Dead Clown Barbecue

by Jeff Strand

Dead Clown Barbecue copyright 2013 by Jeff Strand.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author.

Cover art copyright 2013 by Lynne Hansen

Book design by Lynne Hansen

http://LynneHansen.zenfolio.com

http://www.LynneHansen.com

For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Pett Semmuteary

Comeuppance

The Apocalypse Ain't So Bad

The Bell . . . FROM HELL!!!

Work/Life Balance

Stop Stabbing Me

Eight-Legged Vengeance

The Drop

Here's What Happened . . .

Pregnancy Test

Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine

The Carver

Push the Button

My Knife Collection

Drain Bamage

Gramma's Corpse

Burden

Rough Draft

Fangboy and the Troll

Dead in the Water

Immunity

The Big Bite

Specimen 313

We Believe

Poor Career Choice

True Hero

Chomp (A Cautionary Tale)

The Severed Nose

Dummy

Story Notes

About the Author

Other Books by Jeff Strand

INTRODUCTION

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, vampires and vampire hunters, werewolves and gypsies, scientists and experiments gone horribly wrong, slashers and final girls, kidnapped authors and ankle-breaking fans, zombies and humans who are the true monsters, boils and ghouls, welcome to my second short story collection, Dead Clown Barbecue!

If you've read my first one, Gleefully Macabre Tales, you've probably got a good idea of what to expect: comedic horror. Mostly. I mean, "Burden" isn't exactly a festival of laughs, and there are some other "serious" stories in here . . . but for the most part, it's comedic horror. And you probably did not purchase a book called Dead Clown Barbecue expecting a bleak, introspective examination of the human condition, so we're cool.

I was having trouble thinking of a title for this book (Gleefully Macabre Tales II? More Gleefully Macabre Tales? Bride of Gleefully Macabre Tales? Gleefully Macabre Tales: Apocalypse Extinction Afterlife Retribution?) until I received an invitation in the mail that said "This Saturday on Main Street! Everybody come to the Dead Clown Barbecue! 12:30 PM."

"Hey," I said to my wife, "do you want to go to a dead clown barbecue on Saturday?"

"What's that?" she asked.

"What do you mean? It's a dead clown barbecue."

"But what is that? Is that where they barbecue a dead clown, or is it a barbecue hosted by dead clowns?"

I frowned and looked at the invitation. It had a drawing of a red round nose but no other useful information. "I assumed that we'd be eating dead clown. It's a little silly of you to think that dead clowns could host a barbecue. How would they work the grill? How would they set up the tables? How would they even have printed up the invitations?"

"I thought that 'dead' clown could mean 'zombie' clown."

I chuckled. "Well, sure, that would be logical speculation . . . in a world where zombies exist! In our current world, they don't, and if they did, we would have heard about them, and if we hadn't, they certainly wouldn't be revealing their existence at a barbecue on Main Street." I chuckled again, to show her how amused I was by her ridiculous comment.

"Then why did they specify that they were dead clowns? You wouldn't invite somebody to a 'dead cow' or 'dead pig' barbecue."

"I guess you have a mild point there," I admitted. "But I, for one, would have no interest in attending a barbecue where some live clown was being held onto a charcoal grill. That would be sadistic. Can you imagine? Some poor clown shrieking in agony while his leg flesh sizzles? Would you want to eat that meat on a burger? Would you? Please say no, or else I will judge you for it."

"No," my wife said. "I'm just saying that, from the invitation, it's not clear exactly what kind of event we're attending, and I don't think you can just assume that we'll be eating choice cuts from freshly killed clowns, that's all."

"So you don't want to go? Is that it? You never want to do anything! If you had your way, we'd never leave the house!"

(Note to readers: I apologize if this uncensored, brutally honest look at our relationship is making you uncomfortable. My goal is to share the truth here, warts and all.)

"We can go," she said. "But if they're zombies, you owe me an apology."

I nodded my agreement, even though I had no intention of apologizing if they did indeed turn out to be zombies. I mean, come on, that would be a shameful sign of weakness.

On Saturday, I changed into my finest ringmaster uniform. My wife asked if I was really going to wear that, and I grudgingly changed into jeans and a t-shirt instead. We drove to Main Street and arrived promptly at 12:30 PM, because I don't believe in that "fashionably late" crap. There were at least a dozen grills fired up, and the people running them were neither clowns nor zombie clowns. They were just regular people, holding tongs and wearing aprons with amusing slogans.

Besides the grillers, there weren't many other people around. We walked up to the first grill, upon which a clown head (of the "sad clown with stubble" variety) was cooking. It smelled pretty good. Not amazing — it wasn't as if my stomach started rumbling — but it was a pleasant enough aroma.

"Hello there, sir," said the chef. "Have you eaten clown before?"

"I can't say that I have."

"Oh, well, you'll love these. All of today's stock is drowned clown, the best kind."

"Drowned clown?"

The chef nodded. "We drowned them in a tank of salt water. Delicious. Clowns usually die in tragic accidents, like chainsaw juggling, and that trauma affects the meat. The last clown I ate had been trampled by an elephant. I swear, I might as well have just eaten roadkill."

"I'd never even heard of eating clown before," I said.

"Really? Maybe it's more of a West Coast thing."

"Isn't this cannibalism?" my wife asked. I gently elbowed her in the ribs to let her know she was being rude.

"Well, sure, if you want to be technical, it's definitely cannibalism," the chef admitted. "It's not like clowns are another species. That's probably why there isn't much of a crowd here today. People get kind of squeamish about eating human flesh, even when it's cooked to perfection. I kept telling the organizers of this event that we didn't need twelve grills running, but they figured it's better to have too much than to run out."

"You can always donate the leftovers to a homeless shelter," I said.

"Not my department. They'll probably just chuck it in the trash. Anyway, would you like to try some crispy clown ear?"

"No, thank you," said my wife.

"Yes, please," I said.

The chef sliced off the clown's left ear. "Careful, it's hot," he said, picking it up with his tongs and handing it to me. I bit it in half and chewed thoughtfully. He'd lied; it was more rubbery than crispy, and much less flavorful than I would have hoped.

"Delicious, right?" the chef asked.

"Oh, yes, yes." I ate the rest of the ear to be polite. "Very good. Perfectly seasoned."

"Would you like some clown sausage? I'll be honest; there's some chicken and pork mixed in there, but the majority is clown."

"Oh my God!" my wife shouted.

"What?" I asked.

She pointed to the grill next to ours. "That's Lester Berkman!"

I looked at the clown head. The sideburns, the skull earrings, the eyepatch — it was definitely Lester.

"He's not a clown!" my wife shrieked. "He's been our neighbor for the past fifteen years!"

"Just calm down," I said, putting my arm around her.

"Don't you see? These aren't clowns! They're putting regular people in clown makeup and then grilling them!"

All twelve of the chefs turned to face us at once, except for our chef, who'd already been facing us.

"We should go," I said.

My wife and I ran back to the car, chased by a dozen tong-wielding chefs. We were lucky to escape with our lives. My wife kept insisting that we needed to call the police, and I agreed that she was right, but I also explained that if we kept quiet about it, I could break the story in my latest book, which would drum up some publicity.

"Innocent people are being eaten!" she said. "How could you think about book sales at a time like this?"

I glared at her. "Those book sales are what pay for your fuzzy slippers collection. And I'd watch my mouth if I were you, because I think we've got some white makeup in the bathroom."

Yeah, it was a dick thing to say. I'm sorry. But she agreed, and so it feels good to be able to share the horrific truth about the Dead Clown Barbecue. Representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, please take immediate action. Thank you.

A book like this is not the work of one person. Sure, it's 99.7% or so the work of one person, but that last .3% is what stops me from looking like a total idiot, so mega-thanks must go to my trusty crew of test readers: Tod Clark, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, and Rhonda Wilson. Any errors in the book are probably things that they pointed out but that I was too arrogant to change. Also thanks to editor/publisher Chris Morey, and, of course, my wife. I love you, sweetie, and I was totally bluffing about the makeup.

