by Adam Sifre
The garage was attached to the house and off of the mud room - a good piece of luck as Stanley didn't have to worry about being seen. He grabbed the car keys off the hook by the door and paused to look in the kitchen. A light smear of blood cut a trail across the white floor. He'd have to do something about that before he left. Just in case.
"First things first," he muttered. He put the car keys in his mouth, and with both hands he grabbed Janet's feet.
Ten minutes later she was in the trunk. Stanley was sweating buckets and panting like Lassie at Rin Tin Tin's bachelor party. He dropped the keys from his mouth and they landed somewhere in the vast territory of Janet's bosom. He took a few moments to catch his breath. It felt like hours had passed, but his watch insisted it was only about forty minutes.
"Okay. Okay."
He was going over the plan in his head one last time when the phone rang. Should he answer it or let it go to voice mail? Ideas about establishing an alibi tickled the back of his mind, but in the end he didn't trust himself to have a telephone conversation with anyone right now. He'd been proactive enough for one evening. He let the phone ring.
The answering machine picked up, but it was in the TV room and he couldn't hear who was speaking or what they were saying. He debated going inside and playing the message, but couldn't imagine that it could matter at this point.
He shut the trunk and went back into the kitchen to clean up.
It took him longer to straighten up than he thought it would, and his back ached something awful by the time he was done.
The strength of the righteous is well and good, but a few Advil might be a good idea.
He got the pills from the medicine cabinet and downed them with a diet Coke from the fridge.
Tired and in no hurry to start the drive to south Jersey, he went to the TV room and sat on the couch. As his ass met cushion he exhaled with that special mixture of pleasure and relief of the middle-aged. The answering machine sat on the end table, the blinking red light refusing to be ignored. He reached over and hit play, immediately regretting it. The message was from Janet's friend, Edith. Edith wasn't as mean or loud as Janet, but she was a close second.
"Hiya hon. Just got the new mahjong card. I'll make a copy and walk it over. Don't forget - " A loud thud interrupted her. "What the hell? - hold on a second."
Stanley did not hold on a second. Ignoring the machine he turned and looked around the room, searching for what, he didn't know. Ignoring the aches and pains he stood up.
"Time to go," he said to the room. "Job's still half done."
Back in the garage he got into the car and fished for his keys. Except his keys weren't there. He'd put them right in the passenger seat, hadn't he?
No. He hadn't. The keys, he recalled, were resting somewhere on the great bosom of Janet. Stanley didn't panic. Even when Janet started banging against the trunk, he didn't panic.
Laughing so hard that tears started streaming down his face, he got out of the car and walked to the back of the trunk. He could hardly breathe.
Janet, still banging away, made Stanley laugh even harder. He went to the corner of the garage where the lawnmower was kept. Next to it was a two-gallon can with about half a gallon of gasoline in it. He took the canister and made the short journey back to the trunk, where Janet had added a little moaning to her thumping routine.
Someone knocked against the garage door. Probably Edith, with mahjong card in hand. This too he found hysterical and redoubled his laughter. Trying his best to choke back the giggles, he started spilling gasoline over the car. A lot of it sloshed onto his pants, but that hardly mattered now.
"You know," he wheezed between laughs, "you were right, Janet."
He took out a match book and struck a light.
"I can't do anything right."
Chapter 8
The Critic
Special Agent Christopher Jenkins took the still smoking cigarette that he was holding in the corner of his mouth and then he put it out against his foot, leaning against the old and beat-up coffee machine. He grabbed the suspect who was sitting slumped in a chair in the middle of the room by his coat and shook him very roughly, making the suspect's eyes jiggle in his head.
"Tell me again, scumbag."
"I already told you earlier that I have already told you everything that I know," the suspect lied. "Like I said, the shipment is coming by boat sometime tomorrow night and Mr. X is supposed to be there with the cash, the guns and some people to help move the stuff. I was going to be one of the people who helped move the stuff. That's all I know."
Jenkins took another pull on his still smoking cigarette and frowned in concentration.
The suspect was crying. Special Agent Christopher Jenkins knew the suspect was probably telling the truth. But he needed more information, so he shook the suspect even harder.
"How much of the shit are they bringing in? Tell me!"
Osborne leaned back in his chair and adjusted his trousers. He was sporting a nice little pup tent. As far as he was concerned, stories this bad were better than hardcore porn. This one wasn't as deliciously insipid as the latest Twilight book, but it would do.
He intended to go straight to his blog, writeorwrong.com, and begin shredding while the bad taste in his mouth was still fresh. But his stiffy had other ideas. This piece wasn't published of course. Random House and the like had enough sense to stay away from drivel of this sort. But even for a high school writing assignment, it was spectacularly bad.
It was no use. He was too worked up now to sit still. He needed a little something to take the edge off, and that little something was sleeping in the next room.
