Funny Horror (Unidentified Funny Objects Annual Anthology Series of Humorous SF/F)

by Alex Shvartsman

  "This is unacceptable!" yelled Big Benny Bernstein, staring at his plate. "I don't want brains! I want knishes, and some chopped liver on the side!"

  "But sir, you're a zombie," said the waiter patiently.

  "What's that got to do with anything?" demanded Big Benny. "One joint won't feed me at all, and the other brings me a plate of"—he made a face—"brains!"

  "But this is a restaurant for creatures of the night," explained the waiter patiently.

  "I don't care! Bring me some lox and blintzes." Big Benny frowned thoughtfully. "Well, maybe wrapped around a brain. Oh, and a cup of java."

  "All we have is blood, sir."

  "What the hell kind of deli is this?" bellowed Big Benny.

  "One for zombies," said Mallory, stepping forward.

  "Do I know you?" asked Big Benny.

  "Not yet," said Mallory. "You ran off at a very inopportune time. My name's Mallory. I've been hired to bring you back."

  "I'm not ready to go back. The world is fill of wine, women and song."

  "You had your whole life to enjoy them," said Mallory. "But your whole life ended a couple of days ago, and now it's time to embark on your afterlife."

  "You insist?" said Big Benny.

  "I'm afraid so."

  Big Benny got up and began walking toward the door. As he passed an empty but unbussed table he picked up a half-empty cup of blood, stared at it, then shrugged and drank it.

  "Not bad," he admitted.

  "I think that's what the waiter was trying to explain to you," said Mallory. "Like it or not, you're a zombie now."

  "Not!" yelled Big Benny, throwing another cup of blood into Mallory's face. By the time the detective had wiped it out of his eyes, Big Benny was nowhere to be seen.

  "Thanks for your help," said Mallory wryly.

  "I didn't do anything," said Felina.

  "I was being sarcastic."

  "What's sarcastic?" she asked. "It is good to eat?"

  Mallory walked out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the block. There was no sign of Big Benny.

  "Okay," he said, "use that nose of yours and tell me which way he went."

  She sniffed the air. "Away."

  "Away in which direction?"

  "North, or maybe east," she said, and then frowned. "Or west."

  "Point."

  She extended a finger toward his chest.

  "Not at me," said Mallory. "Point to where he went."

  "I don't know where he went," said Felina. "But," she added, pointing north on Ninth Avenue, "he headed off that way."

  Mallory resisted the urge to yell "Follow that zombie!" and settled for telling her to follow his scent, which sounded less dramatic but at least told Felina what he wanted her to do.

  They passed a tavern for ghouls, another for leprechauns, one for vampires, and had finally reached one that specialized in zombies when Felina came to a stop.

  "Here?" asked Mallory.

  She nodded.

  "Let's go in, then," said Mallory.

  She reached her hand out and shook his. "It's been nice knowing you, John Justin, but I think it's time to desert you."

  "Am I in that much danger if I go in?"

  "Probably no more than if you go into that bar," she said, indicating the vampire tavern.

  Mallory was still debating entering the bar when he heard the sound of shattering glass, and a voice that sounded like Big Benny's began screaming almost incoherently.

  Suddenly Mallory smiled.

  "What's so funny, John Justin?" asked Felina.

  "I think I know what's going on in there," answered Mallory. "And if I'm right, I don't have to go in."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Benny's going to come bursting out any second."

  And as the words left his mouth, Big Benny Bernstein stalked out of the bar, cursing a blue streak.

  "Hi, Benny," said Mallory.

  The zombie peered at him. "Do I know you?"

  "We've met once before."

  Big Benny frowned. "Did you vote for me in the last election?"

  "Anything's possible," said Mallory. "What was the problem in there?"

  "I asked for a vodka martini," growled Benny. "I don't know what the hell they brought me, but it looked like carrot juice. You ever see a martini that wasn't transparent?"

  "Figures," said the detective.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're a zombie. You may not like it, but zombies eat brains and drink blood. Your body can't metabolize knishes or martinis any more. Why don't you come back to the funeral home with me?"

  "I'm not ready, damn it! For one thing, it's not fair to my constituents!"

