by IGMS
If I could travel back in time, I'd slam the door shut on Carmichael's fop and, if pressed, resign from undertaking then and there.
Sadly, that option was no longer open to me. During Carmichael's funeral, I stood alone in a room filled nearly to capacity yet eerily quiet except for the occasional cough and a whistling nostril or two. No uncontrolled weeping, or hushed whispers of how Carmichael was a great man and will be missed; only a sense of impending catastrophe.
Incense filled the room, ostensibly to block out the stench of decomposition, but mostly because it was expected. On the dais, Carmichael, dressed in luxurious robes of royal blue satin, lay on a pallet surrounded by white lilies.
And still poking from his chest like the arm of a sundial was Igor's dagger.
Simone's dark eyes seethed with malevolence for me. Durst radiated promises of painful torture. Morrow merely grinned as though counting the seconds to my death. Even Igor scowled at me, for the dagger had shifted while I hurriedly dressed my client, suggesting I had the audacity to ignore his threat and remove the blade.
I strove to ignore the foursome, but fear and paranoia refused me peace of mind. If their anger provoked them to act before my plan took shape then all was lost. Until then, I still had a business to run, and displaying a client barely presentable was bad advertising. To combat this I whispered into the ears of those I knew unable to keep confidences that this seeming sacrilege was, in fact, Carmichael's last wish. Everything was as it should be.
Small rumors tend to be the most fertile.
Morrow shuffled to the lectern next to the dais. He glanced at me, his half-smile filling my bladder with ice. His eulogy, fit for a king, praised Carmichael, practically attributing him the creation of the sun and the moon. When he finished, his slightly raised eyebrows told me he had found the note I'd addressed to him and then left on the lectern.
After the service I found Durst standing alone. Not a tear moistened his green eyes. "Destroying you will be a great pleasure," he said.
Hand trembling uncontrollably, I held out another note. "Read this first," I replied, then added a pathetic, "Please."
Igor's industrious devouring of all the pastries from the small buffet table made it impossible for him to utter any coherent threats. Unwilling to give him the opportunity to swallow, I handed him his note and hurried away.
Simone, constantly surrounded by young suitors who openly adored her every movement, was the most difficult to approach. With time at a premium, I chanced an impolite interruption and soon discovered her sad secret. She had placed a charm upon her herd of young bucks. When her eyes met mine, she knew I knew, and for a fleeting moment I saw shame cross her lovely artificial features. Capitalizing on her emotional disadvantage, I all but shoved my final missive into her pale hands, then pushed back through the ring of doe-eyed admirers before she could recover her hate and make good her fatal promise.
With this task done, I did my best to make myself scarce, spending the rest of the day playing cat and mouse with my fear. Mercifully, the day waned and the mourners departed until the room was empty.
"Rufus, Ogden," I called to my two assistants, innocent and completely oblivious to the danger that stalked them. "Go home. Be with your families. Better yet, take them somewhere . . . somewhere far away. Relatives or some such. Don't worry, your jobs will be here when you return."
Whether I would be alive to greet them remained a separate question. They eyed me curiously, but I shooed them from the room. If nothing else, I assured them some time with their loved ones.
Alone, I allowed myself a nervous chuckle that sounded mirthless and entirely insane in the empty viewing room.
A levitation spell helped me move Carmichael back to the preparation room where I -- well, I prepared. A few words of instruction preceded Gunther's release into the late afternoon sky, after which I bolted the window shut. Next, content no incense burned anywhere, I used Igor's dagger to enlarge the gash in the wizard's chest, surprised at the steadiness of my hands. Pulling the gap further open, I inserted a sponge soaked with Hexa water into the cavity, along with an ample supply of freshly ground ginger to help mask the smell.
The dead man's regal attire helped conceal my grisly handiwork.
Finally, after a quick conjuring upon the air vent, I left one last note on the workbench, a final enticing drop of honey.