PETT SEMMUTEARY

Here lies Scooter, read one of the tombstones. He's humping God's leg now.

I didn't even like the cat I had in the bag. Don't get me wrong, I liked cats in general, but this particular one was a scratchy, bitey jerk. Also, Tipsy was twenty-two years old, a more than respectable age for a cat to leave this world, so I couldn't feel too upset about his passing.

But my wife wanted her cat back, so here I was at the Pet Cemetery. Again. In the middle of the night. With snow on the ground. Hoping I wouldn't get arrested.

My breath, misting in the air, seemed to form the words You're an idiot before fading away.

I found a decent spot and cleared away the snow. Then I began the not-fun process of digging a hole in the frozen ground. A better man than me would not have spent the whole time muttering that my wife should be the one out here doing this, but I muttered away without shame.

Fortunately, the hole didn't have to be very deep — just enough that you could completely cover your pet with dirt. After I got a few shovelfuls of dirt out, I gently placed Tipsy into the grave, and then filled it back in.

"See you soon," I said.

As I walked back inside my nice warm house, Abigail gave me a big hug. "How did it go?" she asked.

I shrugged. "He's in the ground. I guess now all we can do is wait. Are the kids still up?"

"I just tucked them into bed."

I took off my boots and jacket and went upstairs. Five-year-old Reed's eyes were closed, but Becky, my eight-year-old, quickly shut off her Kindle and hid it under her pillow.

"I didn't see anything," I told her. I knelt down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Charlie's acting weird."

I glanced over at the aquarium. Charlie was lightly smacking his shell against the glass, tap, tap, tap.

"That's what zombie hermit crabs do," I told her. "You knew that when we brought him back."

"But it keeps me up."

In the aquarium next to Charlie's, six goldfish bobbed on the surface of the water. They'd occasionally swim down until they hit the colored gravel, but mostly they just floated. Reed thought they were way cooler than completely live fish.

"What if I put a towel in there?" I asked. "That way he won't make any noise."

"Okay."

I retrieved a towel from the bathroom closet and draped it over the side of the aquarium. Charlie smacked his shell silently against the cloth.

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Only ten more minutes of reading, okay?"

Becky nodded.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

I gave her another kiss, and then went back downstairs. Abigail sat on the couch, looking worried.

"Are you sure he can get out?"

"There's maybe two inches of dirt on him," I said. "He'll be fine."

"But it's snowing."

"That cat shredded the side of our leather sofa. You don't think he can claw his way through some snow?"

"I'm just nervous."

"I'm sure he'll be there as soon as we wake up. C'mon, let's go to bed."

I'd hoped for some reward sex for burying Tipsy, but none was offered. Instead, I fell asleep to the sounds of Abigail's occasional sniffle.

But in the morning, there was Tipsy, sitting on the front porch, meowing for us to let him in. Abigail scooped the cat up into her arms and made kissy sounds at him, and everybody helped wash the dirt off him, even though it made the kids late for school.

When I got home from work, Abigail had been crying.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Tipsy. He's . . . I can't really describe it . . . he's just sort of . . . off."

"Off?"

"Almost like a different cat."

"Well, yeah, that's what happens when you bury a dead cat in the pet cemetery. You knew that."

"I know, but . . ."

"But what?"

"I thought it would be different with Tipsy."

"Tipsy isn't a miracle wonder cat. That was always the deal: you'd get your cat back, but he'd be sort of creepy. We discussed this."

"I know, I know."

"Is he being violent?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's just lethargic. He doesn't care about his treats anymore."

"Zombie cats never do."

"It's just unnerving to have him around."

I sighed. "So what are you saying? Do you want me to put him down?"

Abigail bit her lower lip and nodded.

"Seriously?"

"He's not Tipsy anymore."

"Great. Just great. I freeze my ass off burying this cat and now you want him dead again."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to kill the cat. We'll have to take him to the vet, and they're going to charge us to euthanize him, when he was already dead for free."

"I already apologized! What more do you want from me? I'm sorry! I thought I knew what I wanted, but I can't have Tipsy in the house anymore, not like this!"

I was annoyed, but my heart melted as a tear trickled down Abigail's cheek. "It's all right," I told her, giving her a hug. "I'll take care of it. It'll be fine."

Our vet had late hours on Thursdays, so I put Tipsy into the cat carrier (he didn't struggle nearly as much as usual) and took him in. I didn't tell Dr. Turner that I'd already brought Tipsy back to life; I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have approved.

Tipsy let out a soft meow as Dr. Turner gave him the injection, and then went still.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at the text from Abigail: Changed my mind plz bring tipsy home.

Crap.

He's already gone, I texted back.

Plz bring him home.

"I'm going to take his body with me," I told Dr. Turner. "We want to bury it, for the sake of the kids."

I muttered a lot as I shoveled the snow away, put Tipsy back into the hole, and re-covered it with dirt.

"It's freezing out there," I told Abigail as soon as I came through the front door. "That wind is killer."

"Did you dig a new grave?"

"Nah. I just used the old one."

"Will that work?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I thought you said you were going to dig a new one."

"I never said what I was going to do. Why would it matter? All you're supposed to do is bury it at the pet cemetery; there aren't any rules about digging fresh graves."

"Him. Not it."

"Honey, my fingers feel like they're going to fall off. Could you not hassle me about pronouns?"

"If you weren't supposed to dig a new grave, everybody would just reuse the same one. There'd be one grave in the whole cemetery."

"It's not the whole cemetery that brings pets back. Just that one section. Anyway, I get what you're saying, but this is for the same cat."

"Please . . ."

"All right, all right, I'll rebury Tipsy." At least I hadn't already gotten out of my winter clothes.

The pet cemetery was only six blocks away, which had been an issue when we were first deciding to buy this house ("Won't that be creepy to drive by every day?") but was now pretty convenient.

Fortunately, the snow had mostly let up, so I didn't have to clear much out of the way before I scooped the dirt out of Tipsy's grave. I picked up the cat, which was already stiff, and set him on the ground while I dug a second grave right next to the first.

At least a cat could get out by itself. I'd had to bury each goldfish in water-filled Tupperware and return for it the next morning.

I buried Tipsy again, hoping this cat appreciated what I was doing for him, and then returned home. But I did get some thank-you sex from Abigail that night, so I really couldn't complain.

Tipsy came back, dragging one of his hind legs. No bones seemed to be broken, so we figured that was just what happened when a cat was brought back from the dead a second time. He hissed at things that weren't there and smelled slightly worse than before, but Abigail and the kids seemed happy to get their pet back.

"Ow!" Becky screamed that night. I glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning.

"What happened?" I asked, as Abigail and I hurried into her bedroom.

She held up her bleeding arm. "Tipsy bit me!"

"Wow, he sure did. I'll be right back," I said, going to get some peroxide as Abigail consoled our daughter. It was a deep bite, and Becky winced as I put the peroxide on the wound, but my brave little girl didn't cry.

"He just bit you for no reason?" Abigail asked.

Becky nodded. "I was asleep."

"Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it makes sense," I said. "He's a double-zombie cat. Aggressive behavior is only natural."

"We can't have a cat that's going to attack the children," said Abigail.

"Well, that's what we've got. I'm not taking him back to the vet. He'll ask too many questions."

"You could take him to a different vet."

I shook my head. "This is clearly a reanimated cat. Any vet could tell that. If you want to take him in, you're more than welcome, but I'm not doing it."

Tipsy crawled out from under Becky's bed, growling.

"Maybe he's just hungry," said Becky.

"Hungry for human flesh, maybe," I said. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive. I shouldn't have said that. But, come on, this shit always has consequences."

"Don't swear in front of the kids!"

"This stuff always has consequences. You're acting all surprised, like you didn't think anything would happen."

"I didn't think he'd bite Becky!"

"That cat bit people when he was normal!"

"Not unprovoked!"

"I'm not trying to start an argument. All I'm saying is that when you bring a cat back from the dead, it's kind of foolish to get all bent out of shape when he bites somebody. That's all."