  "They'll never miss you," said Mallory as Felina saw something moving in a nearby alley and silently headed toward it.

  "True," admitted Big Benny with a sigh. "Besides, what politician really gives a damn about them except on election day?" He frowned. "The truth of the matter is that it's not fair to me. Do you know that I've never lazed on a beach in the South Pacific surrounded by six nude and nubile young maidens? Not even once!"

  Mallory resisted the urge to remark that Big Benny was the only man he knew who hadn't experienced that.

  "I've never eaten at Maxim's," continued Benny, tears coming to his eyes. "I've never refereed a heavyweight title bout. I've never popped open a bottle of Dom Perignon." He paused, shaking his head sadly. "I've never even had my face slapped by Bubbles La Tour."

  "You've never had your face slapped?" asked Mallory dubiously.

  "Oh, lots of times. But never by Bubbles La Tour."

  "I don't know how to break this do you, Benny," said Mallory, "but I don't think any of these things would appeal to you in your present condition."

  "Maybe not," agreed Big Benny, "but I have to try. I'll never have another chance."

  Felina returned with a very dead rat in her hands and a feline smile on her face.

  "That was quick," said Mallory. "Usually you play with them longer."

  "He was already dead," she answered. "So it's not as much fun, but he'll taste just as good. Maybe better. Sometimes it's good to let them age a little."

  Big Benny stared hypnotically at the rat. "I don't suppose you'd care to share that," he said hopefully.

  Felina hissed and backed away.

  "You know," said Mallory, "I've never been to Maxim's, but I'd lay plenty of six-to-one that they hardly ever serve dead rats there." He paused thoughtfully. "Especially without a wine sauce."

  Big Benny frowned, still staring at the rat. "I shouldn't like that, should I?" he asked.

  "No, you shouldn't."

  "Just between you and me, I think I'm having trouble adjusting to being a zombie."

  "I'd never have guessed," said Mallory dryly.

  "But I ain't ready to hang it up yet!" said Benny with a sudden burst of emotion. "I'm off to yell 'Take it off!' to Bubbles La Tour, and maybe get my face slapped!"

  And with that, he turned and began walking toward Salacious Sally's.

  "Are you sure you won't reconsider?" said Mallory, grabbing his arm.

  Big Benny swung his arm and Mallory literally flew through the air, landing about fifteen feet away.

  "Don't try to stop me, copper!" snapped Big Benny. Suddenly he smiled. "Damn! I've always wanted to say that!"

  "I'm not a copper."

  "Same thing. New let me give you a word of advice: don't get between me and Bubbles La Tour."

  He headed off again, and this time Mallory knew better than to try to physically restrain him, so he simply followed the zombie at a respectful ten paces. Felina gobbled her snack and then fell into step beside the detective.

  After a few blocks Benny turned and headed toward Broadway, then turned again when he reached it and began walking north. He stopped two blocks later when he came to Salacious Sally's Five-Star Burlesque Emporium, walked up to the cashier, and reached into his pocket. Suddenly he turned to Mallory. "They forgot to put my wallet in this su
it," he said. "Could I borrow a sawbuck?"

  "Hell, no," said Mallory. "My job is to bring you back to where you belong, not treat you to a night on the town."

  "I want that sawbuck," said Big Benny ominously.

  Mallory pulled a revolver out of his trenchcoat pocket. "Don't do anything foolish."

  "You're threatening a dead man with a gun and you're telling me not to do anything foolish?" said Big Benny.

  Mallory suddenly felt very unsure of the situation and backed up a couple of steps.

  "Not to worry," said Big Benny. "I'm not here to hurt anyone." He turned to the cashier. "I'm going in now, Miss. If you have any problem with that, call your boss, and if he has a problem, remind him that it was Big Benny Bernstein's vote that got this den of iniquity its license back after Classic Night."

  "Classic Night?" repeated Mallory curiously.

  "Leda and the Swan," said Big Benny as he walked through the entrance before the cashier could say a word.

  "How soon does Bubbles La Tour come on?" Mallory asked the cashier.

  "Five or ten minutes," she answered. "You'll know by the cheers. You can hear 'em a block away."