Satisfied, I returned to the viewing room where I opened a window before tending to the duties of cleaning, possibly for the last time. Beginning with winsome reminiscences of funerals come and gone, my mood gave way to irritation, then concern as time passed. After an hour, I finally heard the crackle of static from the air vent heralding the first of my guests. I moved slowly to the grated vent, bent, and listened for the crackle to repeat again, and again, leaving only one more . . .
"You're a foolish man, Undertaker." Morrow's footsteps echoed in the empty viewing room.
I tried to work up enough saliva to swallow. Up until that moment, my plan had worked perfectly, and I thought myself very clever. The sound of Morrow's voice proved otherwise. His countenance spoke of my doom, his very aura a death sentence, and I had invited him to kill me. I stood on the edge of the abyss and found myself losing balance.
The Owl slowly lifted his arm. "Don't struggle and I'll make this painless."
"Wait!" I quickly raised a defensive charm. "I know who you are."
Morrow stayed his attack and looked to the dais where Carmichael had lain a few hours earlier. Slowly, he nodded. "Figured it out, did you?"
"Yes." I coughed fear from my throat. "And what a wonderful ruse." Over the years I learned that playing to vanity was always best.
Morrow inclined his head. "Had I more time, my subterfuge would have been foolproof."
"You deceived almost everyone," I said. "Your mistake was not accounting for grief."
"Grief?" Morrow frowned as if I'd spoken a foreign language.
On familiar ground, I found my confidence building. "The heart-wrenching torment from the loss of a child. The paralyzing shock of realizing you will never again see your spouse, or parent, or sibling. The complete emptiness of the soul only the death of a loved one can bring.
"No one grieved for Carmichael, though many pretended." I clasped my hands to hide their quaking. "Simone was the first to awaken my suspicions. The entrance to my preparation room is really a huge talisman. A gentle burst of static warns me of any magics entering my workplace. It was meant for the dead, but works equally well on the living.
"Her magic was purely cosmetic in nature, but her actions -- she brushed Carmichael's cheek although the act obviously repulsed her. Curious, her revulsion of the dead, considering her preferred fashion."
"Simone always proved false in all she did," said Morrow. "She enjoyed listening to dirges but never truly understood their meaning."
"Durst was another matter," I pressed on, casually moving toward the small metal grate in the floor. "He must have cast a bereavement spell upon himself, an act he couldn't pretend, even for his professed brother. Practically catatonic withweeping, he splayed himself across the dead body, yet had the presence of mind to demand I fill every cavity with embalming fluids. More than enough to destroy tissue instead of preserving it."
"Most interesting." Morrow rubbed his chin. "I will have words with him on this matter."
"Let us not forget Igor," I continued, emboldened but the very fact that I still lived. "At first I thought he charmed himself with enough rage to embed a dagger deep in a dead man's chest. Later, when I saw the runes on the handle, I realized he'd protected himself against the weapon's dark magic.
"All curious acts with a single theme. Fear that Carmichael still lived. You, however, did not share that fear. You, who had nothing but praise for Carmichael and wanted the body kept in a perfect, natural state.
"Only fitting," I finished with undisguised triumph, "considering you are Carmichael reborn."
Gasps came from the grate.
; Morrow smiled a most dangerous smile. "They are listening in your preparation room, aren't they?"
"I'd given them written invitations. To barter for my life I promised to reveal their utmost fears. Individually, they had failed to kill you, but together, combining their forces, they could finally accomplish the deed."
"An undertaker discovering what their supposed brilliant minds couldn't?" Morrow issued a single hawk of laughter then raised his voice. "Tell me, brothers and sister, will you not kill him out of spite?"
"I know," I said. "I just needed them all together." Using the toe of my shoe, I slid the vent panel shut.
The spark caused by the spell I had cast on the vent door ignited the Hexa swamp gas, filling the preparation room with fire. The explosion's strength was completely unexpected -- one usually experiences it once, and only briefly -- and I found myself on my back, ears ringing and my vision blurred. All I could think of were the three extra sooty outlines on the preparation room ceiling.
"Nicely done," Morrow said. He stood over me, brushing dust from his robes. "What next? A deal? Reward for robbing me of the pleasure of killing my enemies for myself?"