Even though I was sort of taking his side, Tipsy took that moment to jump at my leg, hissing and scratching. I cursed ("damn" was okay in front of the children) and tried to kick him off, but the cat's zombie claws remained stuck in my pajama leg.

Abigail grabbed him by the tail and flung him across the room. The cat struck the wall, dropped to the floor, and stopped moving.

My wife, daughter, and son all simultaneously burst into tears.

"I can't believe I did that!" Abigail wailed, rushing over to where the dead cat lay. "I'm a monster!"

"He was trying to kill me," I said, which was an obvious exaggeration but which I hoped would make her feel better.

Abigail picked up the cat, whose backbone was now extremely flexible even by feline standards, and sobbed.

"We can't leave him like this," she said.

"We sure as hell can."

Abigail shook her head. "I can't be the one to have murdered him. I can't let him be dead with that on my conscience."

"Oh, so, it's okay for me to have killed him?"

"You took him to be euthanized! You didn't throw him against a wall!"

She did have a point. "I'm not burying him in the pet cemetery again," I said. "Let's just leave the poor cat in peace."

Abigail held his floppy body out toward me. "You call this peace?"

"More peaceful than being one of the living dead, yeah!"

"Fine. Whatever. I'll do it." She stormed out of the bedroom with the dead cat.

I followed. "Honey, no, let's just bury him in the backyard and be done with it."

"I want my Tipsy back!"

So, yeah, I buried the cat again. I almost considered not doing it, and just burying the cat someplace else, but I figured I'd probably get busted.

Tipsy did not return in the morning.

"Tipsy!" Abigail called, standing on our front porch. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" She looked back at me. "Where is he?"

"He's broken. Maybe it's taking longer."

"What if he can't get out of the hole?"

I almost tried to reassure her that Tipsy could get out of the hole, but I knew that no matter what I said, this scenario was going to play out with me driving to the pet cemetery and digging up that damn cat. I finished my cup of coffee, put on my jacket and boots, and headed off.

Tipsy's grave was just as I'd left it. When I dug him up, I saw why.

I handed my iPhone to Abigail and showed her the picture I'd taken. "He's pretty much just ooze now."

"Was the ooze moving?"

"Well, yes, but —"

"Then you have to bring him back here! You can't just leave him in a grave like that! What a horrible fate!"

"Honey, you can barely even tell he's a cat anymore."

"Would you want to be left like that? Just lying in a cold grave and . . . jiggling?"

"This is the last time. I mean it. I'm never going back to that place after this. I don't care if our next pet is frickin' Lassie; I'm done with the pet cemetery."

Abigail nodded. "I'll respect that."

"I need a bowl."

Thankfully, because it was so cold out, Tipsy didn't squish between my fingers, and came out of the grave in one solid chunk. I placed him in a plastic bowl that would never again hold chocolate chip cookie dough and brought him home.

"He's not moving," said Abigail.

"Just watch. His ear will twitch."

After a moment, his ear twitched. Abigail gasped.

"What do we do with him?" she asked.

"I don't know. You're the one who wanted me to bring him home."

"We have to put him out of his misery."

"How?"

"I don't know!"

"I guess if we thaw him out first, we could flush him."

"No!"

"Hear me out, hear me out! What else do you want to do? You don't want to just stomp on him, do you? Put him in the garbage disposal? Flushing him down the toilet isn't giving him a dignified death, but it would be pain-free, and he wouldn't come back."

Abigail wiped a tear from her eye. "I'll have to think about it."

"We've got time."

As Tispy thawed, Abigail sat there at the dining room table, staring into the bowl. I took the kids to a movie.

When I got back, Tipsy was unrecognizable as anything that had ever been a cat. You wouldn't confuse him with something Abigail might be mixing up to serve for dinner, but there was very little left of his solid state.

"Okay," she said. "I'll flush him."

"I can do it," I told her.

"No. This is all my fault. I'll do it."

She got up, taking the bowl with her. I listened as she walked up the steps, softly weeping. We did have a downstairs bathroom, but I wasn't going to tell a woman in mourning that she was using the less convenient toilet.

There was a thump.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"I dropped him!"

As I walked into the living room, I saw Abigail slip on the Tipsy-ooze. Her arms pinwheeled above her head, and I cried out in horror as she tumbled down the stairs. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, crack.

Sometimes, you know something is wrong. You know that, no matter how great the loss, no matter how devastating and heart-wrenching a tragedy may be, dead is better. You gaze into the lifeless eyes of your beloved wife, and a voice inside your head tells you don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery . . .

I listened to the voice. Only a complete freaking moron would do otherwise, having seen how poorly it worked out for the cat. Abigail's body was cremated, and I assured Reed and Becky that she'd get to see Tipsy in heaven, where he'd gone after he was flushed.

I'm not saying that my story has a happy ending, but all things considered, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

COMEUPPANCE

I loathed Tom Booth from the moment I saw him beating the crap out of my best friend Donald. I waited impatiently for the beating to conclude, helped Donald up after Tom vacated the premises, and vowed revenge.

It took three more Donald-beatings for me to actually seek that vengeance. Lunchtime. Our high school cafeteria. Tom Booth walking in my direction with his tray. Spaghetti. Chocolate milk. Lime Jell-O.

I waited for the optimal moment to strike. Too soon, and he might see the trap and successfully evade it. Too late, and I might never get a perfect opportunity like this again. Like a sniper I watched, silent, motionless, daring not even to drink from my juice box lest it distract me from this prime opportunity.

I stuck out my foot. The target of my scorn tripped, stumbled, and . . .

. . . regained his balance.

Tom Booth favored me with a "You are so dead" look. I must have blurted out six different apologies at once. I offered him my juice box but he didn't accept.

After school, Tom Booth twisted my arm behind my back and made me swallow a piece of gum he'd been chewing. Shortly thereafter, I was added to his biweekly schedule of beatings. My hatred grew with every punch to the stomach.

The physical violence stopped after graduation, but I was horrified to discover that Tom Booth and I were not only attending the same college, but his room was directly above mine in the dormitory. So when he stole my girlfriend Maggie away from me, I had to listen to him make vigorous love to her.

I also listened to him cheat on her. I happily told Maggie about it and invited her over to listen to the evidence, and felt a warm happy glow inside as she stormed upstairs to confront them. I sneered as I listened to the sounds of an argument above, but these were followed by the sounds of laughter, and then the sounds of him making vigorous love to both of them at once.

Oh, how I despised Tom Booth!

We graduated college. I went to work at an entry-level position at a heartless corporation, while Tom Booth vacationed around the world on money from his parents. Two years later, I was promoted out of the copy center into an administrative assistant position, which primarily involved making copies. A week after that, to my unimaginable horror, my boss left the company and was replaced by the man I abhorred most in the entire world.

As you might expect, Tom Booth was an abusive boss, demanding and condescending and almost always unsatisfied with the quality of my work. I wanted revenge so badly that I could taste it. I'd be eating a bowl of Apple Jacks, and the taste of revenge would sour the milk. Even my beloved gummi bears tasted like revenge. I was miserable.

I desperately tried to get even with him, but every attempt was a humiliating failure, particularly my plan to season his coffee with a generous portion of my own saliva. It was clear that my efforts at revenge were cursed.

And so I turned to the supernatural realm.

Strange Playthings was a four-hour drive away, but I didn't mind, even when I ran out of gas and had to accept a ride from a sweaty bearded man who complimented my kidneys. I returned home with a 350% increase in my credit card debt and a Tom Booth voodoo doll.

I couldn't wait to go back to work on Monday. I giggled during the entire drive, ignoring the strange looks from my fellow motorists. Oh, Tom Booth, this would be your day of suffering! I wouldn't kill him. Not today. I'd stretch his misery out for weeks. Months. Years. Perhaps a lifetime of vengeance!

Monday morning, I sat in my cubicle, waiting for him to arrive. At the very first sight of his phony grin, I very slowly inserted a needle into the right arm of the voodoo doll.

