The four fans cheered, whistled, and applauded as he swayed. “Omigod, it’s him, it’s really him!” Conk dropped the papers and stared. What a Wiki entry this would make!
Longshanks was jumping up and down. “He looks just like he did on the Avenger’s Revenge tour!”
“He’s staggering like he did on that tour, too,” Kutfist said, without the sneer this time. He looked nervously around. “C’mon, gotta get him to the van.”
The undead rock star lurched and shambled, looking disoriented but not entirely out of character. “Come on, Thor!” Longshanks pleaded. She lifted up her T-shirt to flash her breasts; Thor had never noticed her when she’d done it at concerts, but this time he shuffled toward her, making moaning, sucking sounds from deep in his throat.
“Hurry up, get him into the van!” Conk said in an urgent whisper. “Before some other fans show up. He’s ours!”
“Wait! We can’t leave the speakers—I borrowed them from my uncle’s catering company,” Kutfist said. “He’s got a bar mitzvah tomorrow; he’ll kill me!” Fortunately, since Thor was having a hard time orienting himself toward a vertical life, they had plenty of time to retrieve the gear and pack it into the pizza van they’d “borrowed” from work.
Conk started the engine while Kutfist and Dredd turned in their seats to stare at Thor, who was crammed into the third-row seat with Longshanks. “Now he’s with his true fans!” She sniffed, then frowned. “Is he supposed to smell this bad?”
“I think that’s just an old pizza I forgot to deliver last week,” Conk said.
As the van careened out of the cemetery, Dredd leaned over the seat and said earnestly, “Dude, ‘Dark Carbuncle’ is an awesome song!” He extended his hand, then thought better of it and withdrew.
They jabbered excitedly as they headed off to Conk’s garage. “I’m gonna have him teach me guitar. We could do some killer riffs together!”
“I want him to sign some autographs—impress my girlfriend for sure,” Kutfist said. “Hmm, maybe even sell them online.”
Longshanks tentatively nudged one of the scraps dangling off Thor’s ruined face. “Hey, we could sell pieces of his skin. Talk about a real collector’s item!”
Kutfist returned to the sneer. “What are you thinking? Anybody who bought Thor’s skin could clone him—then we won’t have the only one.”
Longshanks dropped her gaze. “Well, we’d still have the original. A clone is no better than . . . a cover band.”
“How about we just sell locks of hair?” Conk suggested. He didn’t want them to argue during this ultimate moment of fannish glory.
As the van pulled up to the two-car garage, the undead legend seemed to be getting his bearings, croaking slightly more comprehensible words. “What . . . happened? Where am I?”
“You’re with us—your real fans!”
Parking in the dark garage, they opened the doors and helped Thor out of the van. Conk hit the button and closed the garage door, then triumphantly switched on the lights to reveal the setup waiting in the other parking space—a small stage, microphone, boom box, and guitar.
Herding Thor forward, Kutfist shouted, “We brought you back from the grave for this, dude!”
Thor automatically stepped onto the stage and into the light, then stared at them in confusion. Longshanks sprang onto the stage beside him and shoved the guitar into his hands. “Omigod, Thor—now you can sing ‘Dark Carbuncle’ for us, night after night after night!”
Thorton Vebliss fell to his knees and screamed.
Surely this was Hell. Surely.
When he’d emerged from the darkness, he’d wondered what the fuck was going on. Why was he covered in dirt? Some superextravagant part of the stage show he couldn’t recall?
Then he remembered, and now he knew exactly what had happened. This was truly eternal punishment. Every bit of his Catholic upbringing rose in his throat—the priests’ lectures, the nuns’ scoldings, the fear of damnation. It was too much for any man, let alone a dead one.
Rotting ligaments snapped as he dropped to his knees and began to cry. For the first time in years he prayed, and for the first time in his life he really meant it. He confessed, he repented, he begged forgiveness. He reminded God of his years as an altar boy, how he’d been in the soprano choir until his voice had changed. He also pointed out that, technically—though God seemed to have overlooked the detail—he hadn’t committed suicide and didn’t deserve damnation. It was merely an unfortunate accident.
