Dead Men Scare Me Stupid

by John Swartzwelder

  “Well, sure!”

  “We’ll get her for you.”

  “Say, hang on now…”

  Ed and Fred faded from sight. Then, working invisibly, the two ghosts tipped my hat at the woman, filled the air with wolf whistles, rearranged my face into a leer, and unzipped my pants. The woman walked over to a nearby policeman, talked to him for a moment and pointed at me. As he began walking towards me, I began tipping my hat at the policeman, my pants zipper going rapidly up and down. The only “date” I ended up getting was a “date” in “court”. My ghostly friends didn’t seem to realize it, but they were causing me a lot of trouble with these stunts of theirs. They were hurting me more than they were helping me.

  All the time I was on the run from the ghosts, I kept trying everything I could think of to get rid of them once and for all.

  I tried dynamite, flamethrowers, hand grenades – I guess I must have blown up about a quarter of my neighborhood before it was all over. But none of the blasts bothered the ghosts in the slightest. I think they kind of liked them, if the word “wheee!” is any indication.

  I called in ghost hunters and said “There’s two”, but they just got scared and ran away. Some ghost hunters.

  I tried nailing the ghosts in a box and shipping them to someone I didn’t like, but all I got out of that was a phone call from the guy saying “Hey, thanks for the empty box”.

  When I couldn’t think of anything else to try – when I was drawing a blank - Ed and Fred quickly chipped in with some ideas of their own.

  “Try spraying us with acid,” suggested Fred.

  “Does that work?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you suggest it then?”

  “We don’t like seeing you running out of ideas like this. We want to help.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “How about dropping an A-bomb on us?” said Ed. “The flying wing could carry it.”

  I looked at him dubiously. “Any chance of that working?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe a signed petition would work,” suggested Fred. “Ever think of that?”

  “I’ll sign that petition right now!” said Ed, enthusiastically.

  Finally, after the A-bomb from the flying wing thing didn’t work, I gave up. I couldn’t hide from them. I couldn’t destroy them. I couldn’t do anything.

  I headed back to my office. At least I could do that. At least I could head places.

  When I got there I noticed that my office looked a lot better than it usually did. The ghosts had apparently been working on it all the time I was away. Not only was it decorated nicely, with all sorts of velvet paintings and throw rugs, it was jam-packed with all sorts of detective stuff I’d always wanted, but could never afford: an FBI-quality surveillance setup so I could do my stakeouts in the comfort of my own home or office; a real professional magnifying glass – one of those glass jobs, not the cheap plastic things I always use; an electronic footprint database that had every foot in America in it; Mickey Mantle Model Handcuffs; everything. Most of it wasn’t new - it had been stolen from other detectives in the area - but it was still serviceable.

  And I noticed my waiting room was filled with dozens of new clients, all bound and gagged and ready to hire me, all apparently kidnapped from other detectives’ offices.

  I started to rethink my position on all this. What exactly is wrong with people helping you? When did that become a bad thing? What am I, nuts?

  The capper was when my girl came to visit later that day.

  “Are these your friends, Franklin?” she asked when she saw Ed and Fred bringing in the next bound and gagged client for me to interview.

  “No.”

  The ghosts looked hurt. “We’re not?” asked Fred.

  “Well...” I thought of all the great new stuff they’d just gotten me, “…in a way, maybe, but…”

  She looked at them and sniffed. She plainly didn’t think much of my new friends.

  I haven’t told you about my girl, Myrna, because… well… I’m kind of embarrassed about her. She looks awful. And her language would embarrass a sailor. And I don’t mean a regular sailor. I mean one of those sailors who don’t embarrass easily. But, beggars can’t be choosers, the Good Book says. That’s how I ended up with Myrna.

  Anyway, by the end of the day the two ghosts had managed to inadvertently insult her more than I had in my entire life. They called her a “broad”, engaged in playful wrestling matches with her, poked her in the ass with the wrong fork during dinner, yelled obscenities up her dress, and kept advising her, as one friend to another, to take the mask off because Halloween was over.

  Finally she had had enough. She stormed out, throwing her engagement ring back at me and saying she would never darken my door again. Hey, I thought, these ghosts are all right. I’d been trying to get her to do that for a year. Not only that, but it was a previous boyfriend who had bought that ring for her, not me. So I was up one ring on the deal.

  I decided right then and there that I had been a fool to resist. A couple of ghosts were probably just what I had needed all along.

  “From now on, we’re partners,” I said, shaking their clammy hands. “Welcome to the firm.”

  They looked at me with surprise, and, unless I imagined it, a little dismay.

  I got on the phone to order some little desks for them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I don’t know how I lived all those years without slaves. I honestly don’t. It’s a little thing, but it makes all the difference if you want to live the good life.

  From the moment I got the Spirit World working for me, my life became a breeze. Anything I wanted just floated into my hands. Things I didn’t want anymore were quickly taken away. And if anything got in my path, it was violently hurled aside by an unseen force.

  “Scare that guy,” I would say regally as I walked down Main Street with the fellas. “Bring me a beer. Knock those children out of my way.” And all my wishes instantly came true. It was wonderful. I was finally living the kind of life Frank Burly deserved. Finally life was fair.