He didn't react. Even when the tip of the needle protruded from the other side he didn't react. I switched to the other arm. Nothing. Legs, chest, face . . . my voodoo doll didn't do a thing. I took a pair of scissors out of my desk drawer and began cutting, desperately hoping to see a hand or ear fall to the office floor, but even when I was left with a handful of doll pieces, the tyrant sat happily behind his desk, completely unharmed.

I spent the rest of the week alternating my thoughts of hatred between Tom Booth and the bitch who'd sold me the defective voodoo doll.

That Saturday I returned to Strange Playthings and angrily sprinkled the doll parts on the front counter. The elderly shopkeeper invited me into the back room, where she read my palms and analyzed my aura.

"Your vengeance is indeed cursed," she informed me. "A mere voodoo doll will not suffice."

"So what should I do? Bash him over the head with a shovel? Shoot him?"

The shopkeeper shook her head. "The shovel would slip from your grasp and strike you upon the nose, staining your face with blood of shame. And a bullet would not penetrate the skull of your enemy, but rather find its way into your own toe."

"Dammit!"

"Do not worry, vengeful one. All is not lost. For the price of a few coins more charged to your Visa, I can give you the revenge you seek." She smiled. "That is, if you are willing to endure some pain . . ."

I was. And it hurt like hell. But I drove home with a two-inch-tall tattoo of Tom Booth upon my upper left arm, and I knew that finally my nemesis would suffer.

I spent much of the next day just staring at the tattoo, admiring it in the mirror from all angles. It looked exactly like him, head to toe. It itched and stung, but my own pain was nothing compared to the itching and stinging that Tom Booth would feel.

Once again, I giggled during my entire drive to work. No fellow motorists saw my glee, because I was so anxious to get there that I left three hours early.

Tom Booth walked past my desk and gave me an odd look; almost as if he knew what excruciating agony lay in store. Then he entered his office and sat behind his desk.

I pulled up my sleeve, and slowly, ever so slowly, I inserted a needle into my arm, right into the tattooed image of his arm.

He did not react.

I slid it in deeper. A tiny trickle of blood ran down my arm, but Tom Booth did nothing. Gritting my teeth in pain, I pushed the needle into my arm as far as I could stand.

He reached for his own arm.

And scratched it.

I pulled out the needle and jabbed it into the image of his leg.

He shifted slightly.

I withstood the urge to cry out in frustration, and slammed the needle into my arm over and over again, puncturing his chest, face, and groin. Blood ran down my arm, staining my dress shirt, and I wanted nothing more than to burst into his office and plunge the needle right into his eye.

Tom Booth scratched his forehead and let out a soft laugh, as if something tickled.

I had defaced my own flesh to tickle him.

I hurried into the restroom, locked myself in my favorite stall, and wept.

I didn't wait until the next weekend to drive back to the shop. I called in sick and drove there the next morning. When I returned late that night, my Visa card was filled to capacity, my Discover card was halfway there, and the tattooed image of Tom Booth covered my entire chest.

This time, I didn't waste time with a needle. I brought a knife.

Tom Booth, this was your day of reckoning!

The bastard was in offsite meetings all day, so I never saw him. He'd left me plenty of work. I did it poorly.

But the next morning, oh yes, he arrived and sat behind his desk as usual. I unbuttoned my shirt. It felt as erotic as undressing before a lover. And I sliced a thin red line across my stomach and his wrist.

He winced.

Yes!

I cut his other wrist. Another wince.

Tom Booth was mine.

At least every fifteen minutes or so, I cut my skin. Oh, you can't imagine the pleasure I felt each time he reacted. He looked concerned, perhaps frightened that there was something medically wrong with him. As I soaked up my blood with paper towels, I had to bite down hard on the sides of my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

I drew the blade across his neck.

He swallowed hard, as if a piece of hard candy had prematurely slid down his throat.

It was a bad day for Tom Booth. When he met with some important clients, I repeatedly jabbed the tip of my knife into the center of his forehead. He tried to make it through the meeting without the embarrassment of stopping to take some aspirin, and was unsuccessful.

Rinsing my chest with antiseptic that evening was almost unspeakably painful, yet completely worth it. And later, I lay in my warm pink bathwater and knew that all was right in the universe.

Tom Booth did not show up for work the next day. He had a doctor's appointment. I gleefully imagined him trying to explain his symptoms to a physician who insisted that there was nothing wrong with him.

I kept this up for weeks. By the end, even the slightest brush of my shirt against my chest caused me to flinch with pain, but I didn't care.

I did care when Tom Booth stopped reacting, as if he'd grown accustomed to the phantom pains and learned to live with them.

I took my entire two weeks of vacation time. Upon my return, I waited for the foul cretin to walk past my desk. He glanced at me, frowned, and stopped.

"What happened to your face?"

"Don't you recognize it?" I asked.

"Seriously, what happened to it?"

"It's like looking in a mirror, isn't it?"

"Is that makeup? What did you do?"

I held up the hatchet I'd bought the previous evening, placed my left arm on my desk, and slammed the hatchet blade upon my wrist. It took a second blow to sever my hand completely, but I cackled with glee as Tom Booth's left wrist split open. He staggered back against the wall, screaming as blood sprayed.

I turned the hatchet around and smashed the blunt end into my mouth, shattering several of my front teeth. One of Tom Booth's teeth dropped onto the floor and the pitch of his screams increased by at least two octaves.

He turned and tried to run, until I smacked the hatchet blade deep into my leg. He fell to the floor. I tried to wrench the blade back out, but it wouldn't pop free.

I stood up, immediately lost my balance, and dropped back into my chair. I couldn't see him anymore and I was starting to feel extremely dizzy from blood loss, but that was okay. This was my moment of ecstasy.

Since I couldn't get the hatchet out, I picked up the hammer I'd brought from home and dragged the claw end across my chest, over and over. I screamed with laughter as I ripped out generous chunks of flesh.

Tom Booth howled.

Yes, Tom Booth, that reprehensible creature, had finally received his comeuppance.

THE APOCALYPSE AIN'T SO BAD

If you ask me, people are unnecessarily gloomy about the end of the world. And that starts with calling it "the end of the world." It's not like the planet exploded or cracked in half or melted or anything like that. The world itself is perfectly fine — it's just that almost everybody is dead.

Here's the thing: We all know that it was a devastating tragedy. Why keep bringing that up? Anybody you talk to, you literally can't have more than fifteen seconds of conversation before they've gotta switch the topic to the apocalypse. I'm not suggesting that it isn't a major news story; I'm just saying that it doesn't have to be the only news story. Know what I'm saying? It's been almost four months.

Believe me, I've got plenty to whine about. I'm pretty much on my own at this point. For a short while after humanity's 99.7% demise, I was traveling with a woman named Cyndi. Unfortunately, I sort of botched the timing on bringing up the whole "Hey, we've gotta repopulate the earth!" topic, and I found myself surviving on my own.

Sure, the mutants are a problem. (And, yes, they're mutants — it seems like some people want to call any non-verbal human with a messed-up face a "zombie.") But they go down pretty quick with a shot to the head, and c'mon, who among us thought we'd get the chance to open fire on real people without it being a felony?

Now, some survivors did have to defend themselves against mutated friends and/or family, and there's no question that it must've sucked. If you're one of them, you have the right to be mopey. That's not who I'm complaining about. It's the folks who had to shoot three or four mutant strangers, yet are acting like they had to drown their own mother in a bathtub. Three words: Get. Over. It.

Would I rather the plague not have claimed billions of lives? Of course. You'd have to be a fool or a psychotic to feel otherwise. But are those billions of people going to get right back up and return to their normal routines? No. (Especially because they're not zombies!) It happened, the streets are littered with corpses, so let's make the best of it.

Take Disney World, for example. The rides aren't working because there's no electricity. But admit it, haven't you always wanted to get out of the car in the Haunted Mansion and just take a look around on your own? I did that a couple of days ago, and it was an absolute blast. I even tore off a piece of the wallpaper as a souvenir. Could I have done that pre-apocalypse? No way! I would've been thrown out of the park. Hell, I even got to climb on the track of Space Mountain, and there were no lines anywhere. You don't need some guy walking around in a Mickey Mouse costume to have a good time.