I scrambled along the floor in a vain attempt to put distance between us, hiding behind the meager protection of the lectern. "Just an explanation," I said, panting, fighting for every beat of my heart. A light wind blew in from the open window and cool night air kissed my brow. I needed to stall for time and played the only card I had left in my repertoire, Carmichael's vanity. "If I'm to die, at least tell me why? What did you do to make them hate you so? How did you outsmart them all?"
Morrow paused as if considering my request. "You say I didn't account for grief, and you may be right. Love, however, is another matter. Simone had been my lover, but she'd gotten too old. You need but see her in the morning before she applied her facial spells." Morrow shivered theatrically. "Ultimately, she didn't take to my nullifying our relationship.
"Durst's ambitions were always transparent. He loved power and coveted my position."
"Igor learned I kept his wife, daughter, and mistress as mistresses of my own.
"As for Morrow --" The mage sighed. "Having been poisoned and magicked left me in desperate need of a body. Thankfully, I learned enough from my necromantic studies to do corporeal exchanges. Morrow had simply been unfortunate enough to come to my aid. You could say his love of fellowship blinded him to our true natures."
The wizard appeared beside me, hovering above the floor so I couldn't hear his approach. "Now, it's your turn." He smiled at my surprise, showing straight white teeth. "What is your role? Why so much trouble to prolong a life you know is forfeit?"
"Competition." I swallowed and tasted blood.
"You can't be serious?" Morrow chuckled as he landed softly on the floor. "You killed three of the most powerful wizards in the world over some misguided rivalry?"
"Not rivalry," I spat blood at his feet and nodded toward the open window. "Business. I've got enough problems without you fools coming back to life."
Carmichael followed my gaze and tensed at the sight of Gunther perched on the window sill, a long stretch of fur clamped within bloodied talons, a thick lock of golden hair braided around its neck.
Possession is merely puppetry. To pull the strings, to cast spells and maintain spells, Carmichael's true essence, his soul and the vessel harboring it, needed to be close by.
With that in mind I'd given Gunther a simple command: kill every blond-haired ferret in the area. Gunther sank its beak into the creature's neck.
"An undertaker." Haughty superiority faded from Morrow's stolen eyes along with his life. "Imagine that." He collapsed to the floor.
I watched familiar devour familiar and, overcome by my unlikely survival, hung my head low, unsure whether to laugh or cry. I'd just killed four people. They were evil, but then who is without fault? Certainly not I.
Weary beyond comprehension, I pushed myself to my feet. The Cabal had a strong following of like-minded mages. Unless I desired retribution from the wizarding community, I had much work to do.
One good thing about being an undertaker, you knew where to bury the bodies.
This Is My Corporation, Eat
by Lon Prater
Artwork by Kevin Wasden
* * *
They got rid of the Easter Bunny first. There in the middle of the mall this year stood a guy in a slightly larger than life, felt-skinned Jesus costume with three fingers on each hand and cartoony sewn-on blood at wrists and ankles. Scrubbed and spit-combed children lined up like lambs to have their picture taken with Him under a giant pastel cross. Backlit Pharisees and our little handful of protesters looked on, shaking our fists in empty rage.
When the last of the protesters abandoned me, I waved them off in half-hearted disgust. "Go on then," I grumbled, turning back to the diminished line of picture-goers. "Jesus will be taking a break soon anyway."
After the last two shots of squalling tykes and their gap-toothed siblings, Marian flipped the clock sign down and set it to read: Back at 1 p.m.
"You ready?" she said, but not to me. She was talking to Jesus.
The Savior stood there with both three-fingered hands on his hips. His beatific smile remained perfectly in place and unmoving even as her co-worker Paul's squeaky voice issued from somewhere inside the costume. "What's he doing here again, Marian? You trying to get us both fired?"
"Drew won't do any harm. He promised me." Marian shoved off to take Jesus to the mall's locker room.
I followed, leaving my MONEYCHANGERS REPENT sign leaning up against a pair of plastic centurions. A harried mother glared at me, tugging her two boys out of my reach as if I would somehow contaminate them with my extremism.
