The Sinister Mr. Corpse

by Jeff Strand

  "Yes, Reverend."

  Charlie sat back down, made a few more minor corrections, and then printed out his sermon. It wasn't very good, but he always ended up departing from the script anyway. It was as if something deep inside of him took over, making the words flow easily, spreading the gospel of The Corpse as if The Corpse himself were controlling Charlie's body.

  Who was to say that The Corpse didn't have the power to possess Charlie's body and tongue?

  Charlie gathered his pages and walked out into the main hall of the church. It was a small, wooden, abandoned Catholic church that had been falling apart when Charlie found it. But with the help of a group of volunteers, he'd cleaned it up, replaced Jesus with Stanley Dabernath where appropriate, and now held weekly services. The benches seated about sixty people, but he was pleased to see that several others stood against the back wall.

  He walked up behind the podium as William began to play haunting chords on his electronic keyboard. Charlie gazed lovingly at his flock, adoring each of them, wishing only that his wife was there to see him in action. Sadly, she'd left him shortly after he formed the church, taking his son with her.

  The music stopped. Charlie cleared his throat.

  "Friends, sons and daughters, we are here to give worship to our Savior, Stanley Dabernath, The Corpse. For He returned to life to spread His gospel, to share His message of love and understanding! What is that message?"

  "Life is precious!" chanted the attendees.

  "And life is indeed precious! I did not always know this. No, I thought life was worthless! In fact, I thought my own life held such little value that I was ready to end it!"

  Though they'd heard this story before, several people in the front rows gasped.

  "That's right, and I was ready to kill our Savior! Because I didn't believe. I didn't have faith. I thought He was a charlatan. A trickster. And I took my gun, and lo, I did walk into His hotel, and lo, I did wait for our Savior to emerge. And lo, He did emerge."

  William emphasized this point with a musical sting.

  "And I spoke to our Savior, and He did try to show me the way. But I was blinded by madness, and I did not listen to His message. My ears were clouded. I could think only of my cancer, of my own mortality, and in an act of shame I did shoot our Savior in the chest!"

  A young woman in the front row crossed herself.

  "Dammit, Tammy, I asked you not to do that in here," said Charlie, annoyed.

  "Sorry. Just a habit."

  "Knock it off. The Corpse did not die upon any cross, and to confuse Him with other saviors is blasphemy!"

  Tammy's husband, Fred, raised his hand.

  "What?" Charlie asked.

  "I was thinkin', our Savior died from chokin' on milk, right?"

  "Indeed He did. You can read all about it in the Book of the Corpse!" Charlie picked up one of the pamphlets he'd created and held it up to the crowd.

  "Maybe instead of crossin' ourselves, we could do a chokin' thing. Like this." Fred placed both hands on his neck, closed his eyes, and let his tongue loll out of his mouth.

  "Are you ridiculing our Savior?" Charlie demanded, furious.

  "Naw, I just thought--"

  "When the time of Rebirth is upon us and the Resurrections begin, I will make sure that your festering body remains lying bloated on the dirty ground swarmed by flies! Leave this house of worship immediately!"

  "Aw, c'mon--"

  "Begone, infidel!"

  Fred got up and sheepishly headed for the church exit, followed by Tammy. Charlie wanted to throw something at them, but all he had was the brochure and he figured that it would flutter harmlessly to the ground.

  "I will not tolerate ridicule of our Savior!" Charlie announced. "I have seen Him take a bullet fired by my own gun and stand back up to live another day. And He forgave my sin! I ask, how many of you seated in this house of worship would forgive one who struck you down with a bullet? If a deer hunter mistook you for his prey and pumped a shotgun shell into your chest, would you forgive him? You would not! But my actions were no mistake, and I did indeed intend harm upon our Savior, and He forgave me, and He helped me, and He saved me! All praise The Corpse!"

  "Life is precious!" shouted the congregation.

  "Again!"

  "Life is precious!"

  "Who's our Savior?"