Food is a trade-off. I won't lie to you — I miss steak. On the other hand, last week I brought home an entire shopping cart filled with candy. That sucker was overflowing, and I left plenty on the shelves.

I guess I just don't understand people who always have a negative attitude. Life in a post-apocalyptic world isn't anywhere near as bad as movies want you to believe. It's actually kind of fun. Now I'm going to head over to Barnes & Noble and pick out any book I want.

* * *

I got bit by a mutant this morning. It was my fault; I should've been paying closer attention to my surroundings. Got me right on the arm. It hurt — oh, Christ, did it hurt. Still, my gun was within reach, and I've always been ambidextrous, so I took care of him before he was able to actually start chewing.

Infection is a concern, I'll admit, but it's not worth getting all bent out of shape over.

Trust me, I'm not taking a lackadaisical attitude toward the bite. I cleaned the wound (which did, unfortunately, break the skin) thoroughly with antiseptic, and then I covered it with a bandage. I cleaned it again every half hour after that. Yeah, it stung like crazy, but that means it's working, right? When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, and even though the antiseptic burned worse than pouring lemon juice into the wound, I wasn't going to let it bum me out.

I knew a guy who got bit. You wouldn't believe how much he carried on, and how much of a "Pity me!" attitude he had about the whole thing. Know what he did? He said "I don't wanna become one of those things," shoved his revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Can you believe that? I mean, who kills himself over a mutant bite?

Me, I don't care if I become a shambling, oozing, moaning super-mutant, I'm not swallowing a bullet. That's the coward's way out. Screw that.

* * *

Well, it's been five days, and the bite is almost completely healed. That's how it works. When you have an upbeat attitude, your body chemistry and immune system respond accordingly. Mind over mutant.

A lot of people would've just holed themselves up in their home or apartment after being bitten like that. Not me. Know what I was doing when the pain was at its worst? I was smashing up an abandoned Volkswagen with an aluminum baseball bat. That's not something I could do before the plague, and don't try to act all high and mighty and pretend that the idea isn't appealing. In this new world, boys can be boys, and I love it!

* * *

I miss my family. There, I said it.

This feeling started while I was in a pottery store, breaking pottery. Though I was being cautious and staying out of the narrow aisles, I suddenly felt a hand grab my wrist and yank me away from the shelf. It was the nastiest-looking mutant I'd encountered thus far, and I mean both nasty as in "disgusting" and nasty as in "mean."

There were four other mutants with it. The fact that they were less nasty looking than their counterpart wasn't much of a consolation.

I immediately opened fire, pumping a bullet into the first mutant's nose. As expected, its grip loosened, and I yanked my wrist free. Another shot and the mutant was missing a goodly portion of its skull, including essential brain components. It fell to the floor.

The other four mutants lumbered toward me. They aren't exactly speedy creatures, but they aren't that slow. I mean, it's not like you'd feel like a schmuck and be embarrassed to tell people if one of them got you. So I quickly scooted back through the aisle until I was well out of arm's reach, and then started pumping bullets into those reeking brutes. (Have you smelled one of those things up close? Oh, man, imagine the worst case of festering halitosis you've ever inhaled and multiply it by eighteen or nineteen. Foul. Foul, foul, foul.)

I got the first one in the chest, which didn't do any good. I fired again and got it in the chest again, which continued to not do any good. But the third shot was the requisite head shot, and the mutant dropped.

Something grabbed me from behind.

I screamed and spun around, getting a damn good view of another mutant's jaws coming right at my face. I jerked my head back just in time to avoid the no-doubt unpleasant sensation of its teeth digging into my eye, then pushed the barrel of my gun against its chin and squeezed the trigger. Much splatter resulted.

I spun back around and fired at the other three mutants. I finished off the first one in line, pulled the trigger again, and heard the always-disappointing click. Fortunately, I always carried two guns, plus a hunting knife and a grenade. I wasn't sure if it was a "blow things up" grenade or a smoke grenade (I'm not exactly a weapons specialist) but I kept it with me anyway, just in case.

I pulled the second gun out of its holster and fired, blowing a hole in the mutant's right hand. Couldn't repeat that shot if I tried. I didn't try, because it was more important to kill them than impress myself. My next shot got rid of the mutant's ear. It howled in pain.

I took a few steps back, almost tripping over the dead mutant behind me but thankfully sparing myself that indignity. The two remaining mutants walked side-by-side down the aisle. They were both women, which sucked. There was a definite macho thrill to be found in blowing away ugly guy mutants, but shooting women — even grotesque mutated ones — made me feel like a jerk.

My next bullet shattered a pot. But my next two bullets after that got both of the female mutants in the head. Down they went. At least they weren't hot.

Then another mutant popped up behind me. How did I miss that they were having a frickin' mutant convention in the pottery shop?

Its teeth sank into my shoulder.

I immediately pulled away, which was a bad idea. A generous strip of flesh ripped off in the process. I fired four or five bullets into the mutant's skull before it hit the ground, and two more after.

I frantically peeked around the corner of the aisle, expecting to see a dozen more mutants coming at me with outstretched arms, but the store seemed to be empty now. My shoulder wound was bleeding profusely, and I plucked one of the mutant's teeth out of my flesh and flicked it onto the ground.

That's when I started to miss my family.

Sure, we had our little spats, but they never bit chunks out of me, and our quarrels never involved gunplay.

I pressed my hand against the injury, then quickly made my way out of the store and back home.

* * *

I'm a bit more cynical about the apocalypse these days. The bite really, really hurts when I use the antiseptic, and I'm seeing definite signs of infection.

I still think people complain too much about the whole situation, but the lack of qualified medical personnel is a pretty big downside. That said, I don't think that I'm going to become one of those creatures and I don't think I'm going to die. I do think that I'll be doing a lot of screaming for the next few days.

* * *

My shoulder looks like crap.

It never stops hurting. I've got aspirin but it's not doing any good. I've gone on several supply runs trying desperately to find something stronger, but those goddamn scavengers have cleared out all of the painkillers.

Not gonna die.

Might have to cut my arm off.

I don't think it's possible to saw off your own arm. I think you'd pass out from the pain, and then wake up with a hacksaw imbedded in your arm. If the infection gets worse, I'll need somebody else to do it.

Is there a tactful way to ask somebody to perform an amputation? How do you even bring up the subject? I guess you could always leave the bite uncovered, and keep the hacksaw in plain sight, and hope that they put two and two together and make an unsolicited offer.

Of course, the whole arm-removal thing is a last resort. Don't want to chop my arm off and then have some guy find me lying in a huge pool of my own blood and say "Oh, gosh, I've got a pill right here that would've cleared that up."

Think I'm gonna scream some more.

Yeah, that sounds like a good way to spend the afternoon. Afterwards I'll open a can of spaghetti.

* * *

Wow, my social skills have taken a beating since the world ended. I went out looking for survivors with medicine (y'know, for the whole arm thing). Found a family of four. Started shouting like a crazy person. I don't even know what I was saying. I know what I was trying to say: "Hi there, folks, I've had a spot of trouble and was wondering if you could spare some antibiotics?" But as soon as I saw them I got so excited that I lost my ability to form a coherent sentence, and the father calmly suggested, with the aid of his shotgun, that I move along.

I tried to give him the whole "I mean you no harm" speech, but he fired into the air and looked really damn stern. So I left. Couldn't find anybody else all day.

I try to continually think happy thoughts about my shoulder, but it keeps looking worse and worse. It's hard to move my fingers and elbow.

But, hey, it doesn't hurt as bad anymore! It's more numb than anything. That's a blessing, I guess.

I really think this arm has to go. Better than losing a leg. Can't walk very well with only one leg. You try to run away from those mutants with one leg, and you're almost guaranteed to fall on your face unless you've had a lot of practice hopping. Me, I'd rather lose an arm than a leg any day.

