by Spencer,Alan
"Now before you say anything, hear me out. I've busted my tail trying to get you another movie gig. It's just not happening. Your time came and went. No sugar on it. Straight shooting. The hemorrhoid commercial will be your last job. I'm sorry. It seems like after so many years, the commercial industry finds the next handsome face to pimp out their products. That time is now. And it's not like you're the youngest actor out there either. You've done very well for yourself, considering."
He felt his heart sink.
Was he being fired?
"Can't I keep auditioning? No other agent will take me on? Even for less pay? There's got to be something you can do? I have to work."
"You can seek out new representation, absolutely, but I'm being honest with you here. You've got "box-office bomb" written all over you. Other agents will tell you the same thing I'm telling you. Hollywood's not very forgiving. You're not a trained actor, Arnold. You're not exactly a Renaissance man either. You're just a guy with the right look who got into the business at the right time. Now it's done. I can't market you anymore."
"But I can't go back to what I did before. My fucking foot is crushed. I won't make a fraction of what I was making on those commercials. Come on, there's got to be something you can do. I'm begging you."
"Don't do that, man. Go out on a high note. Keep your self-respect. Chin up. You need it after The Late Show. You destroyed your own career."
"Screw you, asshole. They always bring up The Late Show!"
"You need to leave before I call security. I tried to do this man-to-man. I should've known better. I thought you weren't like the other hot headed actors out there. Now get out of my office, you washed up prick. I worked hard for you, and you don't appreciate it. You're like the rest of them. It's always the agent's fault and never the actor's. Blame the industry. Never blame yourself."
Morgan reached for his can of soda and pulled back the tab.
BOOM!
Picture frames crashed to the floor. There was a fork in the ceiling from the pressure of the explosion. Arnold's insides were jarred by the concussion of—fucking shit, he didn't know what!
He couldn't move out. The walls, the floor, the desk, Arnold's body, everything was drenched in cherry gobs of cranial debris. The stuff dripped from the ceiling in a slow soupy rain. Part of a nose and a webby sinus cavity landed in Arnold's lap. He brushed it aside in repulsion.
Morgan's head had detonated the moment he pulled back the tab of his soda.
"Goddamn!"
The horror didn't stop there.
Morgan's neck stump was fizzing red. The neck was burbling up dissolving organs. Everything from the man's midsection was coming out of his neck in a carbonated state. The only thing recognizable was a heart and a spleen. The rest was a nasty carbonation.
The secretary opened the door and shrieked.
"Oh my God, you killed him!"
He couldn't do anything but sit and stare at his dead agent's body.
Interrogation
Arnold was sitting on the curb outside the building where Morgan's head had mysteriously exploded. EMT's had checked him over for injuries. He was quickly cleared. He couldn't stop imagining Morgan's face going into pieces, and then his neck fizzing up gore. What the hell had happened in there?
"Looks like you don't have a scratch on you, Mr. Fast," someone said from behind him. "Let me help you up. I've got some questions for you. Let's get this over with, huh? You got a lot of work to do. Your career keeps you a busy man, doesn't it?"
A hand reached down to help Arnold back to his feet. The man addressing him was Detective Dean Larkin. Larkin had the face of a prune and the personality of a rotten turnip. The detective had to be near retirement age. He was one of those detectives who would be taking investigation notes on his death bed.
"Come on, you're fine," Larkin said. "You put on a nice performance back there, but I see right through it, Mr. Fast. You're going downtown with me. My buddies over here are going to escort you to the station. Got a problem with answering some questions?"
"No. Of course not. I'll cooperate in every way."
"We'll see about that, pal. You better get your story straight, because your acting sucks. I'll see right through the bullshit you throw at me. Considering what I do for a living, I'm always ankle deep in shit. I don't need anymore of it from you artsy types. It all stinks."
