This isn’t sad news. Hearing of the demise of “Uncle Bad Touch” brings a sneer to your lips.
“I should have called you sooner but I’ve been so busy up here at his farmhouse putting things in order. Services will be held at Trailside Church the day after tomorrow at eleven. I know it’s a two-hour drive up, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d attend.”
You wonder if he died of natural causes or if one of your cousins paid an unannounced visit to his ramshackle farm for some payback. You chew on your bottom lip and mull the situation over.
Uncle Marlin lived on a farm seven miles north of the tiny community of Trailside. The church where the funeral will take place is on the outer edge of a town of less than one thousand people. You decide this scenario has some definite possibilities.
If you decide to call the funeral parlor to ask about two-for-one pricing, turn to page 26.
If you decide your uncle’s farm would be the perfect place to dispose of the body, turn to page 27.
If you decide your uncle’s funeral would provide the perfect opportunity to dispose of the body instead, turn to page 28.
You decide to attend the funeral and to bring a guest. The situation could provide a unique opportunity for the disposal of the body in your basement.
After two glasses of blood lite—your sobriquet for red wine—to fortify your faltering nerve, you descend the stairs.
The first order of business is to grab several hand towels from the bathroom cupboard to wipe up; there’s no blood, but the loosened bowels and voided bladder make for a more voluminous mess than a few squares of toilet tissue can clean.
This accomplished, the soiled towels go straight into the washing machine and you wash your hands for several minutes longer than is necessary.
Next you decide to wrap the body in a spare bed-sheet. You choose one covered with tiny pills that make it uncomfortable to sleep on. You made this purchase long before you learned about thread count or fabric quality and decide it also deserves to be buried in the ground.
You also backtrack to your bedroom to gather your guest’s clothing and belongings. Rather than try to dress the body you tuck the articles of clothing around limbs so they’ll stay in place. You straighten and survey your work.
If you decide you’re too attached to that old sheet to part with it after all, turn to page 31.
If you remember reading somewhere that lime helps speed decomposition, turn to page 32.
If you can’t shake the urge to wash your hands again, turn to page 33.
You remember reading somewhere that lime helps speed decomposition, so you trudge back upstairs to check your fridge for the little green fruit. You come up empty, which should be no surprise since you can’t even remember the last time you used lime in a drink. Besides, slicing up a lime doesn’t quite seem right. Isn’t the lime supposed to be in powder form?
Feeling perplexed, you scan the kitchen, seeking inspiration. Your eyes fall on the spice rack. Lemon pepper; not perfect but it will do in a pinch.
You take the stairs two at a time back down and sprinkle liberal amounts of your find on the body. Inspiration strikes again and you retrieve spring-scented carpet powder (“Eliminates pet and other offensive odors!”) and shower your guest with that as well.
Satisfied at last, you wrap the body up in the sheet and tie off both ends with their shoelaces.
Exhausted by your exertions, you tumble into bed for some much-needed rest.
If your sleep is plagued by nightmares of masked Mexican wrestlers pulling your teeth out with pliers (and whose isn’t, really?), turn to page 35.
If sleep never comes because the moment you lie down the phone won’t stop ringing, get back up and turn to page 36.
If you sleep well but awaken suddenly to the ominous tolling of a grandfather clock announcing the witching hour, turn to page 37.
Your heirloom grandfather clock pulls you from the irresponsibility of sleep and chimes twelve times. This, you decide, is the perfect time to move your visitor from the stairwell to the trunk of your car.
You dress quickly and haul your cargo by the ankles slowly up the stairs. You reach the kitchen and let their legs drop. Panting, you shuffle out your front door for a little advance recon. The street is empty. The houses are dark. Even the moon cooperates by discreetly ducking behind a rolling cloud bank.
Staggering under the weight of your burden, you reach the open trunk and deposit the body inside.
Another glass of wine and it’s off to bed to lie awake and anxiously wait for morning. You think of your One True Love away on business and the unsavory business you must attend to before their return. You remember your brief fling—many years ago—with the deceased. You think about your favorite movie, the best concert you ever attended and the last good book you’ve read. All the while the sun slowly crawls around the earth. You force yourself to wait until just after eight A.M. to dress and leave the house.
The drive north out of the city is a dull one but you are proficient at creating your own happiness and soon you are daydreaming about what you would do with the power of invisibility.
You are so absorbed in your imaginary escapades that you don’t see the police cruiser easing up behind your car until the officer turns on his flashers and gives your eardrums a short burst of siren. The siren’s song, true to legend, is one that conjures up fear but is very difficult to ignore.
If you were speeding, slow down, use your turn signal and carefully ease onto the shoulder located on page 38.
If you were not speeding but realize your tags are expired and you have no proof of insurance, turn to page 39.
If you really thought you’d get through a “dead body in the trunk” story without getting pulled over by an ornery rural cop, turn to page 40.
A big-bellied sheriff’s deputy with a Smokey the Bear hat tipped back on his bullet head ambles toward your car. Even with his eyes hidden behind out-of-date mirrored sunglasses, you can see the smug satisfaction on his face.