  "The Corpse!"

  "Sing with me, people!"

  * * *

  Three days later, Stanley still had not returned, and Veronica was getting frantic. This definitely wasn't the kind of PR she wanted, but more importantly, she cared about him. Yeah, he was obnoxious and crude and needed a good slap every six seconds, yet underneath his obnoxious/crude/slap-needing exterior was a...well, definitely not a sweetheart, but sort of a nice guy.

  She prayed that nothing had happened to him, but feared the worst. She couldn't imagine that Stanley would just take off without making some sort of effort to let her know that he was okay. And even if he did, Martin was the responsible one of the pair, and he hadn't turned up either. It wasn't like Stanley could just pop on a wig and a pair of sunglasses and fade into anonymity, and yet there had been no credible sightings.

  A lot of people thought that Stanley was an abomination, and if he'd been foolish enough to wander the city unprotected...

  Of course, it was all over the newspapers, radio, television, and Internet. Lots of opinions were shared; few of them were optimistic about Stanley's safe return. Brant insisted that Stanley had probably just taken some time off to think. Veronica desperately hoped that was the case, even though she'd have to kick his butt six feet into the ground when he returned if it was. But since Brant had the uncharacteristic appearance of wanting nothing more than to vomit, it was hard for Veronica to put credence in his theory.

  "Where are you, Stanley?" she asked his photograph.

  The photograph did not respond.

  She sighed. She'd slept less than four hours in the past three days and she knew she must look like total crap. She needed to go home, pass out, and go back to being stressed out in the morning.

  The phone rang, scaring the hell out of her.

  "Hello? Oh, hi, honey. No, no update. Yes, I'm coming home soon. Now. That'd be great. Love you. Bye."

  She hung up, gathered up her things, and left the office.

  * * *

  Our Savior is missing.

  Oh where could have He gone?

  Our Savior is missing.

  Let Him be back by dawn.

  The lyrics for this new hymn sucked, but Charlie had never claimed to be a songwriter. Forming a new religion wasn't as easy as it looked. Anyway, it was a catchy tune, thanks to William.

  Our Savior is missing.

  Please let Him come back.

  Our Savior is missing.

  Our lives are now off track.

  One of his flock had suggested "Now let's go get a snack" as the final line of the second verse. The heretic had been banished from the church for all eternity.

  "Thank you for coming to this special service," Charlie told his congregation, pleased to note that the church was so packed with people that it was a major safety hazard. He'd been featured as part of a news story in relation to Mr. Corpse's disappearance, and though he knew that most of the new folks were probably curiosity seekers rather than believers, he'd show them the path before too long.

  "As you know, our Savior has gone missing. He could be hurt, He could be kidnapped, or He could be on a journey of spiritual exploration. Either way, we will find Him. We will search the streets. We will call out His name. We will not rest until our Savior, The Corpse, has returned home safely to teach us again!"

  "Amen!" shouted a man near the back. There was a tittering of laughter from the people around him, but Charlie chose to ignore this.

  "We will bring Him home! Let's hear it!"

  "We will bring Him home!"

  "So wander the streets, my friends! We will do what the police can't do! We will find The Corpse!"<
br />
  "We will bring Him home!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Darkness.

  Margaret feared the darkness, and she feared big cities, and she feared getting lost, and now she was lost in a big city after dark.

  It was her mother's fault. Margaret was going to cancel the New York City vacation after she broke up with Scott, but her mother had insisted that she go anyway. "You'll have fun without him!" she said. "It'll be an adventure!"

  It had been a lot of fun. She'd gone to museums, eaten fantastic meals, and watched a taping of her favorite talk show. Then she went and took that wrong turn. Followed by another one. And another. Now she had no idea where she was, except that it was dark and scary and there was a guy walking towards her who looked like he wanted to steal her purse.

  She crossed to the other side of the street and then picked up her pace.

  A hand slammed over her mouth. An arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her into the alley.