Two officers helped him into a squad car. He went along with everything they asked. He kept replaying Morgan's head blowing up. He even pictured how both of Morgan's eyes stayed trained on him as they were thrown in two different directions across the room.
The man's final act of life was opening a can of soda.
There was only one explanation for the man's death. The loud popping noise indicated a bullet had been fired. A stray bullet went through Morgan's window and right into his head. It must've been one powerful bullet, he thought, to turn a man's head into tomato sauce.
The bullet theory did nothing to explain why the man's neck fizzed up gore.
Nothing could explain the phenomenon.
The ride to the station went by fast. He was escorted into the police station, guided through a series of hallways, and seated in an interrogation room.
He realized something in a hurry. He wasn't being treated as a witness. Witnesses didn't make statements in interrogation rooms. Suspects made statements in interrogation rooms.
Every part of him suddenly wanted to spring out of the room and hide.
They think I killed the son-of-a-bitch.
He remembered the secretary screaming, "Oh my God, you killed him!"
What did that secretary tell Detective Prune Fuck?
On queue, Detective Larkin entered the room. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie was loose, and a smoldering cigarette dangled from his lips. The hardnosed old school detective was enjoying this moment. Larkin was ready for a damn good interrogation.
"I would tell you to relax, Mr. Fast, but I'm not going to, because you're a murderer, and murderers don't deserve to relax. All I need is a confession. People say our tax dollars go to waste sending scum like you to jail. I say it's worth every penny. It's validating knowing my money is going to criminals getting their asses pounded in the showers. It's the ultimate humiliation to a man. Of course, you know a bit about humiliation, don't you, Mr. Fast? I do watch the late night talk shows."
He didn't say a word.
Son-of-a-bitch is trying to piss me off.
It won't work.
"Yes, it's Arnold Fast. It's the Arnold Fast." He kept whispering Arnold's name and circling the table. "Face it, Mr. Fast. You're a loser. A big stinking loser. I see you on TV all the time in those idiotic commercials. And I missed your movie. Then again, I think everybody on the face of the planet missed it. My wife rented Colton's Will and said she wanted to line the litter box with your movie. You're a hack. You're not worthy of dinner theatre."
He burned with the need to tell off the detective, but this wasn't a situation to do that. A man died today. A man was killed. The detective could say whatever he wanted about his career as long as the murder matter was cleared up.
"The movie did poorly," Arnold said, choosing his words carefully. "I agree. It's terrible."
"Yes, it sure did do terrible. It was a bomb. A turkey. A box office turd. A big pile of pony loaf."
The bastard's making this personal, and he knows it. It's one of those interrogation mind fuck tricks. Don't fall for it. He's trying to get a rise out of you.
"Yes, my movie was a turd, or a loaf, as you put it."
The detective changed course. "Why did you visit your agent today?"
"He called me up...and fired me."
"Oh, he fired you, did he?"
As if you didn't already know that.
"Yes. He fired me."
"The great Arnold Fast learned he was unemployed, and the story goes from there. I bet you took the news pretty hard today. The secretary overheard you yelling something, and then sh
e heard a big pop. Care to explain how a man's head just goes...pop?
"Now wait, don't tell me you know nothing about that. Nobody else was in that room except for the two of you. You were found sitting in a chair covered in your agent's brains. For God's sake, this case is open and close. Go ahead and confess. Save us both the time and effort. My daughter's at my house, and she brought over the grandchildren, and I'd love to get back home as soon as possible and see them. I'm tired of looking at your idiotic pretty boy face."
He couldn't take it anymore. The accusations weren't something to joke about.
"I didn't hurt anybody! You couldn't be anymore wrong. Somebody shot Morgan. Did you check his window for a bullet hole?"
"Nobody shot your agent," Larkin corrected, stifling a laugh. "No, something far worse was done to him. Something done with malice. I can prove you did it."
This should be really fucking good.
"Fine. Show me the proof that I made my agent's head explode and his neck fizz. It's insane, because nobody could do that. It's impossible."