I'll be an inspiration. How many people can survive in a post-apocalyptic world with only one arm? Not too many. Amputees have accomplished many great things throughout history, and I will proudly join their ranks.

After I do some more screaming.

* * *

Know what? I think it's looking a little better. Not a lot better, but a little. Can't expect it to heal right up overnight. That would be wacky talk.

Starting to get tired of all this candy. Wish I had some pork chops. Think a nice meal of pork chops, baked potato with sour cream and bacon bits, and steamed broccoli would make my shoulder feel better. I've got the broccoli, anyway, but not the steamer.

Wish my family didn't live on the other side of the country. Sure, they're probably all dead or mutants, but it would still be nice to see them, if only for a brief visit.

Time for more antiseptic. Joy.

Almost out of it.

* * *

I've got to admit, I didn't expect to end up in a cage. Dead, maybe. Mutated, sure. Caged? Nope.

Thing is, there's something much worse out there than the mutants. Namely, a band of paranoid survivors, led by this insane gentleman named Sunshine, who are trying to rule this new world. I saw three of them walking down the sidewalk and I thought, hey, potential source of shoulder medicine! Having learned from my previous mistake, I took a deep breath, composed myself, and politely stepped into their path and introduced myself.

I remember a big wooden club swinging at my head, but the other details of the encounter are blurry.

Woke up with my hands and feet duct-taped together, in a school gymnasium. About twenty other people were there, playing cards and smoking cigarettes and just hanging out. The walls were lined with cots. I seemed to be the only prisoner.

Sunshine stood over me; his wild hair and facial scars a weird contrast to his serene expression. He ran his finger over my lips and asked, "Are you one of them?"

"Do I look like one of them?"

Helpful hint: Sunshine and his band of followers are not admirers of sarcasm. When I woke up again, I was in a wooden cage in a classroom, and the rest of my body hurt even more than my shoulder. The posters on the walls indicated that it was a history teacher's classroom, which added an extra dimension of terror to my nightmare.

A little kid, maybe twelve, was crouched outside of my cage. "Got any aspirin?" I asked him.

He shook his head.

"Any chance you'll let me out?"

He shook his head again.

"Could you go get a grown-up so I can talk to them?"

He grinned. "I'm a grown-up now. I even get first pick."

"Of what?"

"Of what I eat."

I had the very unnerving sensation that this conversation was going to move in a cannibalism-themed direction, but I tried to play stupid to give myself a couple more moments of mental health. "What do you mean?"

"You're food. We're going to eat you for dinner tonight."

"I see." My mental health status dropped a few notches.

"Gotta cut off the bad parts first, though," he said, pointing to my arm.

* * *

My natural optimism faltered a bit after they duct taped me to the desk. I tried to let a smile be my umbrella, but it wasn't working. Though I explained to them all the ways in which their actions were poor ethical decisions, I wasn't being particularly coherent and my message didn't really get across.

Sunshine held a lighter flame underneath a knife that didn't look anywhere near sharp enough to do an efficient job.

I wept.

He began the unpleasant process. It took me a long time to pass out. With a better knife, I probably could've done the job myself. Live and learn.

* * *

The tile floor under my cage is spotted with blood. Though they cauterized the stump, it's still leaking a little.

I wonder what they did with my arm?

Apparently I get one more day to live before I become brunch. They're still finishing off their last batch of meat. The little kid — Toby — loves to sit outside my cage, licking his lips and rubbing his belly in an exaggerated manner.

I'm almost delirious from lack of sleep. Toby threw stuff at me all night. He'd get real close to the cage, and I kept trying to thrust my good arm through the wooden bars and grab him, but he always kept himself just out of reach.

Well, not always. I did get his collar once. He shrieked for help, and a couple of Sunshine's nutcase crew came in, pulled him free, and then beat the crap out of me.

Tenderizing me.

So this is how it ends. Tormented by a little brat, missing an arm, and about to become dinner.

I had a pretty good life before the plague.

The apocalypse sucks.

No . . . I'm not going to let these bastards take away my happy disposition. Screw 'em. I'll get out of this, somehow. Optimism. Optimism is the key. Nobody ever got anywhere with a can't-do attitude.

They can take away my freedom. They can take away my arm. They can take away my life. But they won't take away my smile until they eat my lips.

I try to smile. My lips are swollen from the beating and it hurts too much, so I abandon the idea.

* * *

I hear footsteps in the darkness.

They're coming for me.

* * *

Sunshine is a charismatic leader, with devoted followers who will obey his every command, even if it means marching to their death. However, the guy isn't very good at keeping everybody in the loop regarding crucial pieces of information.

Such as, my severed arm was for disposal. Not for adding to the soup.

A lot of people got really foamy-mouthed that night, and they started to prey on each other. They grabbed Toby and pulled him in half, right in front of me. I wanted to applaud, but . . . well, you know . . .

A couple of them tried to get into the cage. It took a while, but they finally broke the lock. I scooted past them and fled out of the classroom and down the hallway, where there was carnage galore.

It was disgusting, but it was a good kind of disgusting, y'know?

I saw what I think was Sunshine in a few chunks on the gymnasium floor. Not completely certain — he wasn't easy to recognize. The chin looked familiar, though.

I found a gun next to a body that was missing a few feet of intestine. Fully loaded. It was empty by the time I got out of the school, but I made it to the exit unscathed.

I ran home, went to sleep, and woke up feeling refreshed. Though I'm not suggesting that my stump wasn't sore, it was definitely a more pleasant feeling than being devoured. One arm was still one more arm than I would've had if that rotten little brat had gotten his way.

After a few days of relaxation, the swelling went down, and I could smile again.

* * *

I'm wiser now. When you think about it, this whole thing was a learning experience. I'm no longer that innocent guy breaking pots. I'm not saying I wouldn't rather have my arm back, but all things considered, I think this was good for me.

Again, people need to quit their bellyaching. The apocalypse ain't so bad.

THE BELL . . . FROM HELL!!!

I own a bell forged by Satan himself. With it, I can summon the Prince of Darkness to our plane of existence. I often think about doing it, but I fear my own power.

Some question the authenticity of the bell. "No way did Satan make that," they say. "If Satan made a bell, it would be, like, some big scary-looking thing made out of black iron with pentagrams carved into it and, I dunno, boiling blood dripping down the side and stuff. That's just a stupid little plastic bell. It still has the price tag on it."

Of them I ask, "Why would you assume that Lucifer is proficient in bell-making skills?" William Shakespeare may have been the most brilliant writer in human history, but did he know how to successfully milk a cow? Doubtful. Everybody has his or her own skill set. I don't see why Satan's bell must be an unholy spectacle to convince people of its origin. It was his first attempt. It's not going to be the Liberty Bell.

The price tag I can't explain. Some phenomena are beyond the understanding of mortal man, and should remain that way.

Sometimes my co-workers snatch the bell from my desk and ring it, just to tease and infuriate me. Wretched souls. "Uh-oh!" they say. "The devil's gonna be here any second! Everybody look busy!" I explain that the bell must be rung six hundred and sixty-six times for the summoning to take place. Fortunately, my co-workers do not have the patience for that much ringing.

No, I did not get the bell from Satan directly. It's ridiculous to think that I would have. I'm not so caught up in feelings of self-worth and ego to think that Satan would feel the need to deliver his gift to me personally, any more than the President of the United States has to hand-deliver a certificate of commendation for it to be a thoughtful gesture. One of his minions presented me with the bell three months ago.

This is where my frustration with my co-workers becomes almost unbearable. Yes, Satan's minion took human form. Because of this fact, my co-workers constantly insist that it was not a demon at all, but rather a homeless man selling junk he'd stolen from the Dollar Store. Logic eludes them. Why do they think that Satan would be stupid enough to send a red-skinned, scaly, sulfur-scented, prehensile-tail-wearing demon to wander the brightly lit streets? Of course the demon would have transformed itself into something passable as human. They simply don't understand this line of reasoning.