"Don't get too close to the Fundie," she hissed to her boys, loud enough to make sure everyone in the Food Court could hear her.
I let the woman's disdain roll off me, ignoring it the same way the rest of the mall ignored me and my CHRIST IS NOT A CORPORATE SHILL (WHAT WOULD JESUS ENDORSE?) t-shirt. I fell into an empty seat by the Wok-n-Roll and waited for Marian to come back out with Paul for lunch.
We weren't into bombing things then, or Homeland Defense would have been all over us. Ours was a peaceful revolution. Signs and marches and pray-ins were the glorious weapons of our insurrection. All we wanted was to de-commodify the new Christ-chic. Marian wasn't a true believer, not a Fundie like me, but she loved me anyway. I was the ultimate freshman law accessory: a radical boyfriend. She volunteered at a religious freedom center teaching immigrants enough about the New Testament to help them get their Patriot cards. She had stunning hazel eyes, which made it even more difficult to break up with her when I knew things would be going south at Christmas.
"I just think we've gone as far together as we can with this . . . difference between us," I said to her at Salvation King one late and snowy night. "It's been good, really good, but you just don't believe like I do, and that's really important to me right now."
Tears shone in her eyes as she picked at her Values Meal. I went on.
"I mean, the fact that you wanted to come here, to this place --" I gestured at the faux stained glass saints in the window beside us, at the display with this week's toy, a wind-up Pontius Pilate with real hand-washing action. "You don't understand what being a Fundie means to me. It's about keeping Christianity sacred and profound, not some notch in Madison Avenue's bedpost."
Marian's face hardened. "Like hell it is," she said, splattering ketchup when she dropped her Crossburger with cheese onto the scripture-imprinted wax paper wrapper." Like hell it is," she said again, her lower lip quivering. "Don't you try to pretend you're so much holier than me just because you don't like to see the cross on everything. You just want something to protest against, something to make you feel like you have the one right way of believing, and being saved doesn't matter to anyone else in the world but you." She jabbed a red fingernail at me, impaling me with righteous fury. "It matters to the rest of us too, Drew. Tha
t's why we want to see Jesus everywhere, to be reminded of His presence. That's why Jesus is big business and so many corporate ministries are succeeding. Because we care enough to spend in his name."
She stood up, jerked her Ezra purse off the back of the chair and left without another word.
"I forgive you," I said, as the door swung shut. I sipped my milkshake. It made a rattling, coughing sound like an old man on a respirator. I sucked even harder to get the last of it out.
Two years before I met Marian, my name had been Gary. As I walked down the streets of Providence, barefoot and destitute, the life insurance company I'd given eleven years of my life to suddenly bankrupt, I heard the call. Business Week's cover story was "The Mustard Seed Movement: How a Little Faith Grows Big Profits." I found a copy in the garbage and used it for heat after I read it. As I stared into the flames that night, Jesus spoke to me.
"Gary," He said. "Gary, why have they forsaken me?"
I was arrested on Christmas Eve for stealing Nativities. In jail, one of the guys, a burly black man with NICK DAWG tattooed along his muscular neck, got me talking about the Rapture.
"You Fundies believe that shit, man? About floating up into the sky?"
Another guy in the common cell snorted. "I can get high without Jesus, mange." He pinched two fingers together and pressed them to his lips making a sucking noise. Several of the others in the cell laughed. "You just need the right pipe."
I smiled at him but spoke dead serious to NICK DAWG. "The Rapture is coming," I told him, slipping into street talk. "But when it comes, ain't nobody gonna know about it. It's gonna come like a thief in the night --"
"The kind that steals plastic Virgins and Wise Men?" That got another laugh, but they were listening to me. I was witnessing to the sinners, and they were listening.
"No, the Rapture is gonna come when nobody expects it, and all those who've been saved will be gone from this vale of tears. The rest of ya'll suckers will be looking at the times of Tribulation, when men turn to false gods and have to live every day under the reign of Satan."