"Keep saying that. It won't change a damn thing. Denial doesn't hold up in court. Evidence, on the other hand, does. And this is the smoking gun."
Larkin rapped his fist against the door. It soon opened and a cop handed Larkin something in an oversized evidence bag.
Morgan's soda can.
"There's something very interesting about this diet soda."
He couldn't believe where this interrogation was going. "You think I killed a man with a can of soda? You'll be standing right next to me in the unemployment line with theories like that."
The detective didn't miss a beat.
"Oh, it's not what you're thinking. The can itself didn't kill him. But you acting types, with your feelings, and your hypersensitive need for attention and public accolades, you let your emotions get the best of you. You decided to throw something extra at your old boss. What do you call it?" He snapped his finger. "Ah. Now I remember. Poetic justice."
"What are you going on about?"
"Stay with me, pal. I'm getting to the good stuff. It's not the ingredients, or the nutrition facts, or the shiny colors on the can that interest me. It's the words on the bottom of the can. You were getting your point across, and you thought a dumb detective like me wouldn't see it. Well, Mr. Fast, you were dead wrong."
"Wait. What's on the bottom of the can?"
"Don't play games with me, Mr. Fast. You know damn well what it says. I'm having one of my partners run prints on the can as we speak. I know I'll find yours on it. And I'm having the contents of that soda analyzed. I bet there's some form of explosive that made your agent's head go up like a ripe melon on the fourth of July and his insides disintegrate out of his neck."
"Wait, you have to show me what's on that can." Morgan's dying moment replayed in his head. He recalled how the man's head exploded in tandem with the soda tab being pulled back. "What does it say? It's gotta be the can. I wasn't me. I swear to you."
"I've heard the gamut of lies from killers like you, but blaming a soda can is a real low. You knew you were being fired. You saw it coming for a long time, and you decided to take it out on your agent. It wasn't Morgan's fault what happened on The Late Show. That was you, Mr. Fast. The shit—"
"Look, I know what happened on The Late Show was my fault, but Jesus, what does the can say?"
Detective Larkin, holding up the clear evidence bag, pointed at the bottom of the can for Arnold to read. The bold ink letters appeared to have been placed on the can by a rubber stamp: PULL THE TAB AND YOUR HEAD WILL GO POP
"So you stamped the method of death on the can. Dumb move, from your standpoint. My question for you is what did you put in the drink to make his head explode? I bet if I run a check on your computer, I'd find porn and instructions on how to make a liquid bomb. And judging by the dumb ass look on your dumb ass face, you thought you were clever enough to fool me.
"Nobody gets one over on Larkin. Forensic science and a detective's intuition will always win the day. You're nothing more than a murderer, and a bad one at that. Solving this case is as easy as the crossword in the newspaper."
The detective was lighting himself a new cigarette. He had to flick his lighter several times to get it to work. He kept trying to light the cigarette. He had the cigarette firm in his mouth and the lighter held right up to his face.
"I don't understand. I just bought this lighter this morning. Damn thing should work. Made in China piece of shit. Come on. Work."
When he said "work" a giant plume of flames sprayed the wall. Flames spread rapidly in the room. Another cop burst into the room with a fire extinguisher. When the cop let loose, it wasn't white foam that instantly snuffed the flames. The foam was something brown.
The three of them were sniffing the air.
"Is that what I think it is?" Larkin asked his partner in disbelief. "It can't be."
The officer scanned the extinguisher. He read the label. "What? Is this a joke?"
Larkin grabbed the extinguisher and read the label. "I can't believe it. Something isn't right here. I'm reading it, and I'm still not believing it. It says: In Case of Flames, Pull The Trigger to Engage Donkey Shit Spray."
The cops were trying to figure out the logistics of emptying a fire extinguisher and replacing the foam with donkey shit.
"What bothers me the most," Larkin went on to say, "the letters are the same as on the soda can. They're big bold black letters. They look like somebody used a rubber stamp."