  "Don't scream," the man behind her said into her ear. His body was pressed tightly against hers, and she could smell his reeking breath. "You scream I cut you."

  He released her waist, spun her around, and bashed her against the brick wall. She'd expected to see a toothless wino, but the man was clean-shaven, had a stylish haircut, and wore a designer shirt.

  He pressed a knife against her throat. "You just be quiet and let what's gonna happen happen, and we'll get along fine." He looked down at her breasts and gave her a lecherous grin. "Can't wait to suck on these babies."

  "You won't be sucking on anything," said a deep voice from the street.

  Margaret and her attacker looked toward the source of the voice. It was a man dressed entirely in black leather. He wore a facemask that revealed only his mouth and eyes.

  "Let her go," said the man in black.

  "You just move along, stranger. This is private business."

  "I'm pretty sure she's not a willing participant. Now let her go or things are going to get ugly."

  The attacker removed the knife from Margaret's throat and stepped away from her. "Okay, okay, you can have her if you want. I was just playing around anyway. It's cool."

  "Now let me give you a warning--"

  Before she realized what he was doing, Margaret's attacker had reached under his shirt and taken out a gun. He pointed it at the man in black.

  "Maybe you should think about moving on, stranger."

  The man in black shook his head.

  The attacker shrugged, then shot him in the chest. Margaret screamed. The man in black stumbled backwards a few steps but didn't fall. There was no blood.

  "What the hell...?"

  "You can't kill me," the man in black growled. "I'm already dead!"

  He tore off the facemask. Margaret recognized him, it was Mr. Corpse from TV, but he looked different. He had black circles around his eyes, but the eyes themselves were completely red. He grinned, revealing fangs.

  The attacker dropped his gun and wet his pants in terror as Mr. Corpse took a dramatic step forward. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

  "Oh, shit, don't kill me!"

  Mr. Corpse grabbed the attacker by the shoulders and slammed him against the opposite wall. "Your soul is mine, motherfucker! I should eat you alive, right now, starting with your nose."

  "No! No! Don't hurt me!"

  Mr. Corpse hissed at him.

  "Please, I wasn't really gonna do anything! I swear!"

  "Lies! But you're lucky. I'm not going to kill you. I need you to spread the word to your scumbag rapist mugger friends. The next time they look over their shoulder, I might be there. I'm the Sinister Mr. Corpse. I'm their doom. You think you can tell them that?"

  The attacker nodded frantically.

  "Apologize to that woman."

  "Sorry!"

  "Say it like you mean it, bitch!"

  "Sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry!"

  Mr. Corpse relaxed his grip. He took a stack of business cards out of his pocket and pressed them into the man's palm. "Share these. Make sure people know about me. I'm not going to tolerate your kind in this great city anymore. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Good. Now get out of here before I flay the skin from your body with your own knife."

  The attacker fled.

  Mr. Corpse turned toward Margaret, and she recoiled.

  "Damn, these things burn!" he said, popping one of the contact lenses out of his eye. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

  Margaret shook her head.

  "Good. You shouldn't be out here by yourself after dark."

  "I know. I got lost."

  "I'll take you someplace safe. You don't have to be scared walking with me. These aren't real fangs." He held out his hand to her, and reluctantly she took it.

  They stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Margaret was still scared, but Mr. Corpse clearly had no intention of hurting her, so she forced herself to relax. "Where have you been?" Margaret asked, trying to make conversation.

  "Thinking. Planning. Doing something good with my life. Oh, this is for you," he said, handing her a business card.

  Margaret glanced at the card. It had a demonic looking picture of Mr. Corpse and the slogan Evildoers beware! Your time of reckoning is at hand! The Sinister Mr. Corpse is on the prowl! "Did you design this yourself?"

  "Nah, my friend Martin did it. Looks pretty good, huh?"

  "I guess so. It's kind of creepy."

  "Oh, wait, I gave you the wrong one. That's for bad guys." Mr. Corpse took back the card and handed her a different one. This one had a picture of him without the makeup and fangs, and said You have been rescued by Mr. Corpse. Tell your friends!

