“I’m not supposed to do this with any of the family watching,” he explains. “My wife said she’d have coffee and sandwiches on by two, so . . .”
“Yes, yes, of course.” You force a smile and totter past nearly two centuries of stone markers, pass through the cemetery gates and cross the empty road. The sound of the skid loader’s engine roars to life just as you reach your car. You pause to steal a glance back.
What took hours to dig takes minutes to fill. The man waves amicably as he drives past in his rusty pickup when the job is done and you smile and return that wave. You feel as if a great burden has been lifted from you.
Relief quickly gives way to elation as you realize that you’ve gotten away with murder (probably second-degree, but still . . . ), apparent accidental infidelity and the disposal of the body. Best of all, you got a measure of revenge on your creepy uncle and accomplished everything without arousing any suspicion.
You chuckle as you remember how your uncle looked with only one eyebrow. You wish you had had more time to finish that job, but overall you feel thrilled by today’s events. You burst out laughing.
You’re still chuckling as you slide into the driver’s seat. You’re snickering even as you repeatedly check your pockets for your car keys. You’re still grinning stupidly at your reflection in the rearview mirror as you recall why you were most recently holding them.
But as you realize where you likely dropped the tiny utility knife and the ring of keys it was attached to . . . that’s when you stop smiling altogether.
Smoke and Mirrorballs
CHRIS ABBEY
(MUSIC SWELL: MAIN THEME. PLAYOUT, DROP)
HOST: Well, here we are! Tonight, live, it’s the grand finale of Prancing Like a Minor Star! Lots of surprises along the way, but it all comes down to this. Three couples, one trophy. Now, would everybody please welcome my cohost . . . err, somebody, whatever.
CASSANDRA: My name is Cassandra Troy, and I predict we’re going to have a great time tonight.
HOST: Our couples are backstage waiting, probably almost tense enough to kill. But first, a special number from the eliminated contestants. Sadly, the human ones can’t be here. Barbara’s family asks that in lieu of flowers, send a head of cattle, because they need the brains. Hit it, Jimmy!
(MUSIC: MIDTEMPO “That’s Life”)
[Dancers pour out onto the stage, professionals kicking high, contestants looking like someone put Tasers in their breakfast cereal. The house band plays for two and a half minutes, then everyone stops and strikes a pose.]
HOST: (SMILING TO KEEP FROM WINCING) And there they are. Give them a big round of applause. (WAITS) When we return, our finalists, and a few memories from this surprising season.
(FADE TO BLACK)
(FADE UP)
(BACKGROUND MUSIC SWELLS, FADES)
HOST: And now, we have the finalists.
[Three large screens come up in the background. On them, taller than Kong, are a London gentleman with an old poofy-haired woman, a mummy with a woman in gold lamé, and a tuxedo and evening dress looking like they’re on people.]
HOST: Van Helsing and our veteran dancer Phyllis, Amon-Ra with his partner Sheparda the former Solid Gold dancer, and Vlad with his partner Lucy. (APPLAUSE) Minutes ago, that girl talked to them backstage.
(SWITCH TO: VLAD AND LUCY IN A SMALL PURPLE-DRAPED WAITING AREA)
CASSANDRA: I’m told you and Van Helsing are rivals outside of the contest as well. How does it feel now that you’re both in the finals?
VLAD: I can smell your blood.
CASSANDRA: What?
VLAD: It is sweet. What is that scent?
CASSANDRA: Eau de Humanity.
(SWITCH TO: SAME ROOM WITH AMON-RA AND SHEPARDA)
CASSANDRA: You two weren’t expected to make the finals. How are you doing?
SHEPARDA: I think we have it wrapped up.
CASSANDRA: And how is it for you to be performing live?
AMON-RA: Gggrrrrr.
CASSANDRA: Sorry, I forgot.
(SWITCH TO: SAME ROOM WITH VAN HELSING AND PHYLLIS)
CASSANDRA: I didn’t get an answer from Vlad, but maybe you have something to say in the matter. You’ve been rivals a long time. How does it feel to be facing each other in the finals?
VAN HELSING: I shall leave him dust.
CASSANDRA: Don’t you mean you’ll leave him in the dust?
VAN HELSING: Quite.