“Just please get me out of here! I want to go to Heaven. I’ll do whatever you say; you won’t regret it! Please!” He put more soul into the request than he’d ever spent on one of his stage performances, but even Thor was surprised when the cluttered garage and tiny group of fans swirled away into mist.
The new place was bright and shining, filled with sunlight and rainbows. He saw smiling beings in white robes with wings gathered on a nearby cloud, and an impressive, bearded man on a gleaming golden throne in front of him.
Holy shit, exactly the pictures the priests had painted, down to the last cliché! Choking back tears, Thor knelt before Him.
“Welcome Thorton Vebliss, my wayward son.” The Almighty smiled with a warmth that made Thor tremble. “I am so glad you are finally among us. We have prepared a heavenly reception for you.”
Thor could only stammer, “Thank you, thank you, Lord!” He didn’t know what else to say. Everything was so . . . clean. So . . . cheerful.
“Rise, my son. Rise, and greet your Father.”
Thor rose and moved toward the throne.
“Later, there will be manna, and angel food cake,” God promised, patting him on the shoulder. “But first I have a small request.”
God seemed almost shy as he said it, and Thor thought, I could really like this guy. “Anything, Your Omnipotence. Um, Your Magnificence. Anything you want, just name it!”
Taking him by both shoulders, the Lord turned him toward the nearby cloud, where the choir of angels suddenly pulled back their wings, revealing the electric guitars they wore. One sat behind a drum kit.
Snapping His fingers, God materialized a 1959 custom Les Paul and held it out to Thor. “Play ‘Dark Carbuncle’ for us, my son. I have always loved that song.”
Thor fell to his knees, screaming.
Death and Taxes
HEATHER GRAHAM
I am an IRS agent.
But contrary to what you may be prone to believe, or no matter what it might seem, I am not the monster in this story. I swear.
You see most people believe that we IRS agents are horrible individuals—seriously, as if that’s a prerequisite when you apply for the job. Not true. We’re just working stiffs like everyone else. Everybody needs a job, and I, like the general public with whom I am just another number, needed steady work in order to maintain any kind of lifestyle.
The general public fears an IRS agent—but you can’t begin to imagine how IRS agents fear the general public.
Take the case of Mac Keenan. MacDonald Keenan, if you will. I was called in after several agents had tried to deal with the man.
First off, so you can get a general idea, the man is rich. Rich as Midas. He’s the kind who tries every loophole known to man while the middle class fellow can’t find a slit to slip through. His books are seriously works of art.
It started on a Monday. I was called into my boss’s office. “Vlad,” he said (my name is Vladimir, my folks are of Russian descent,) “we need you.”
“Oh?”
“Special case,” he told me. He pushed a picture out on his desk. It was a picture of a man of about forty-five, a big fellow, so it appeared. Definitely, a stocky man. “MacDonald Keenan. We believe that he has hidden income in vast amounts, and that his expenses list is a pile of pure bull.”
I shrugged. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“So?” It seemed that I was required to say something.
“We sent Josie Valentine about two weeks ago.”
&nbs
p; “And what happened?”
“Mac got all nice and told her to come to his mango tree; he had great fruit—with no real value—that she was welcome to take. She was trying to stay on good terms with him, so she went.”
“What happened?”
“Chimpanzee jumped out of a tree and attacked her—she’s still in the hospital.”
“Why wasn’t this fellow arrested?” I asked indignantly. Josie was a sweet kid. I liked her a lot—so did most of her clients, even when they wound up paying back the big bucks.
My boss waved his hand in the air, “Big-time attorney, of course. Claimed it wasn’t his chimp and he didn’t know how the hell the creature got in the yard.”
“Okay, so why not meet at Keenan’s accountant’s office, or downtown in our office?” I asked.