  I had Ed and Fred doing everything for me: doing all the legwork on my cases, making sure my clients paid their bills on time, painting my house the “Color of the Week”, preparing my meals and snacks, even bathing and dressing me and my clients. You name something a slave can do for his beloved master and they were doing it for me.

  “No,” I would say, “I think the couch would look better over there. No, second thoughts, back where it was is better. Tell you what, why don’t you keep moving it back and forth like that. I like that. The constant movement appeals to my aesthetic sense.”

  And they had to do it, because it was helping me, see? Of course, they did their share of griping. All slaves do that, I’m told. But every time they complained, all I had to do was remind them of why they were here.

  “Hey, listen, Burly…” Ed would begin, after I had told him to put in a new lawn, for example – the one he had put in last week wasn’t new anymore. It had birds on it now - but before he could get any farther I would stifle his complaints with a wave of my hand.

  “You want to help me, don’t you?”

  “Well, sure, but…”

  “You want to do your good deed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You still like my face as much as ever, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well my face needs a new lawn. So let’s get going. Chop chop.”

  Life had become a dream for me. Nothing was hard. Everything was easy. I didn’t even have to do my own walking anymore. My legs were moved up and down for me, as I strolled down the street, while I relaxed and ate grapes. I didn’t even have to buy the grapes. They were stolen for me. Nothing I wanted in life was denied me. If I coveted my neighbor’s ass, I got it.

  Of course there’s more to be gained from Heavenly Help than mere creature comforts. There’s money to be made, too.

  In one weekend at a gambling casino, t
hanks to a little invisible help, I won $428. I probably would have won more, but I only was betting one dollar chips. Better safe than sorry, I always say. And I probably shouldn’t have changed some of my bets at the last second when I got one of those sudden wild hunches of mine. Those hunch bets all turned out to be losers. But it wasn’t the amount of money I had won that mattered, it was the feeling that I hadn’t earned any of it. There’s no better feeling than that.

  The best part of all this was that I knew it would never end. All good things must come to an end for other people. For the suckers. But not for me. The rules didn’t apply to me anymore. I was the King of the Spirit World. Make way for the King.

  Then one evening it all ended.

  I had just had one of the best days of my life. You know those kinds of days where everything just goes right? Where everybody else’s tax refunds end up in your mailbox? Where your business rivals spend the whole day stuck in elevators and all their clients have to come to you? Where the horse you bet on is the only horse in the race that doesn’t get spooked by something? Where the IRS man who’s coming to talk to you about stolen tax refunds meets with, like, an accident? You know days like that? Well it was one of those kinds of days for me.

  I was sitting in my easy chair, smoking a fine Cuban cigar that had been yanked out of Castro’s mouth for me, while my little helpers, worn out from their day’s exertions on my behalf, were tiredly soaking their feet in ghostly buckets of water.

  “Whose idea was it to be nice to him?” asked Fred.

  “It was my idea,” replied Ed, pouring more hot water into the bucket, “and it made sense in theory. Piles of sense.”

  “Well, look where we are now. Look where your precious theories have gotten us. He’s got us working our butts off here, and his life is better than it was, not worse.”

  I had been listening to this exchange. I tapped my foot. “Those clippings won’t paste themselves into my scrapbook by themselves,” I said.

  “Screw your scrapbook,” said Fred.

  I was stunned. Nobody talks that way about my scrapbook. What had gotten into my slaves today? Griping I could understand. I’ve been known to gripe myself from time to time, when nothing else would work, but this bordered on insubordination. I rose up to my full height, towering a full ¼ inch higher than before. My back really hurts when I do that, but it’s worth it because I’m definitely taller.

  “What’s that?” I demanded.

  They rose up to their full heights and looked at me in a way that reminded me of how afraid of ghosts I am. They had never looked at me like that before.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you guys?” I asked, looking worriedly from one malevolent face to the other, “Are you sick or something?”

  “We’re sick all right,” said Ed, grimly. “We’re sick of you.”

  “Me? How could you be sick of me? I’m your pal! Your buddy! Your hero! You came here all the way from Heaven just to help me.”

  “No we didn’t.”

  “Huh?”

  “What kind of saps do you think we are?” asked Fred.

  “Well…” I began. Then I stopped. I wasn’t sure calling them any kind of saps would be a good idea right now. So I didn’t say any more. I just waited for them to say something.

  That’s when they told me the truth. They said they hadn’t come here to help me at all. Their plan had been to pretend to be helping me, but in doing so to screw up my life horribly. By now, they said, the cops should have arrested me on dozens of charges, from intimidation to murder. My friends should have abandoned me for acting so haunted all the time (I had fooled them there. I have no friends), and my business should have folded for the same reason. They didn’t know what had gone wrong. Maybe their plan had failed because it was too clever. (That’s why my plans fail too!) Anyway, they were through being clever, they told me. Their new plan was to just wreck my life as quickly as possible and get the heck out of here.

  I couldn’t fathom any of this. It didn’t make sense to me.

  “But why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?”