His unsnaps the holster strap on his sidearm and gently rests his palm on the butt of his gun. With his other palm he scratches his butt. You try not to smile.
“Well, well,” the cop says. “Someone from the city is driving through my stretch of country in an awful hurry.”
You do your best to appear both sheepish and contrite and wait for him to continue.
“You were speeding, your tags are expired and for all I know, you’ve got a dead body in the trunk.”
At first all the blood drains from your face, then it seems like it is catapulting back up and you feel your cheeks burning with guilt.
You realize the officer is waiting for you to respond.
If you’ve stopped near the bridge that stretches over Owl Creek and feel inspired to try to make a harrowing and adventurous dash for freedom, turn to page 42.
If you try to intimidate the officer by cranking up some vintage gangsta rap on your stereo, turn the volume up to 43.
If you nod sheepishly and admit, “Two out of three, officer; you got me,” hold your breath and turn to page 45.
You finally decide to nod sheepishly and admit, “Two out of three, officer; you got me.”
Despite an inexplicable sense of déjà vu, you feel cautiously optimistic. Even if the officer writes you a ticket for either—or both—infractions, chances are against him actually asking to look in the trunk.
Without warning a shrill howl raises the hair on your neck and goose bumps do the wave up and down your arms.
The deputy has tilted his head back and lets loose with a second barbaric yawp. Then he grins ferociously. “Lone Wolf sniffs out another perpetrator,” he exclaims, and juts his chin out proudly.
You glance at the nameplate just below his badge and notice his name is “Moranus” but you decide it prudent to let him have his moment.
Two citations later you drive away, careful to stay five miles under the posted limit. Your forehead is drenched with sweat and your mout
h is dry as alkali, but the secret in your trunk remains undiscovered. “Two out of three ain’t bad,” you mumble.
You are still thanking your lucky stars ten miles down the road when your vision blurs and a sharp pain hits you.
If the pain is in your right temple, turn to page 48.
If the pain is in your left arm, turn to page 49.
If the pain is in the right lower quadrant of your belly, just above your hip bone, try to locate the appendix.
You hit the brakes and kick up a spray of gravel and dust as you guide your car onto the shoulder of the road.
Once the car’s forward momentum has stopped, you grimace and stretch your arms. Alternately massaging each forearm, you concentrate on relaxing. A deep inhalation, count to ten and let it out. You do this several times, flexing your fingers and running them through your hair. Not a heart attack; just muscle cramps from gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
You tell yourself to relax. Based on the scenery, you think the Trailside Church should only be a few more miles ahead. Your uncle’s farm is seven miles farther north of Trailside.
Time to make another decision.
If you decide to turn back and risk getting pulled over again as you head for home, turn to page 51.
If you decide to pass the church and continue on to your uncle’s farm, turn to page 52.
If you decide to stop at the church to make sure that creep is really dead, turn to page 53.
The Trailside Church is an unassuming little building. It has seen a few weddings, more than its fair share of funerals and even a baptism or two. Finding the parking lot full, you double-park beside the waiting hearse and jog up the stone stairs.
You ease the door open and slide into the narthex. As your eyes adjust to the dim interior you realize you are not alone.
Nearby is the cheapest casket the family could apparently find and nestled inside is your late uncle Marlin. You feel your lips press in a tight line and clench your hands until your nails dig into your palms. You wish you could inflict some suffering or indignity upon him.
You step forward and look through the narrow window into the sanctuary, which your mother insisted upon calling the nave because she believed it made her sound more cultured. The figures in the rows make a sea of black, dotted with whitecaps of gray, white, blue and bald. A sleepy-looking preacher reads predictable passages from a tattered Bible at a wooden podium near the altar.
You return to the casket and look at your uncle again. Perhaps there is some extra room . . .
“Hey there,” a voice you don’t recognize demands. “Who are you?”
If you explain that you are a member of the clergy administering “De Facto Last Rites of Duplication,” turn to page 54.
If you explain that you are the mortician’s assistant and that you are “just topping off fluids,” turn to page 55.
If you curtly retort, “I could ask you the same question!” turn to page 56.
Failing to come up with anything more creative, you curtly retort, “I could ask you the same question!”
The narthex now seems filled with the odor of raw rhubarb mixed with cat pee and you narrow your eyes at the young man who has spoken. You don’t recognize him as a relation so you decide he probably lives here in Trailside and is here with his folks, probably against his will. It shouldn’t be hard to get rid of him.
“Did you sneak out for a couple hits?” you ask, feigning disapproval. The teen averts his bloodshot eyes guiltily and you cross your arms sternly as he hurries past you into the sanctuary. He slides into an empty spot next to an oblivious parental unit in a pew near the back.
You notice everyone inside has bowed their heads in either prayer or weariness, so you “carpe diem” and hurry back to your car. A quick scan of the parking lot shows that the coast is clear for the moment; perhaps everyone in town is inside the church with their backs collectively turned away from you.
