fella? No, no, no, I'm guessing that you're not a happy fishie at all right now."

He chuckled, then bashed the fish against the floor of the boat, rattling the camera. "Take that, you little shit!" He bashed it again, then smacked the fish against the side of the boat three times in rapid succession. "Yeah, you messed up real good this time, little fishie!"

The fisherman stood up, dropped the bluegill, and stomped on it over and over until it was unrecognizable pulp. "Die, you wormy piece of filth! Scaly vacant-eyed little bastard! Die!"

As the fisherman scraped the mess on his shoe off on the side of the boat, the words "EXTREME FISHING!" flashed on the screen, with the exclamation point formed out of fish bones. Then a series of jump cuts set to heavy metal music: a man gutting a large trout, a topless woman firing a shotgun into a lake, a man getting his arm bitten off by a great white shark, two guys burning a fish with lighters as it dangled from the hook, and a man in a fish costume being severely beaten with a baseball bat.

The small television screen faded to black.

"What do you think, sir?" asked Martin Vines, timidly. He was in his late twenties, wore a long goatee and wire-framed glasses, and always dressed entirely in green, like a Bohemian leprechaun.

Stanley Dabernath stared at the blank screen for a long moment. "Did he really kill that fish?"

"I believe so."

"I don't think we can show somebody bashing a real fish to death. The animal rights groups will have a hissy fit."

"Do they care about fish?"

"Are you kidding? Those squirrel-huggers get their thongs in a twist over roaches. I liked the naked chick, though. We could put her on the front of the box, maybe with severed fish heads over her nipples. I'd buy that, wouldn't you?"

"I could be convinced."

Stanley thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, let's do it. Fuck the squirrel-huggers. We'll say it was a CGI fish."

"Excellent idea, sir."

"Set up a meeting with the filmmakers for tomorrow. Make it late so we can get some booze into them."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks, Martin. I need to make some phone calls." Stanley pushed back his chair and stood up. "Keep everybody out of my office for the next hour or so."

Stanley left the screening room and walked to his personal office at the other end of the trailer. He shut the door and pulled off his t-shirt, which was drenched with sweat. He could barely stand to be in the screening room anymore since the fan broke last month.

He sat down on his cot, pressed a snot-stained pillow to his face to muffle the sound, and began to sob.

Stanley cried and cried, occasionally pounding his fist against the blanket. How had he ended up in such a miserable existence? Sixty thousand dollars in debt, evicted from his apartment, washing his clothes in the bathroom sink, eating stolen Ramen noodles three times a day…it just wasn't fair. Hell, the only reason he could work out a distribution deal for the Extreme Fishing tape was because he'd be screwing over the filmmakers on the deferred payment clause.

Demented Whackos Video should have made him a millionaire. He'd started this business with nothing more than an e-mail account, the rights to a no-budget zombie flick, and a $19.95 a month storage unit. Now, three years later, Demented Whackos Video had thirty-nine offerings in its catalog, but he could no longer afford the storage unit. The DVDs were stacked in the trailer's kitchenette.

It just didn't make sense. Cheap horror crap was supposed to be a sure profit, but nobody was buying it. He'd fired and rehired his marketing department, Martin, eight different times and nothing was working.

Stanley sniffled and wiped his nose on the pillow. Oh well. Times were bad now, but he was not one to give up. Yeah, it was pathetic that he was thirty-five years old and had to swipe alcohol from his parents' refrigerator to use in business meetings, but all he needed was one hit to put Demented Whackos Video on the map. One sicko product to capture everybody's attention.

Maybe Extreme Fishing was just that product.

Stanley got off the cot and put his t-shirt back on. He always felt refreshed after his daily cry. Things would be improving very soon, he could feel it.

And even though he would be dead within the next hour, he was right.

Despite his line of business, Stanley had never given much thought to his own mortality. His only real concern was that he might be decapitated. He'd read somewhere that the human head could continue to see for several moments after it was severed from the body, and that idea seriously creeped him out.

"What if you were decapitated, but your eyes were poked out first?" his ex-girlfriend Charlene had asked as they lay in bed one night. "Would you be cool with that?"

Stanley admitted that he probably wouldn't care for that scenario either, and then dumped Charlene the next morning (after the sex).

But beyond the decapitation phobia, Stanley wasn't one to dwell on his own possible death. Physically, he felt fine. He got plenty of exercise thanks to not being able to afford car repairs or gasoline, and had a steady stream of girlfriends. His love life was perhaps lacking the kinky threesomes with gorgeous blonde twins that a handsome film distributor deserved, but he wasn't complaining, save for the occasional comment about the lack of kinky threesomes with gorgeous blonde twins.

Well, maybe "handsome" was stretching it a bit, but he certainly wasn't ugly. He had thick black hair, cut short, and almost perfect teeth in his winning smile. His ears didn't stick out or anything and his nose was sized just right. If he had to be truly honest with himself, he'd say that he was average looking, but at the upper end of average. And despite his career setbacks and daily wallow in shameful self-pity, he still managed to project an aura of self-confidence.

Fourteen minutes before his death, Stanley walked out of the trailer park and along the unpaved street. A good cry and a long walk each day was what kept him sane.

He walked for a while, lost in thought. He heard a large truck approaching behind him, and stepped further off the road so it wouldn't mess up his hair when it rushed by.

Maybe a compilation tape would work. The Best of Demented Whackos Video. He could use clips from Vampire Splatter and The Bloodshot Eyeball and The Mysterious Case of the Chunks of Flesh and Put Down That Chainsaw, I'm Not Made of Wood and-

Brakes squealed behind him.

Stanley glanced over his shoulder to see the semi truck weaving off the road, headed straight towards him.

He dove out of the way and tumbled onto the gravel, scraping the hell out of his arm and the side of his face.

The semi came to a screeching halt.