(CUT TO: MAIN STAGE)
HOST: Welcome back. Though almost all the human contestants have died in what can best be described as mysterious circumstances (WINKS), we still have those whose remains remain. First up, Frankenstein’s creation doing the only dance he knows.
(WRITER INSERTS OBVIOUS JOKE HERE)
HOST: I’m betting even the sweet release of death wouldn’t help him . . . and it didn’t! That’s what you get when your creator gives you two left feet.
(AUDIENCE IGNORES APPLAUSE SIGN)
HOST: Heh heh . . . Before we bring out the next dancers, let’s take a look back at how this all started.
(SWITCH TO: REHEARSAL ROOM, VLAD AND LUCY)
LUCY: (EXASPERATED) C’mon, it’s one, two, three, four.
VLAD: Don’t teach me how to count. I have a cousin in America who’s a mathematician.
(SWITCH TO: REHEARSAL ROOM, AMONRA AND SHEPARDA)
SHEPARDA: (SITTING ON THE FLOOR, ROCKING IN PAIN) Seriously, I twisted my ankle and all you can say is, “It happens all the time”?
(SWITCH TO: REHEARSAL ROOM, VAN HELSING AND PHYLLIS)
VAN HELSING: (FINGER POINTING UP TRIUMPHANTLY) Rehearse the kraken!
PHYLLIS: I never know what you’re talking about, but you do dance divinely. HA!
(SWITCH TO: MAIN STAGE, HOST AND CASSANDRA)
HOST: Perhaps the most memorable rivalry was between two competitors more known for their monthly hair growth than for their ballroom skills. One from London, and one from New Jersey.
(SUNBURST TO DARKNESS, FADING IN PRE-TAPE ON WHAT LOOKS LIKE A MOOR)
WOLF RUSSELL: We Nurians invented rock and roll hundreds of years ago. Have you seen the tattoo on my hand?
(SWITCH TO A DESERTED CITY CORNER)
WOLF NAUGHTON: I was a professional dancer. I just wish people would forget about my European tour.
(FX: SUNBURST, FADE TO MAIN STAGE)
HOST: Well, since the judges decided they both bite, and neither one will get the gold, much less the silver, their rivalry has transformed into a friendship. Here they are putting on the dog one last time.
(MUSIC: “Werewolves of London”)
WOLF RUSSELL: (LOUD) Shit, not this again!
WOLF NAUGHTON: I sang better any day . . .
[The wolves jump to the backstage area; screams and cartoon crashes create a more in-tune sound]
HOST: Looks like they’re attacking the band. I don’t think this was the choreography we saw in rehearsal.
CASSANDRA: I told them they should find a second tempo.
HOST: (VAGUELY TOWARD HER) It’s like the wind keeps blowing in my ears.
(FADE TO BLACK)
(FADE IN)
HOST: Welcome back. During the break, we picked up a couple of spare musicians on the sidewalk, and now we’re ready to continue. Next up is Cyclops. He’s a one-eye doing a two-step for the third time. Let’s bring him forth.
(MUSIC: “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?”)
[Dancers circle around Cyclops, tempting him with plastic sheep. One by one, he catches the dancers and rips their heads off. Wouldn’t you?]
HOST: There it is, survival of the fleecest.
(FADE TO BLACK)
(FADE IN)
HOST: And now the moments you’ve all been waiting for. Our three finalists will be dancing to a song they only learned twenty minutes ago and the band only learned during commercial.
CASSANDRA: Precognitive powers not so funny now, eh, suckers?
(MUSIC: “I’m Alive”)
[Vlad and Lucy co
me out first. Lucy is trying to tango, but Vlad is not having any of it. When they get to mid-stage, Vlad faces the judges, turns into smoke, turns back into human form. He curls his hand at them, as if beckoning. Then he looks into the camera and does the same. Lucy continues to tango by herself.]
[Behind them come Sheparda and Amon-Ra. Amon-Ra shuffles surprisingly fast, though he only seems to shamble, one arm stiffly approximating the tango position. Sheparda does kicks and grinds, generally giving him and the audience a standing lap dance.]
[Last, Van Helsing and Phyllis emerge forcefully, Van Helsing dancing like the outcome of Armageddon depends on it, Phyllis dancing like a Borscht Belt groupie.]