  “Well, you killed us,” said Fred.

  “And I apologized, didn’t I? And you said… well, I forget exactly what you said… but I’m pretty sure you accepted my apology. Besides, you said you liked being dead.”

  “We don’t,” said Fred. “It stinks.”

  “But the ice skating…”

  “It stinks, I tell you. Never mind about the ice skating. That’s not important.”

  “Because of you, we’re doomed to wander the Earth as ghosts for the next thirty years,” said Ed.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  They made some cheap cracks about me not understanding anything – the usual stuff. I get it all the time. It doesn’t even bother me anymore – then they gave me a short course in how the afterlife works.

  They said that ghosts are people who aren’t supposed to be dead yet. Their time isn’t up. So there’s no place for them in the afterlife yet. Their clouds aren’t ready – they have to be painted or fumigated or something. I wasn’t clear on that point. Anyway they’re not ready. So people who die earlier than scheduled have to hang around here and wait. Ed and Fred said they were going to be stuck here until 2038, with nothing to do. That’s why they were so steamed at me.

  I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I handed them another scrapbook and told them to get pasting. They refused. They said they weren’t my little helpers anymore. They were my enemies now.

  I tried to smooth things over. I made a little speech. I said that whatever our differences had been in the past, no matter who killed who, I was confident that… hey, where did they go?

  I looked out in the corridor to see if maybe they were out there spit-shining my door, like I had told them to do earlier that day. They weren’t. Then I checked the elevator to see if maybe they were in there installing that shower I wanted. They weren’t there either. I started to get the feeling that my little speech hadn’t smoothed things over as well as I’d hoped.

  It hadn’t.

  From that moment forward, Ed and Fred did everything they could to get me in as much trouble as possible. Every time I walked past a policeman, for example, I would hear him say: “Hey, who kicked me in the ass?” And then two voices, neither one of them mine, would say: “I did it. Me. Frank Burly”. This always doubly pissed off the cops. Not only was I not showing proper respect for a police officer, I wasn’t even bothering to sync up my words with my mouth. There’s no law about that, of course, but the police don’t like it.

  And every time I walked past a building it suddenly caught fire. When the fire department arrived, my arms were always full of gas cans, political manifestos, and suicide notes. And the only explanation I could think of to give them was a weak laugh – a laugh that got weaker the longer they looked at me. Each of these fires was deemed “suspicious”. And so was I.

  Dead bodies began appearing all around me: all over my property, in my bed, in my office, and leaning up against the side of my house. I wasn’t sure whether Ed and Fred were killing all of these people or just digging them up somewhere, but it didn’t really matter, from my point of view. Either way, it made me look bad.

  “What’s all this then?” a policeman would say, gazing at all the corpses on my roof.

  “This isn’t what it looks like, officer,” I would say.

  “It better not be.”

  “It’s just a gag.”

  “Gag, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “It needs some work.”

  “I realize that officer.”

  “It’s not funny, for one thing.”

  “No, I suppose not. And yet…”

  “And it doesn’t seem to be about anything.”

  “It needs work all right.”

  “Got any more gags like this?”

  “Not at this time, officer.”

  “Good.”

  I had a hard time moving al
l the corpses off of my property, because most of the time I couldn’t find my car. It was usually roaming around Central City by itself, with the words “Frank Burly Special” painted on the side, causing wrecks, knocking over pedestrians, and double parking in front of the police station and leaning on its horn. It was racking up over 400 traffic violations a day for me. The cops ran out of ticket books at one point. They had to order some more.

  I probably should have been arrested right away for all of these crimes I seemed to be committing, but I wasn’t.

  Fortunately for me, our new police chief was a very methodical man. He was tired of losing cases in court because a piece of evidence was thrown out for being bullshit. He insisted that his men collect every possible shred of evidence before an arrest was made. This backfired in my case, because I was giving the police more evidence against me every day. Better evidence, too. No policeman in his right mind would want to go to trial without all this great new evidence I was giving him. So if I didn’t stop, or at least slow down, they’d never catch up.

  They did ask me to come downtown frequently to discuss all the crimes that were being committed in Central City, and my possible starring role in them. In fact, I was at the police station so often they gave me a reserved parking place next to the entrance. It was a better spot than the chief had. But they weren’t ready to arrest me yet. Just a little more evidence. They had to make sure. They knew if they blew this one they would be laughed out of the law business.

  Another reason the police hadn’t arrested me yet was that they were being kept very busy looking into all of the hallucinations that had been occurring around town; landmarks would disappear and then reappear again, sometimes looking slightly different; streets would suddenly be pointing in different directions and be named for people no one had ever heard of, like “William Howard Taft”; statues in city parks would suddenly be of different guys, or of the same guy riding a different horse, or the same horse with an entirely different name; and nuclear bomb clouds sprang up everywhere, then faded away, leaving no damage that anyone could see.

  Nobody seemed to know what to make of all these hallucinations, but since they didn’t appear to be dangerous, no one was too concerned. But the police had to investigate them all, which left them with less time than they would have liked to investigate what appeared to be the only really dangerous thing in Central City right then - me.