  They walked in silence for a couple of minutes. "Good, there's a cop," said Mr. Corpse, pointing to a police car parked three blocks ahead. They picked up their pace and hurried over to the car. Mr. Corpse tapped on the glass, and the police officer rolled down the window. "This woman has just gone through an extremely traumatic experience," Mr. Corpse explained. "She needs medical attention and perhaps some counseling. She'll tell you the whole story."

  "You're the Amazing Mr. Corpse!" said the cop.

  Mr. Corpse shook his head. "No longer. I'm the Sinister Mr. Corpse, and I will bring fear to all who deserve it. You have a new ally in your fight against crime." He returned his attention to Margaret. "You'll be safe now, ma'am."

  She gave him a big hug. Mr. Corpse put his facemask back on, and then ran off into the darkness.

  * * *

  "How'd it go?" asked Martin as Stanley climbed into the newly christened Corpsemobile (Martin's Chevy Prizm).

  "Saved a lady."

  "Just one?"

  "It's not that easy to find crimes in progress! I thought that you couldn't go two blocks in this city without stumbling upon a mugging, but, jeez, I was walking all over the place without finding anything. But I did save a lady. And I helped a dog that had its leg caught in a grate. That was a pretty good night's work."

  "And you're sure this is the approach you want to take? Soaking up wisdom would be a lot less dangerous."

  "I'm sure. If I'm invulnerable, I should use that gift to benefit society. Oh, good call on the bulletproof vest, by the way. It's much more pleasant when bullets don't break the skin."

  "No problem."

  * * *

  Brant and Veronica sat in the Project Second Chance office, watching the woman on television explain that Mr. Corpse had saved her from being raped and perhaps killed. The camera zoomed in on the business card.

  They sat there for a very long time without speaking.

  "So...he's a superhero now?" asked Brant.

  "Looks like it."

  "Is this good or bad?"

  "I don't know."

  They continued to stare at the television screen.

  "I guess it's good," said Veronica. "He's alive, at least."

  "You have a point there."

  "And I guess it's better than havi
ng him go on a crime spree."

  "Indeed."

  They stared at the television some more.

  "So now what?" Veronica asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Should we have a drink?"

  "Yes. Let's do that."

  * * *

  "I'm still not sure I like the name The Sinister Mr. Corpse," Martin admitted, as he and Stanley sat in their cheap motel room, sharing a bag of pretzels.

  "It's catchy. It has a nice rhythm to it."

  "I just think it's too dark. I liked Amazing."

  "We've been over this. The two things I've got going for me in my fight against crime are that I can't be killed and that I'm scary looking. So I need a scary name."

  "We could've focused on the not-being-killed part. You could be the Invulnerable Mr. Corpse."

  "I'm not invulnerable. What do you want me to be, the Quick-Healing Mr. Corpse? Ooooh, that'll strike fear into the hearts of evil men!"

  "I know, I know, but what about The Terrifying Mr. Corpse? You're not really all that sinister."

  "Yes I am."

  "What have you done today that was sinister?"

  "It's a cool name, okay?"

  "I agree, but 'sinister' implies that there's plotting going on or something like that. Scaring bad guys isn't sinister. Sinister is all about the attitude."

  "Well, we've already made the business cards," said Stanley. "You should've said something sooner."

  "I did! I said it eighty times! You told me to shut up about it!"

  "I think you should go back to calling me 'sir.'"

  "I think you should keep dreaming."

  "Well, I'm the one out there making the world safe for democracy, so I get to pick the name. You can pick your own sidekick name."

  "I'm not your sidekick. I'm your handler."

  "How about this? The Sinister Mr. Corpse and his trusty sidekick Alive Boy?"

  "Bite me."

  Stanley chuckled. "I did save a woman tonight, though. It felt good. I think I was destined to be a crime fighter. I've already got the action figures."