(MUSIC FADE OUT)
HOST: Well, there it is, the last dance of the competition. Who will win the prize? The villagers have stormed the phone lines, and now it’s up to these three non-eternal judges.
(SWITCH TO: JUDGES’ TABLE)
[The first judge is elusive as cotton candy. The second seems to be a scarecrow made out of wood instead of straw. The third is collared and affixed with a heavy chain to his end of the table.]
HOST: What do you have to say about Vlad?
FIRST JUDGE: (AIRILY) Vlad Tepish is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful dancer I have ever seen in my life.
SECOND JUDGE: (WOODENLY) Vlad Tepish is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful dancer I have ever seen in my life.
THIRD JUDGE: (JUMPS UP ON THE TABLE, STRAINING AND CLAWING) Vlad Tepish is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful dancer I have ever seen in my life.
HOST: Well, I guess that’s it, then. Vlad and Lucy have won!
(AUDIENCE CHEERS)
[Amon-Ra lets out a sepulchral scream, holding out his arms as if to strangle someone, anyone. But Van Helsing jumps in front of him.]
VAN HELSING: (ANGRILY) They didn’t get to us! What about us!
CASSANDRA: I told you Vlad was going to win.
HOST: (OBLIVIOUS) All that’s left is for the big group hug and the awarding of the mirrorball.
[Obeying, everyone onstage gathers around in a Hollywood Kiss scrum. From the middle comes a cry of agony and a puff of smoke. When they break, Vlad is nowhere to be seen.]
(RELIEVED SIGHS FROM THE AUDIENCE, FROM THE HOST AND CASSANDRA, FROM THE JUDGES)
HOST: Oh, thank goodness. I mean, what was a vampire going to do with a mirrorball, anyway?
BRIANS!!!
D. L. SNELL
“I’m a zombie but still gots his brains,” Kenny began, reading the opening hook of his first horrible novel.
With zombie popularity spreading so rapidly, he had hoped for a bigger turnout. But Kenny stood in the little bookstore, addressing only his mother, who took up three of the empty seats; she had a fat purse.
The handbag was not big enough, however, to fill the other vacant chairs.
“That’s my son!” she cried out, waving her purse dangerously and losing her cents. “Woo-hoo!”
The cashier with a pink streak in her hair caught Kenny’s eye.
“Mom . . .” he groaned.
“Sorry,” she said, sitting down again. “Go ahead and start from the beginning.”
Kenny cleared his throat and said, “Um . . . okay . . . I’m a zombie but, uh . . . still gots his—”
The bell over the front entrance rang. A man in a gray blazer came in, carrying a black duffel bag and tripod. His eyes instantly locked onto Kenny.
“Oooh,” his mom said, “someone from the paper?!”
“No, ma’am,” the man replied as he pulled a video camera out of his bag. “Someone with the local news.”
“Oooh-oooh-oooh!” she said, ogling his equipment. “My son’s very first book signing and he’s already on TV?!” She bounced out of her seat, eager to talk off the reporter’s ear.
But she got hung up—her purse caught on an empty seat. In the process, she lost all her marbles, gum wrappers, and change, and all sorts of embarrassing photographs of Kenny in his baby bath.
She gathered them up and showed them off to the reporter, who was now getting the photographic evidence on film.
Kenny groaned.
“So,” the cute cashier behind him asked, “what’s the book about?”
Kenny turned to face her. It was the first time he noticed how short she was. Short, but intimidating, as if cute could cut.
Her name tag said STEPH.
“Um . . .” he said, wishing his mother were there. She had a knack for putting words in his mouth.
“It’s not about glitz-vamps, is it?” Steph asked.
“What are . . . those?”
“Because I hate glitz-vamps.”
“Oh. No. It’s—”
“Zombies with brains, right?”
“Uh, I think so . . .”
“Then why does the cover say ‘Brians’?”
“Huh?!” Kenny asked.
“You know, as in plural for ‘Brian’?”
“Uh-oh . . .” Kenny stared at the cover, which featured a badly Photoshopped eagle for some reason. Above that, his title was typed in bloody font:
He was too mortified to look up from the typo.
“Give me that,” Steph said, snatching the copy from his trembling hand. She skimmed the back-cover description. “Who’s your publisher?”
Kenny almost said “self-published.” But that wasn’t entirely accurate, and it sounded stupid. So he said, “My mom.”
