Lovely Death

by Brandon Meyers

  “Delivery,” Marty said.

  “Set it there,” the old shoemaker said before breaking into a coughing fit. It sounded like Satan himself was squeezing the man’s lungs. “And get the fuck out.”

  Marty frowned. “I need a signature. Sir.”

  The old bastard extended a hand. Marty handed him the rubber-tipped pen and he drew a palsied line across the plastic surface.

  “Well?” The disgusting fellow stared at him with a slack jaw, head shaking involuntarily.

  Marty obliged him and got the fuck out.

  The bell chimed at the front of the store, signaling the delivery man’s departure.

  Goddard leveled his gaze at the unmarked cardboard box. There was energy about it, an essence with which he was all too familiar. There was the electric charge of life in that box. It called out to him, like a sizzling steak playing on the nose of a man who was on the verge of literal starvation.

  And also like a man on the brink of death, he was too blinded by the possibility of survival to stop and think about anything at all. He snatched at the box, feeling the pulse of promise leeching out from within. It would revive him. It would sustain him. The soul essence would be enough to replace what he had lost—what that petulant child had stolen from him—at least for a time.

  Goddard stabbed at the box with an open razor-knife. He missed the tape multiple times, even cutting his own hand in the process, but so fervent was his drive that he did not stop until the package was in shredded ruins. He did not even pay attention to the return address, which was written in simple, clean script. The package had come from Chicago, from a person called M. Bindu.

  He cast the knife aside, dug through a handful of wadded paper until he found the trinket.

  It was no bigger than his pinkie and was wrapped in a layer of cellophane. He clawed at the thing, cursing, wheezing, lost to the lustful promise it offered him. Blood smeared across the surface of the plastic, making it slippery. But Goddard was undeterred.

  And at last he reached it.

  He held the object firmly in his fingers. And without pausing to even inspect it he opened himself to it.

  A bolt of white-hot lightning struck him on the inside. He was dead before he hit the floor. It was a pity that the pain was so insufficient in comparison to the horrors which he had weighed upon the world, but the job was done. Both the soul and the husk had been obliterated, and would harm no mortal human ever again.

  The lifeless body hit the waiting tile with a rattling finality. Fragile, ancient bones were broken, but their owner was far from concerned.

  And beside the abandoned shell of Goddard’s body, a small brass cylinder rolled from atop the table to clatter and dance to a final stop.

  Etched upon the surface of the bullet casing were two simple words: Lovely Death.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I’d like to say thanks to the folks who’ve had to put up with me for the past few months while this book got written. All those blank stares, random chuckles, and apparent schizophrenic breaks from reality mid-conversation have not been for naught. Friends and family, one and all, I thank you for your patience and constant support.

  A special thanks, as always, goes to my friend, collaborator, and editor, Bryan Pedas. You’re the best damn writer I know. And you’re an okay guy too.

  Finally, thank you to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club for providing an inadvertent soundtrack to the writing of this novel. Also, thanks for allowing me to use your lyrics.

  About the Author

  Brandon lives and writes in Denver, Colorado. He is the author of the short story collection Chasing the Sandman and co-author of the novels Dead and Moaning in Las Vegas, The Missing Link, The Sensationally Absurd Life and Times of Slim Dyson, and The Graveyard Shift. He also co-authors the popular weekly web-comic, A Beer for the Shower. Please feel free to shoot him an email at abeerfortheshower@gmail.com.