You pop the trunk, hoist the body over your shoulder and hustle up the stairs. Adrenaline surges through your limbs as you slip back inside and triumphantly dump your cargo into the casket on top of your uncle.
You tip the lid down but it won’t close. Lifting the lid back up you quickly realize that you’ll need to readjust the casket’s contents.
The congregation of mourners and small-town gawkers has collectively risen in their pews to mumble a hymn. You yank the body back out and replace it so that it lays facedown with the head resting between your uncle’s feet. Panting, you glance over your shoulder and find the coast is still clear. Everyone is still in the nave and you’re still craving a little knavery.
If you take a moment to shave your uncle’s out-of-control eyebrows, go to page 60.
If you take a moment to say a few choice parting words to the deceased (plural), go to page 61.
If you flip them both the bird, close the lid and make a run for it, turn to page 62.
Your uncle’s old-geezer eyebrows seem to bristle like threatened caterpillars. Seeing this as the perfect opportunity for some admittedly petty but worthwhile revenge, you fumble around in your pockets for your ring of keys. On the key ring is also a tiny utility knife. You select it, cupping your keys in your hand and opening the knife’s blade.
“You two deserve each other,” you mutter, and extend the middle finger of your free hand at the new roommates. Then you lean in and scrape the blade against your uncle’s skin, shaving off one eyebrow in three strokes. Just as you are about to move on to the other side, a surge in the volume of singing warns you that the sanctuary door has been opened.
You drop the lid to the casket as quickly as you can and turn to look behind you.
A dour-faced man strides forward. He is carrying a battered leather case and is wearing a large enamel name tag that reads:
Jolley Brothers Funeral Services
Bryan Bruce, Director
“Excuse me, but what exactly are you doing out here with the deceased?” he wants to know. This time you’re prepared. In fact, you have so many excuses ready you’ll need to narrow it down first.
If you want to reveal that your uncle had privately expressed his wishes for a closed-casket ceremony and you are simply honoring the dear old saint’s wishes, solemnly turn to page 64.
If you want to accuse the mortician of shoddy workmanship and explain that you closed the casket lid out of necessity, haughtily turn to page 65.
If you want to reveal that you just drove a wooden stake through his black and centuries-old heart, turn to page 67.
“I noticed that one of my uncle’s eyelids has collapsed,” you explain to the man in hushed tones. You lead him away from the casket before continuing. “I closed the lid so that none of my uncle’s loved ones would notice and become upset.”
Mr. Bruce shakes his head and mutters, “We can certainly fix—”
You have to stop that train of thought before it leaves the station so you plunge with the only dagger at your disposal. “I’d hate to think what would happen if the relatives got together and demanded a refund.”
The funeral director’s mouth snaps shut as if wired closed and filled with cotton. Time to give the dagger a delicate twist to make sure the subject really dies.
“Think of the small-town scandal!” you murmur. “I’m sure you and I agree it would be best to leave well enough alone.”
Mr. Bruce nods like it’s the best idea he’s heard in decades. He instructs the pallbearers, who have just arrived from the sanctuary, to carry the casket out to the hearse. The six of them grunt and heft their special cargo to the waiting car. Mr. Bruce slides in behind the wheel and leads the procession of mourners across the gravel road and into the gates of the adjacent Trailside Cemetery.
A group of clucking hens—your aunts—files past. Your mother is among them and she smiles wanly at you as she passes. You amble along with the stragglers but once you reach the open grave you find yourself pushing to the front of the group.
The casket is hefted out of th
e hearse and placed on the faded straps of the lowering device. The dithering preacher says a few more words about ashes and dust bunnies, and you wonder how much of this he could have said while still inside the church. You glance around and see many closed eyes and vacant stares. Why is this taking so long?
At last the casket is lowered into the hole. A few of your cousins don’t look upset in the least. Normally you’d be able to relate but right now your nerves are fraying at an alarming rate.
If you try to jump-start the burial by kicking a few dirt clods into the hole and muttering “good riddance,” turn to page 70.
If you volunteer to rev up the Bobcat skid loader you noticed parked behind the caretaker’s shed, turn to page 71.
If you shriek “I admit the deed! Here, here! It is the beating of their hideous hearts!” fall to your knees and turn to page 72.
Like a bored kid in a fabric store, your left leg twitches spastically and before you can stop its motion, you’ve kicked several dirt clods into the hole. They rattle and patter on the casket lid like fists pounding against it from inside. You scramble to the outer edge of the solemn gathering and mop nervous perspiration from your forehead. Your breathing comes in gasps. Keep it together! The preacher is praying again and someone throws a bouquet into the hole.
Then everyone begins filing away silently. One or two of your cousins try to make eye contact as they pass and your mother gives you a strange look but you resolve to feign sorrow if confronted. No one speaks to you, however, and you soon find yourself alone with the man whose job it is to fill the hole.
You are vaguely aware of the sounds of automobiles starting and driving away. At last when you scan the church parking lot, you see only your car now double-parked next to nothing. Even the priest has departed. You become aware of your companion staring at you.
Aftertaste Page 28