“Keenan doesn’t have an accountant, does his own taxes. And he came down once. He saw Ted Larson.”
“And?”
“Ted started choking on his coffee. We had to call the paramedics in. Ted’s still in the hospital. Choked so hard he nearly suffocated, and then threw his back out. Ted will be laid up for another three weeks. His situation is pretty dire.”
“Ah, so was there another attempt made to bring Keenan in or to have an agent out to his place?” I asked.
“Aubrey Dupont went out.”
“Audrey? I don’t know her.”
“She’s out of a different office. Anyway, Mac Keenan came to the door all smiles to greet her. She went in to see him, gave me a call, and said that he was going to try to get some of his bank papers from the bank, said he lost them when a storm came through.”
“Okay, that’s reasonable.”
My boss shook his head. “I was on the phone with her when he walked her out. She tripped on a step on the front porch. Broke her up really bad. Her head caught it, you know?”
“Dear God! I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“She’s in a coma now. But like I said, she’s out of a different office; maybe that’s why you haven’t heard.”
“Haul his ass back downtown,” I suggested. I hated house calls. Hated them. You tried to collect, and a woman called in her crying, starving children. She showed you that her washer was broken and she was doing laundry by hand. A man would be in the garage, trying to coax a few more miles out of “old Betsy” because he couldn’t afford a new car. He’s trying not to lose his house. See, I’m sensitive. That kind of stuff breaks my heart. I’m a softy. I’m willing to stretch when need be, but I sure hate it when I have to do home visits.
My boss hesitated and then said, “Vlad, I’m afraid of bringing him in again. Folks here are now superstitious. If I call him in, every one of my agents will call in sick. I need you for this one; I really need you.”
I expected a stupendous mansion. What I found had once been a mansion, but the iron gates were rusty, the massive lawn was overgrown, and the little garden ornaments were hairy with growth of lichen and moss. He had huge oaks in the yard that dripped moss.
It would have really made a perfect haunted house.
I parked my car and looked for a call box by the giant, dilapidated, but ornate front gate. There was none. I pushed on the gate, and it creaked open.
I walked up the overgrown tile walk and found the offending porch stairs—those which had sent poor Aubrey to the hospital in a coma. I walked up the steps without incident and thudded the door with the giant lion’s head door knockers.
I thought the man might refuse to answer, then we’d have to start proceedings, get cops, all that kind of stuff. And, really, I prided myself on being the “get the job done man” for the government. Hey, the government had taken a chance on me. It was the government, of course—no racial, sexual, religious, or other prejudices allowed. I liked that.
But, despite my misgivings, Mac Keenan came to the door.
He was a big man. Maybe six foot four, two inches above my dignified but fairly customary height.
They had sent Aubrey out to see this giant? I thought. Poor, poor dear!
“You the new guy?” he asked.
I handed him my card. “I’m Vladimir Oginsky,” I told him.
“Russ-sky, eh?” he asked.
“I was born here in the United States,” I told him. “My parents were Russian.”
“Aliens,” he said. “This country is just full of aliens! Well, sometimes, that pays. So, well, Mr. Oginsky, come on in. Or should I call you Vlad?”
“You may call me anything you like, Mr. Keenan, as long as you justify your taxes.”
That made him laugh. “Come on in then, Russ-sky. I have my books set up in the dining room.”
I followed him into the house. It was a strange place. It was filled with hunting trophies. Heads lined the walls, and exotic cats, snarls on their feline faces, were displayed full body. The place seemed ancient; there were artifacts from all time periods and a multitude of countries displayed on dusty shelves guarded by a vast nest of spider’s webs.
We entered the dining room. A boar’s head sat on a silver tray in the center. I felt as if I might have entered a castle deep in the Transylvanian woods run by Dr. Frankenstein. Wrong country, wrong story, I know, but that was the feeling I got.
“Right there,” he said proudly, drawing back a chair. “There are some of my receipts—I keep them all; take a look. I don’t know why the government has targeted me!”