Steph leafed through a couple pages and said, “It’s crap.”
“What?”
“You need an editor.”
“But my mom’s—”
“Well, your mom sucks.”
Kenny couldn’t argue with that.
“You need a real editor,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I charge by the word.”
“What?”
She ignored him and gave the cover one last look. “You should have subtitled it If I Only Had One.” Then she gave the novel back.
“Kenneth!” his mother called, motioning for him to join her and the reporter from the news.
Steph offered him a sarcastic eyebrow and then turned to tidy up a stack of Dusk bookmarks; a vampire stood glittering on the front.
Kenny shambled over to his mother, and the reporter offered him his hand. “Kenneth, right? I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s okay with you?”
Kenny’s mom said, “Absolutely,” and she took the reporter’s hand herself. She didn’t shake it though. She just slipped her hand inside his and waited, as if expecting him to kiss it.
The reporter shook her hand awkwardly and let go. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get started.” He gave a wireless lapel mic to Kenny and said, “If you could just put this on . . .”
Kenny’s hands shook so badly, his mother insisted on doing it for him.
“Mom—”
“Oh, hush. I used to help your dad put on ties all the time. I’m an old pro at this.” She put the mic on upside down.
“Here,” Steph said, “let me.”
Kenny’s mother shot her a dirty look as Steph affixed the device properly to his Cannibal Corpse shirt.
He had never been this close to a girl before. He held his breath, afraid it might stink. She smelled good, like cigarettes and wintry gum.
“Try that,” she said, patting his shirt back into place.
“Um . . .” Kenny said.
The reporter gave him a thumbs-up. “Crystal clear.” He aimed the camera at Kenny, going for the head shot. “So. Kenneth. Why zombies?”
“Uh . . .” he said, shuffling sideways as his mother shoehorned her way into the frame. He felt Steph’s presence, too, not far behind him. For some reason, the smell of cigarettes gave him an idea.
“Um . . .” he said, “because glitz-vamps suck?”
Steph burst into laughter. “Maybe he does have one after all,” she said to herself.
“One what?” his mother asked.
“A brain, Mom.”
“What?”
“That’s why I picked them.”
“Picked what? Son, what’re you talking about?”
“Zombies, Mom. The ones with the, um . . . brains. We’re exactly like them, maybe. We’re stupid but . . . we know how to eat and watch TV and stuff. So we’ve got to have some.”
“Some what?!” his mother asked. “Honestly, Kenneth, you’re not making any sense!”
“Um . . .”
“Didn’t you hear him?” Steph asked. “He’s talking about brains. Jeez Louise, lady, no wonder he turned out this way.”
“What?!” his mother said, blushing. “Who asked . . . what do you . . . I wasn’t talk . . . aaarrrgghh—why don’t you just mind your own business, little miss?!”
“Scandalous!” the reporter cried. “Sassy!” He focused his camera on Steph. “You seem to have an opinion. What’s your perspective on the recent rash of zombie popularity?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s a rash,” she said, “I think it’s an outbreak.”
“Like the one on your face?” Kenny’s mom asked, trying to interrupt, but Steph barely let her get a word in edgewise. Kenny admired her strength and her pink ribbon of hair.
“If you think about it,” Steph said, “more and more people have become rabid zombie fans. They’re so hungry for stuff to consume, they’re ransacking bookstores, movie stores, and . . . they actually trampled a few obscurely famous Blank of the Dead extras this year, at the Zombie Decathlon!”
It sounded well thought-out, as if she were a panelist at a horror convention, which Kenny had never been to but had personally seen videos of online.
“Hmm,” the reporter said. “Scintillating. Sensational.”
“Oh yeah?” Kenny’s mother interjected. “I changed Kenneth’s diapers, so I, um . . . he dedicated his Brains!!! to me, so there!”
Steph got right in her face and said, “Actually, it’s Brians!!!” Then she turned back to the reporter, who was ignoring the mother anyway.
“So,” the reporter said, engrossed with Steph. “Why do you think people are acting this way?”
Before she could answer, the reporter quickly elaborated. “I mean, it’s caused riots and economic depressions and . . . whole industries have gone under simply because people are staying home with their favorite zombie book or Ramirez film. Why, do you think?”
Aftertaste Page 29