  Mallory looked around and saw a coffee shop half a block down the street. "Come on," he said, turning to Felina. "We'll wait there."

  They passed four stores, which gave Felina the opportunity to point out twenty-seven things she wanted Mallory to buy her, and finally made it to the coffee shop, where he ordered a cup of coffee for himself and a saucer of cream for her.

  A few moments later he heard the noise, and in fact was able to determine how many items of clothing Bubbles La Tour had removed by how many ear-shattering cheers he counted. When they had finally died down fifteen minutes later he paid his bill, and he and Felina made their way back to the theater, where he expected to see a very disillusioned Big Benny emerging. But there was no one there, so he posted Felina at the entrance, flashed his credentials at the cashier—most people equated "detective" with "policeman"—and entered the theater. He walked up and down both aisles, looking for Big Benny, but all he saw was a bunch of happily exhausted middle-aged men, their satiated faces glowing with content.

  Mallory finally convinced himself that his quarry wasn't there and walked out just as Lascivious Lezli and Her Educated Snake were taking the stage. Felina was staring at a poster of Bubbles La Tour in a jeweled g-string, and wouldn't leave until Mallory semi-promised to buy her six hundred of them.

  The detective spent the next couple of hours checking bars, strip shows, and gourmet restaurants. Big Benny had actually been to a couple, but had left each abruptly. Finally Mallory checked the time and headed back to the office to meet Winnifred.

  She was sitting at her desk when he entered, her pith helmet hanging on the back of her chair, her rifle laid carefully across her desk.

  "Any luck?" she asked him.

  "I ran into him a few times," replied Mallory. "I don't know where he is now."

  "You let him get away?" she demanded.

  "I don't think 'let' entered into it," said Mallory. "He's five times as strong as a normal man, he feels no pain, and you can't slow him down with bullets." He stared at her .550 Nitro Express. "Well, my bullets, anyway."

  "What's our next step, then?" asked Winnifred. "We only have ten hours left."

  "I've been thinking about it," said Mallory, "and it's my considered opinion that we let Nature take its course."

  Winnifred frowned. "I don't follow you, John Justin."

  "All he wants to do is experience some worldly pleasures," said Mallory. "Wine, women and song, as the expression goes."

  "So?"

  "He's a zombie now," continued Mallory. "Those pleasures are denied him. He went to a deli. They don't serve zombies. Then I found him in a restaurant for zombies. He wanted blintzes and knishes, but all they served was brains. Same problem in a bar. He wanted a vodka martini, they gave him a glass of blood—and I'll lay plenty of ten-to-one that if they'd given him a martini he couldn't drink it anyway. Next he goes to watch Bubbles La Tour. If you're a man you'd sooner die than walk out when she's shedding her clothes—but he's not a man, he's a zombie, and that's exactly what he did."

  "That's fascinating, John Justin," said Winnifred, "but I don't see what you're leading to."

  "I don't think we have to spend the night stalking him through the streets of Manhattan. There are thousands of bars and restaurants, dozens of strip shows, at least two political rallies. He could show up at any of them, and even if we luck out and find him, we can't make him do anything he doesn't want to do anyway."

  "You're not suggesting we quit the case?" she said. "We've never given up on one yet."

  "I'm suggesting we've misunderstood the case from the get-go," said Mallory.

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning he's going to be disappointed every single place he goes. He wants a drink, but his body wants blood. He wants a knish, but his body wants brains. He wants to ogle a woman, but his body has no interest in women. I think the same thing will happen wherever he goes and whatever he tries." Mallory smiled. "So now I know where we'll find him."

  "I followed you right up to that last line," said Winnifred. "Where?"

  "Nightspore's funeral parlor. It's the only place he belongs."

  "The only place?" she replied. "What about all those zombies that stalk the streets at night?"

  "Why do you think they keep on the move and look so unhappy?" said Mallory. "They can't adjust—and unlike Benny, they don't have a first-class funeral with Senators, Congressmen, and the Mayor waiting for them. Most of them dress in rags; he's in a fifteen hundred dollar suit."

  "It sounds logical," said Winnifred, frowning. "But I don't know."