Oh, I guess I should point out that I'm not a devil worshipper. I can see where you might get the wrong idea. I'm actually a reasonably devout Christian, which is why it surprised me more than anybody when the minion sold me the bell for such a low price. I would've expected him to choose somebody who practices the dark arts, or listens to evil music, or at least reads Harry Potter. But, no, I was chosen.

I don't want to see Hell on earth or a thousand years of darkness or anything like that. If I do end up summoning Satan, it'll be to defeat him.

My co-workers have a great big laugh at that. I'm fully aware of how it sounds, but I wish they'd give me credit for not being a complete idiot. I'm not saying that I'm going to whip out my +3 vorpal sword and lop off Beelzebub's head for eight thousand experience points; I'm just saying that if I did use the bell, I could conceivably summon him under circumstances where his evil would be vanquished once and for all.

"Whatcha gonna do, trap him under a net?" asks Rick from Corporate Accounting, playing with the bell. I really shouldn't leave it sitting out on my desk.

"No," I say, trying not to let my impatience show. "I am not going to trap him under a net. His skin would burn right through it." How can he be so highly paid and yet so ignorant?

"Gonna use your martial arts skills on him?"

I sigh. "I don't have martial arts skills."

"Really? I thought you were, like, a ninja or something."

He's making my brain hurt. "I admire ninjas. I'm not one myself."

"Bummer."

"It's not a bummer. I have no interest in taking a human life."

"But you're trying to kill Satan."

"I never said I was trying to kill Satan. All I've said is that if I can figure out a way to trap him, I might summon him with the bell. That's a pretty big 'if.' I'm not trying to pass myself off as some mighty devil hunter — I'm just saying that if I figured out a workable plan, I might try to rid the world of him. Give me a frickin' break."

Rick jiggles the bell. "It doesn't even really ring. It just sort of clacks around."

"Well, gee, perhaps a fallen angel has better hearing than you do. Did you ever think of that?" His stupidity is beyond belief.

"I've gotta tell you, Howie, I'm not quite buying the whole devil bell thing."

I've never claimed to be perfect. Sometimes I suffer from the sin of pride. And on that day, I simply couldn't take the ridicule anymore. I snatched the bell out of Rick's hand and began to ring.

I rang it ten times.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Rick stood there, a smirk on his face. Oh, how I would enjoy seeing that smirk ripped off and boiled in bile by Lucifer himself.

I continued to shake the bell, counting each tinkle. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight . . .

"I've gotta go," said Rick.

"You're not going anywhere," I told him. "You don't believe me? I'll prove it to you, once and for all."

Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five . . .

"How many rings does it take?"

"Six hundred and sixty-six."

"Is it cumulative?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do my rings count?"

"No. One person in one session."

"What are you up to?"

"Ninety."

Sarah, who sits three cubicles behind me, approaches with a cup of coffee. "What's going on?"

"Howie's summoning Satan."

Sarah smiles. "You figured out how to vanquish him?"

I shake my head and keep ringing. "I'm just teaching Rick a lesson."

"Pretty harsh lesson if Satan does show up."

"I'm teaching all of you a lesson," I announce. "You never believed me. You all think I wasted my $1.50. Well, when I reach the six-hundred and sixty-sixth ring you'll find out just who wasted what."

"How many rings is that now?" Rick asks.

"One hundred and forty-one."

"Can you call me when you're at six-hundred?"

His condescending tone makes me want to watch his eternal torment even more. I ring harder and faster.

In the back of my mind, I question the wisdom of summoning Satan without an escape plan, but I'm far too annoyed to worry about that. Whatever happens, happens.

A crowd begins to gather. They all look amused. I can't wait to see the amusement on their faces transform into a distinct lack of amusement.

I've sort of lost count of the number of rings at this point — I think I'm around three hundred — but the summoning doesn't require me to stop at exactly six-hundred and sixty-six rings, so if I go over I won't mess things up. I just need to keep track enough that I know when to duck and cover.

"Shouldn't we make Satan a welcome banner or something?" asks Mike, who is also from Corporate Accounting. The others acknowledge that it's a good idea (though I doubt their sincerity) but nobody goes to make one. They won't have time, anyway.

Patricia, who is also from Corporate Accounting, (their area is right next to mine) looks at me sadly. She's always been nice to me and I harbor a secret crush on her, despite her being thirty-two years my senior. "C'mon, Howie, knock it off. You don't have to prove anything."

If I could have taken her statement to mean "Because I believe you," that would've been good enough and I would have ceased ringing the bell. Unfortunately, she clearly means, "Because nothing will happen and you'll look like an idiot," and so I must continue.

Tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle.

My hand is starting to get tired. See? Even with it being a miniscule plastic bell, the ringing process is tiring. That is why I was provided with this particular bell and not some giant black iron behemoth that would be impossible to ring a sufficient number of times without collapsing from exhaustion. Everything makes sense when you apply simple logic.

"Was that six hundred and sixty-six?" Rick asks.

"No. We're just over five hundred," I inform him.

"This all seems kind of inconvenient."

"Oh, sure, because it makes sooooo much sense that the process of summoning the devil should be so convenient that you can do it just by grabbing the bell from my desk and shaking it a couple of times," I say, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in my voice. "Think about what you're saying, Rick!" I don't have to treat him with respect any longer. You can't respect somebody who is moments away from being skewered by a flaming pitchfork.

I switch the bell to my left hand and continue ringing.

Six hundred (approximately).

I want to cackle with maniacal laughter about what is to occur, but I have to remember that we're still in a place of business, and professional conduct is expected. I can't stop myself from grinning, though.

I ring so fast that my hand tingles.

And finally I reach the Ring of the Beast. I ring ten more times just in case.

I give a satisfied nod to my doomed antagonists . . . but then my grin vanishes.

What have I done?

Oh, God, what have I done?

To prove a point to my co-workers, I have brought Hell to the offices of Tyler & Bettin Inc. How can I call myself a Christian when I would so selfishly summon Lucifer himself for no reason but to make Rick from Corporate Accounting look foolish?

Satan may not have arrived yet, but there is still an evil presence in this room, and it is I.

I am so displeased with myself that I want to scream. Rivers of blood will flow over our keyboards and mice. Our printers will melt and sizzle in the hellfire. My co-workers ridiculed me, but did they really deserve this eternal overtime of misery?

What can I do to stop this?

Though I'd said that a net couldn't hold Satan, that had merely been an educated guess. If we have one around, it is certainly worth a shot. I want to shout for my co-workers to try to find one, but I am so terrified and appalled by my own behavior that I can't speak. I gesticulate frantically, while they stand around my desk, still looking amused.

"Hello? Satan?" Rick calls out, unaware that he is almost certainly making himself the first target.

I have to stop this! But what can I do? What could ward off the Prince of Darkness? What does he hate most in the world?

And then I realize the answer.

Love.

The power of love can stop the Beast from invading our plane of existence. A kiss, true and pure. Upon sensing the expression of human love, the devil will be so repulsed that he might — might — return to his hellish plane and leave us alone.

I gaze at Patricia.

She turns and sadly walks away from my desk.

I think I can hear a rumbling sound in the distance. It reminds me of the ventilation system, but I am in no condition to accurately judge sounds and know there is no time to spare. I have to express pure love now.

I stand up, whisper "I love you," then pull Rick toward me and kiss him on the lips. I don't really love him, but perhaps Satan will be fooled.

The chaos is so great that for a moment I think Satan has arrived. But, no, they are merely reacting to my act of redemption. Not in a positive way. Still, they can judge me all they want as long as I've staved off the effects of that accursed bell.

Satan does not show up in the offices of Tyler & Bettin that morning. The kiss worked.

I destroy the bell by stomping on it with my foot. It is too much responsibility for one man.

I spend some time down in Human Resources, explaining my actions. I am written up for unprofessional conduct and told that it will negatively impact my raise, but that's okay. I had succumbed to the sin of pride, and my punishment is just.

And I learned an important lesson. Love conquers all . . . but in a pinch, you can fake it.