He got up from his desk, and like every man other than Al Gore let his erection lead the way. With a quick detour to the bathroom for a splash of Listermint and a courtesy wipe of his ass, he gave himself a once over in the mirror. Hmm. For a critic, he was surprisingly handsome. Short dark hair, a pimple free complexion and light blue eyes. His teeth were white and even. There was nothing obviously repulsive about him.
Kelly's toothbrush had fallen into the sink. With a frown he returned it to its rightful place. She was always doing things like that. He sighed then headed to the bedroom.
Kelly, already sleeping, lay before him like a Caligula buffet. She wore a long white T-shirt that ended just above her knees. Osborne frowned again and pulled back a few strands of hair that had fallen over her face. She was always letting her hair get loose, even though she knew it drove him to distraction sometimes.
He pulled down his trousers. His cock, much less discriminating than the rest of him, sprang to attention. He turned Kelly's head toward his own and gently shook her.
"Hey, wake up," he whispered. "I need you."
Kelly's eyes fluttered open to see the all too familiar sight. She started to turn away.
"Not tonight, Oz. Leave me be."
Osborne cursed to himself. Always the same with her. Climbing on the bed, he straddled her chest, his all too average sized erection bobbing in a non-threatening manner.
"What's with the shirt? I told you I hate this shirt. You should sleep in the gray one. It's more comfortable and looks better on you."
Kelly turned her head away from the would-be intruder.
"Goddammit, Oz! I said leave me be, and stop telling me what I should wear. I know what I feel comfortable in and it isn't your god damn gray shirt."
Osborne shimmied up a little closer to his goal.
"It’s God damned," he whispered. He could feel her breath tickling his hairs. Yum.
Kelly tried to roll over, but Osborne's knees kept her trapped on her back.
"What?"
"It's 'God damned,' not god damn. It isn't your god damn white shirt. Lots of people make that mistake, especially when their -"
As Kelly bit down as hard as she could - which was pretty god damned hard - Osborne screamed.
In fact, she bit clean through. Blood quickly soaked the Egyptian cotton sheets. He rolled off th
e bed and onto the floor, screaming louder and higher, his groin a riot of agony.
Kelly sat up and spat out a nice chunk of his manhood. It hit the top of his remaining head and bounced onto the floor, landing on last month's issue of Oprah magazine.
"Next time when I say I'm too god damned tired maybe you'll leave what's left of your god damned prick in your god damned pants."
He started crawling for the door. "You didn't ... say ... you were ... tired," he panted. "You never ..."
"What was that?" Kelly screamed. She spat on the floor again, discharging a fair amount of red tinged saliva. "What did you say?"
Still on hands and knees, Osborne was out the bedroom door and making his way to the stairs, a long dark red skid mark painted in his wake. His screams had died down to a quiet mewling. He still had the presence of mind to note that even in this situation, Kelly was capable of over-reacting.
The stairs were carpeted in the most god-awful green shag imaginable. Why he had let her talk him into that fiasco he couldn't remember. He was halfway down the stairs when he thought about his severed head.
The doctors would need that, wouldn't they? These days people got things reattached all the time.
The thought of turning around and crawling back up the stairs was too much, and he was pretty sure Kelly was not in the mood to behave rationally. In the back of his mind, he took a small satisfaction in hearing sobbing coming from the room.
He'd let the cops deal with it. First things first.
It wasn't until he was at the bottom of the stairs that he thought about calling 911. He sluggishly fished his cell phone out of his shirt pocket. Somehow it hadn't fallen out during all the mayhem.
Must be my lucky day.
It took him a few moments to focus and dial. He'd lost a lot of blood and was having trouble staying awake. The phone kept ringing and ringing. He started thinking that maybe he misdialed when someone answered.
"You have reached the 911 emergency line. All circuits are currently busy. Do not hang up. Someone will be with you shortly. You have reached the 911 ..."
What the fuck? Since when did 911 have call waiting?
And why use 'currently busy'? If all circuits are busy, then of course they are currently busy. When would people learn the right time and place to use adverbs?
Osborne struggled to his feet, vomited from the pain and nearly collapsed. He lurched over to the front door. He'd get his neighbor to drive him to the hospital. Earlier he'd noticed Mr. Caulkin's car, a hideous yellow VW Bug, parked in the driveway. On the left side of the driveway, for some reason; should have been on the right. Osborne didn't relish the idea of driving up to the emergency room dickless and in a yellow Volkswagen bug, but it beat bleeding to death.
He opened the door and took a painful step outside.
His last breathing thought was:
What are all these people doing outside?
Chapter 9
Eating Aleta
After Aleta tried to reject his advances, Fred aimlessly walked the streets, heartbroken and disgusted. He knew it was more infatuation than love but he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, or the taste of her out of his mouth.
Eventually he found himself in some breather's backyard, leaning against the trunk of a large weeping willow. Its long whip-like branches hid him from the breather's home a few dozen yards away. Waiting for darkness to fall, he kept replaying in his mind’s eye the final encounter with Aleta.