  "You're welcome to stalk him all night if you want," said Mallory. "Me, I prefer to wait for him."

  She seemed to consider it for a moment, then shrugged. "All right, John Justin. We'll do it your way."

  "What about my way?" said Felina.

  "You don't have a way," answered Mallory.

  "Oh," said Felina. Then: "Skritch my back."

  "Later."

  "How soon is later?"

  "When cows dance on the Moon."

  "Okay, that seems fair," agreed Felina.

  They left the office and headed to the funeral parlor, with Felina staring so intently at the Moon that she walked into a lamppost and a fire hydrant, but after a few minutes they reached the doorway to Nightspore, Nightspore, Nightspore and Cohen's Mortuary.

  They entered, heard a recording of hymns being played softly in the background, and walked into the main chamber, where a truly magnificent—but empty—casket was displayed in the center.

  "What now?" asked Winnifred.

  "Now we wait," said Mallory.

  "Until nine in the morning?"

  "My guess is that it won't take that long."

  "I can't see the Moon from here," protested Felina.

  "Go outside and look from there," suggested Mallory.

  "Thanks, John Justin," she said with a purr. "You think of everything."

  She walked to the door, then stepped aside as Big Benny Bernstein walked in.

  "Hi, Benny," said Mallory. "I thought you'd show up here."

  "You were right, Shamus," said Big Benny. "I went to headquarters, but all they wanted to do was discuss things that don't interest me any more." He grimaced. "As I was passing by a store window, a fifty-inch flat screen that was on display was showing that old movie about Charlton Heston fighting a million safari ants, and I found myself rooting for the ants." He shook his head sadly. "I bump into my best friend from the old days, Charlie Becker. He's a vampire now. I offer him a little of my blood, just for old time's sake, but when he bites my neck there isn't any. I'd have asked for some of his brain, but he never had much to start with and he's still using what he's got."

  "I'm sorry," said Mallory. "It sounds like you had a rough night."

  "That's not the worst of it. I give a lady leprechaun
a friendly but intimate pinch, the kind that usually gets my face slapped. Instead she calls me Cuddles and tells me I can have anything I ask for." Big Benny winced. "And what I asked for was some brain on rye, with a little mustard and relish. Then she slapped me."

  "Poor baby," said Winnifred sympathetically.

  "Suddenly I got very tired," continued Big Benny. "I went to my apartment, but I didn't have the key. So I went to a flophouse to take a little nap, but I just couldn't get comfortable on a mattress, and finally it dawned on me that there was one place I was comfortable."

  And with that, he climbed into his casket, lay on his back, folded his hands across his chest, and closed his eyes.

  "Well, that's that," said Mallory. "He's not going anywhere. I think we can call it a night, grab some sleep, and show up in time to get paid tomorrow morning."

  "You're too trusting, John Justin," said Winnifred. "You go ahead. I'll spend the night here and collect our money from Mr. Nightspore when he shows up."

  "You're sure?" asked Mallory.

  She nodded. "I'll be fine."

  He walked out the door and almost bumped into Felina, who was peering at the Moon.

  "I can't remember what I'm looking for, John Justin," she complained.

  "Six hundred glittering g-strings," said Mallory.

  "Oh, that's right!" she answered brightly.

  "Psst!" came a hiss from a nearby alley. They both turned to find themselves facing a goblin holding a small satchel. "Did I hear somebody say they want six hundred glittering g-strings?"

  "Go away," said Mallory.

  "Yes!" said Felina enthusiastically.

  "I left my g-strings in my other suit," said the goblin, "but how would you like two Mickey Mantles and a Willie Mays?"

  "Are they good to eat?" asked Felina.

  "Why not?" said the goblin with a shrug.

  "Do you want half of a very dead pigeon?" she asked.

  "Which half and how dead?" replied the goblin.

  They were still deep in negotiations when Mallory lost interest and headed for home.

  This story originally appeared in Stalking the Zombie, American Fantasy Press, 2012.

  Mike Resnick is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He is the winner of five Hugos (from a record thirty-seven nominations), a Nebula, and other major awards in the USA, China, France, Japan, Croatia, Catalonia, Poland and Spain.