I looked at the receipts. Most were far too faded now to be legible, but I found one.
“Publix?” I said.
“Where shopping is a pleasure!” he assured, quoting the giant chain’s motto.
“Mr. Keenan, you can’t deduct your groceries. I’m afraid we’ll have to start weeding these out.”
“What? A man’s gotta eat to live!” he protested.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Keenan. Congress makes the laws; I uphold them,” I told him.
I picked up another receipt. “Toothpaste? Oh, please, Mr. Keenan!” Another receipt for a movie rental; another was for several bottles of red wine.
“I’m afraid that your receipts are worthless, sir,” I told him.
“Worthless,” he said. He was seated across the table from me. He clasped his hands together and nodded. I thought that he would explode.
“Hermione’s Whorehouse, Las Vegas?” I said.
“Entertainment!” he bellowed.
“I’m afraid the government doesn’t see it that way. Why, if every man out there tried to deduct personal entertainment like that, the national debt could grow by even more billions. Half of these receipts are from Hermione’s Whorehouse. And say that the government made a turn and accepted such expenses—then married men would want exemptions for every present they bought their wives. Then women would want the same equality, and . . . well, congress will just never pass it. There are still many members on the far right. It’ll never fly. I’m sorry—these receipts are worthless.”
“You don’t understand the Publix?!” he exclaimed, indignant.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m thirsty,” he said suddenly, as if he’d made a quick decision. “Can I get you something? A brandy, bourbon, wine?”
“I’m working, Mr. Keenan,” I told him.
“Some food, perhaps? I make a mean spaghetti and clam sauce,” he said.
This is it; this is going to be his way of getting rid of me.
“Nothing, thank you,” I said.
“Iced tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Coffee?”
“All right, Mr. Keenan. Coffee would be great.”
He left the table. I went through the rest of his receipts. He wanted to deduct a new basement, some items for the basement I couldn’t read, his taxidermist’s bills, and a host of other personal expenses.
He returned with the coffee. I thanked him and sipped it as he watched me like a hawk.
There was something in the coffee, certainly. I had exceptional taste buds—the average Joe might not have no
ticed. I did. There was an acidic aftertaste. Arsenic? Did he really not care that a coroner would discover the poisoning? Or was it something more subtle that might go undetected during an autopsy?
“Mr. Keenan,” I told him. “You can’t deduct dog food. Or cat food, for that matter. And, as far as I can see, the only cats you have around here are dead ones.”
He smiled. “All right. I understand, I guess, though you might change your mind. I can’t deduct dog food, and since you’re a stickler, it seems I can’t deduct cat food either. You might change your mind.”
I finished my coffee. He watched me, stared at me, and seemed baffled.
He was waiting, expectantly.
“And you can’t deduct products for personal hygiene, either,” I said.
He leaned toward me then. He didn’t appear to be quite so affable. “You don’t understand, Vlad, Bad, Russ-sky, whatever you are. Yes, you know what? You’re wrong. I can deduct cat food. It’s part of my business. Yes, I’m an investor. But I’m also a show master. I do very special shows for very special people. And I can prove it.”
“Oh? You keep great cats around, and the meat bill is for them? Do you have the proper permits?” I asked.
He smiled. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!” he said.
“All well and fine, sir, except that those rights come with the unspoken promise that you don’t prevent those rights to your fellow man.”
He gave me a sneer. “Come to the basement,” he told me. “You’ll see—every expense is totally legitimate.”
“All right,” I said.
I stood. He towered above me, that strange, sick, sneering grin upon his face. We passed by the front on the way to the stairs to the basement. He pointed outside. “You’re working late, Russ-sky. It’s almost dark.”
“So it is,” I said.
He led me to the stairs. There were few—very few—basements in this area, due to the fact that we were just above sea level. He had built up the ground below his mansion, I thought, in order to have a basement. Interesting. Most people would do so for a billiards table or a home gym.
Blood Lite II: Overbite Page 2