He gently smashed his head against the willow trunk.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought.
"Braaaainnnsss ..." he moaned.
I am without a doubt the sorriest excuse for a zombie anyone's ever seen. Mooning over a woman like some high-school Romeo.
He looked at the note in his hand and immediately felt like an even bigger idiot. It was written in crayon because he found it easier to hold than a pen. His hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be. Even so, it took him half the day to finish and it looked like the work of an eight-year-old suffering Ritalin withdrawal.
He doubted anyone other than himself would even be able to make out the words. Not that he was planning on publishing. Like all poets, however, in his dead heart of hearts, Fred wrote for an audience.
What was I thinking? I'm a monster. I eat living flesh and brains. And I've got no prospects. He knew he wasn't exactly Brad Pitt when he was alive, and shambling around in mortified flesh for the past few months hadn't scored him any points in the romance department.
He stopped battering the tree. Bits of bark had embedded themselves into his forehead, but he was too depressed to care.
I had to be an idiot to think she'd ever be interested in me. Zombies do not fall in love, asshole.
He looked at the note in his hands, still readable in the fading light.
A bird can't swim, and a fish won't fly, he thought. And a zombie's gotta do what a zombie's gotta do.
Fred crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the ground. Parting the curtain of willow fronds, he made his way to the back of the breather's house just as the sun set.
Eating Aleta
By Fred - last name forgotten
Unlife is funny.
In my mind, we sit together
on a quiet bench,
in an abandoned street,
in the dead of night.
I do not drag you, broken and bleeding
heart still beating,
to the seclusion of the alley
in the shadow of a dumpster.
In my mind, I spoke the same confession
made by countless lovers;
only wanting to drink you in,
hungry for your touch.
I do not ignore the screams
I've heard countless times before,
or hunger for your flesh.
I do not feast on you as you push against me.
In my mind, you warm to me,
you really get me,
appreciate the little things about me
unable to keep me out of your thoughts
and pleasant daydreams.
I do not tear into you, my sweet Aleta,
taking from you little things, here and there.
I do not shamble from the dumpster
with the thought of you on my lips,
and a bit of you in my teeth.
In my mind ...
Chapter 10
Jenny's Journal
Stapled to the forehead of a male, approximately thirty-five years of age, Asian descent. Both hands severed and found near body.
Jenny's Journal, Sept 4
Timothy Foxwood, the self-righteous prick and president of the Shadyfarms Condo Association, was over yesterday afternoon with a petition signed by almost every owner, stating that Mom was not permitted to have any pets henceforth. Can you believe it actually said 'henceforth'? Poor Sparky's barely stopped smoking and now this. I can't prove anything of course, but I'm certain this was in retaliation for the hamster incident of '97 which, aside from a ruined table shot at the Johnson wedding, resulted in almost no property damage or injury. I'm sure it was Mom's refusal to pay the dry cleaning bill or replacement cost of the wedding cake that stuck in Sarah Johnson's craw. She's the bride's mother and everyone knows she's been knocking boots with Foxwood these last several months.
So, a new pet is out and Mom is still beside herself. She just lies in bed all day and watches that stupid Fox News. Stories about people attacking each other, graves turning up empty, blah, blah, blah. What's next, a two-hour special on how Kazoo and his invisible aliens built the pyramids? Poor Mom won't even let me leave to get groceries. Looks like another meal of 'strange meat' sandwiches. I'm going crazy here.
Okay, that's it for now, Journal. I'll try to write more tomorrow, although if this keeps up my next entry may be in crayon and written on a rubber wall.
Ttyl
Chapter 11
Visiting Day
Car Ride
&
nbsp; Jon glared at the rearview mirror. He was in no mood today for this bullshit. His neck was killing him. Whenever he turned his head he was rewarded with sharp pains down his left shoulder and arm. On top of that he was sporting a thumping bad headache, and the cause of it slouched in the Toyota's back seat.
In the world of headaches, Jeffrey was what was known as a carrier.
The little stinker was multi-tasking by managing to look angry, bored and focused at the same time, all while keeping his eyes glued to his Nintendo DS. After a few seconds of blessed silence he sensed it was time to repeat his mantra.
"Why do I have to go?" he whined. "We just went last week."
Jon gripped the steering wheel a little harder and squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, causing another small agony of pain to travel down his arm. He winced and relaxed his grip.
Please let it be a heart attack.
It was a two hour drive without traffic to Mother Mary's Nursing Home, God willing, and he did not want to spend it arguing with an eleven-year-old brat.
Jon shot a glance at Lori. She remained oblivious to the outside world, her face buried in a People magazine. Jon grimaced. Like mother, like son. She wasn't bad looking for forty-something. She had beautiful thick black hair, and he didn't give a shit if it was natural or dyed. She had a nice rack, although without the help of Wonderbra they sagged a bit. She thought her skin was her best feature, but his vote went to her ass. He had to admit she had nice skin, though. It was pale and vampire-smooth.