Arnold had renewed hope for proving his innocence. "See? I told you I didn't do anything to anybody. You believe me now, Detective?"
The detective didn't have a chance to respond.
The multiple howls of pain emanating from the hallway interrupted the interrogation process.
Pickled
One of the cops restrained Arnold by the arm. That officer guided him out of the interrogation room, while Larkin hurried on to investigate the disturbance in the hallway. Larkin was barking questions at the dozen cops standing in the hallway.
"Who's making all the noise out here? What's the big idea? I'm working on a confession. Now what in God's name is going on?"
Every cop gave Larkin a once over.
His left arm was covered in donkey shit spray.
"It's a long story. Now quit smelling the air. I know I smell like shit. What's the meaning of all this commotion?"
A cop named Officer Kates approached the detective. "It's horrible. You can't go in that office."
"What office?" Larkin grabbed Kates by the front of his uniform with both hands. "Show me."
"Go to the chief's office," Kates said weakly. His face was a sickly shade of white. "But don't go inside the room. Whatever you do, stay out. Read what it says below his name on the wall. I can't explain it. Just read it."
"Keep watch over our suspect," Larkin instructed. "I trust you won't try and run away, Mr. Fast. We're not through with our chat."
The cop didn't do as the detective said. Everybody, including Arnold, followed Larkin to the chief's office.
They stopped at an open doorway.
The nameplate on the wall read: Chief Johnson. Below the name in sloppy ink words: Upon Entry, This Room Will Pickle Your Ass
Everybody stayed back except for Larkin. "This has to be a joke. Has anybody seen a weirdo skulking around the offices?"
The detective asked the question again much louder.
Nobody could say anything.
Arnold could see inside the chief's office and what was on top of the main desk. The jar was quadruple the size of the pickled eggs jar he'd seen at the bar he frequented near his apartment.
Oh my God.
The jar was full of dark red fluids and globules of white fat. Against the walls of the jar, Arnold noticed a set of eyes peer out at them. Fingers played against the glass. A tongue mashed against the lid, trying to break free. Bright pink guts were coiled up at the bottom.
"Is that...?" Larkin couldn't finish the
question.
Officer Pollard walked up to Larkin, hysterical.
"I saw it happen. I don't believe, but there it is. The chief entered his office. He called after me to get him some coffee, then a split second later, that jar appeared on the chief's desk, with the chief in it! My God, I heard his bones snap. It was like invisible hands were mashing him down to a smaller size and shoving him into the jar. He's been compressed to a fraction of his size."
"...and pickled," Larkin finished for the cop. "It's all very impossible. Yet here it is."
Pollard pointed at another giant jar on the office's floor. "Officer Dempsey entered the office to see what had happened. Seconds later, he too was compacted down into a jar. God, the sound of his bones breaking, and the blood breaking through skin, it's so horrible. Poor Dempsey. He's still alive. I can see him moving around in there. It's so wrong. What the fuck is happening here?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Larkin quieted Pollard. "You're telling me they simply walked into that room, and both the chief and Dempky were pickled? But by what?"
"That's the thing. Nothing was in the room. He was just squashed by air, or, or something invisible. I don't know. It just happened. I saw what I saw, and that's all I got for you. Jesus, they're still trying to get out of those jars."
"Nobody goes in the room," Larkin said. "Something's clearly going on here we don't understand."
Down the hall, a jilted, demonic voice beckoned to everyone. Arnold imagined a monster swallowing broken glass and happily consuming the pain.
"The death toll shall mount. The end of the human race is at hand. You're helpless to your fate, CONSUMERS! Nothing can stop you from promoting your own deaths. You're all fucking dead."
Arnold was shaken by the figure who appeared at the end of the hallway out of thin air. Whoever it was wore a long black robe with a hood cloaking his features. The figure was cackling as he watched the cops fumble for their guns.