WORK/LIFE BALANCE

On my nineteenth anniversary with the company, Mr. Swanson called everybody into meeting room 4D. He seemed to be in a cheerful mood, so I didn't think this was a "Guess what? You're all fired!" kind of meeting. In fact, I suspected that he might be summoning us in there for cake, even though nineteen wasn't exactly a monumental anniversary.

The dozen of us sat around the mahogany table in our suits and ties (dresses for the ladies) and waited expectantly. I didn't see a cake, which made me mildly sad.

Mr. Swanson smiled. "Don't worry, this is going to be quick because I know you're all busy. I just wanted to let you know that from now on, you have the choice of taking the usual one-hour lunch, or you can take a forty-five minute lunch, in which case you can leave fifteen minutes early."

A murmur of pleasant surprise went around the table. I never really needed the full hour anyway, and leaving fifteen minutes early would help me miss some of the traffic. As much as I enjoyed corporate-sponsored cake, I enjoyed receiving this news even more.

"I could have just sent this as an e-mail, but I thought it would be nice to bring everybody together. This is part of our new commitment to employee work/life balance. If you could all be so kind as to send me a note saying whether you've selected the one-hour option or the forty-five minute option, I'll mark it on the sign-in sheet."

We all left the meeting quite pleased. Even my five co-workers who were going to stick with the hour-long lunch plan and whose lives were thus unchanged were happy to at least be given the option.

A week passed, and the new lunch length worked out quite well, saving me nearly seven minutes in traffic each evening. But when Mr. Swanson called another impromptu meeting, my first reaction (after "Oh no! We're all going to get fired!") was that maybe the new plan hadn't worked out so well, and he was about to rescind it. My precious seven minutes were about to be taken away from me, and we'd only just met.

"Good news," said Mr. Swanson. "We're instituting a new policy of Business Casual Fridays. That means that on Fridays, suits and ties are no longer required. You may wear a much more casual shirt; for example, a polo shirt would be completely acceptable. No tee shirts and nothing with logos or phrases on it, unless it's our own, but feel free to dress down a bit on Fridays. You've all earned it."

Gerald raised his hand.

"Yes, Gerald?"

"But today is Friday."

"Obviously this new policy takes effect next week."

"Oh. Good. Thank you."

Well, to say that I was excited was an understatement; to say that I was very excited would be much more accurate. Business Casual Fridays! I'd heard that such a thing existed at other companies, but I'd never imagined that it would make its way into my own workplace!

The following Friday, I came to work in a tasteful but slightly playful sweater, and though I can't honestly say that it was the best day of my life, it was a definite improvement over wearing an itchy, strangling tie.

And then, three business days later, we got an e-mail with the most shocking development yet: flexible starting times.

The amount of time we were to work each day had not shortened or lengthened. It was still eight hours, plus the forty-five or sixty-minute lunch. But now we could start any time we wanted between the hours of seven o'clock and nine o'clock.

For example, if I chose to arrive at seven, I would then proceed to work until three forty-five. Somebody who chose to arrive at nine would work until five forty-five, unless they'd previously selected the hour-long lunch option, in which case they would work until six. But I could start at seven-thirty, eight-fifteen, eight-thirty . . . the options were limitless! Well, perhaps not limitless, but they certainly made my mind boggle!

Though I ended up sticking with the eight o'clock arrival time I'd had for the past nineteen years, I truly appreciated this new flexibility.

And over the next few weeks it was as if a floodgate of freedom opened for us. Business Casual Fridays turned into Business Casual Mondays and Fridays, and then, on one amazing day, it became a permanent change. No more suits! No more ties! (Unless, of course, you had to meet with an important client, but that was understandable.)

In another meeting, we all gaped at Mr. Swanson in slack-jawed astonishment as he described the new procedure for a compressed workweek, where we could work ten hours a day, four days a week. And we could pick the flex day! Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! Or, yes, even Friday! Yes, there were restrictions (after all, you couldn't have the entire department gone every Friday), but I still felt myself tearing up and almost had to ask to be excused from the meeting.

I picked Wednesdays. Wednesdays were now my favorite day of the week. Tuesdays now carried the excitement of a Friday. Admittedly, Thursdays now had something of a Monday feel, but it was worth it.

We all chattered excitedly in the break room each morning, wondering what might be next.

Casual Fridays! We could now wear jeans. At work. Not jeans with tears or smudges or rhinestones, but still . . . jeans! The comfort was almost unimaginable. And tee shirts! We could wear tee shirts! Again, they had to be in excellent condition and could not contain text or images inappropriate for a professional environment. As an example of a shirt that would not be acceptable, we were shown a photograph of somebody wearing a Hooters shirt. (Not the uniform worn by waitresses, but rather a gentleman wearing a shirt advertising the restaurant.)

Their commitment to our work/life balance didn't end there. Exactly six months after we were given flexibility in our lunch lengths, Mr. Swanson announced the new work-from-home program, where once a week we would be allowed to do our job from the comfort of our own home! On many occasions, my co-workers and I had discussed how so much of our jobs involved sitting in front of our computers, and how we could basically do them anywhere, but we never imagined that this option would actually be presented to us!

There was, of course, no dress code at home, and I gleefully completed my first day in pajamas. I did, of course, complete all of the same cleansing and hygiene activities that I would have done if I'd gone into the office. Working from home didn't mean I needed to become a savage.

I have to admit; I started to wonder if things had gone too far when every day became Casual Day. Shouldn't we dress in professional attire at least once a week?

Some of my co-workers began to abuse the freedom. On occasion Gerald would show up as late as nine-fifteen or nine-twenty. Yes, he'd stay later to compensate, but still, with two hours of flexibility surrounding our start time, why did he need to push it further?

Mr. Swanson sent out an e-mail, explaining that these changes were privileges, not rights, and that it would be in our best interest to follow the rules. Gerald did not show up late anymore.

On the day of my twentieth anniversary, Mr. Swanson called us all into the meeting room. I smiled. Twenty years with the company meant cake for sure, along with a fancy certificate, and Mr. Swanson would read a very nice note that had been signed by the CEO.

But there was no cake in the room. Mr. Swanson smiled as we took our seats. "Aside from a few small instances, these changes have worked out extremely well, don't you all agree?"

We all nodded our agreement.

"So, effective today, public displays of affection will be permissible."

Everybody glanced around at each other, unsure if he was kidding or not.

"Obviously, I'm not talking about insertion, but kissing and groping, as long as the work gets done, is perfectly fine. Remain conscious of the dress code, but if you wish to simulate certain acts, by all means go ahead and do so."

Everybody was silent for a moment.

Helena, who was sixty and an unofficial mother figure to us all, raised her hand. "Is this a joke?"

"It is not. You've all proven that you're mature enough to be given additional freedom and still perform your job duties, so this is the next step in the work/life balance."

"I'm sorry, but this is a part of my life I'd like to keep at home."

"I think you're misunderstanding," said Mr. Swanson. "I didn't say that this was mandatory public display of affection. Rest assured that I would never demand that you dry-hump a co-worker. Goodness, no. I'm saying that if you felt the desire, and both parties consented to the act — or even three or four parties; we're not judgmental of lifestyle choices here — it would be okay. Stress relief is very important to the work/life balance. But of course nobody will ever ask you to cheat on your husband. I promise you that."

"Oh. Okay. Still . . ."

"This is just in the testing phase. We'll try it for a week or two and see what happens."

"It's not something I ever want to see."

Mr. Swanson frowned. "If you all object to progress, it won't be a problem to return to our old methods. I was perfectly fine with the eight-to-six workday in the office and the hour lunch. I was simply trying to make things more pleasant for my employees."

"No, no, I appreciate that," said Helena. "I apologize. I agree that we should test out this new policy for a couple of weeks to see if it works."

"Excellent. And now, somebody in this room has a very special anniversary!" said Mr. Swanson, winking at me as his administrative assistant brought in a tray full of cupcakes.

The next two weeks were uneventful. Despite the new freedom, very little happened. At one point my two youngest co-workers, Charles and Lori, made out in the break room while I was getting a cup of coffee, but they quickly became uncomfortable and stopped.

I saw no groping of any sort, though it's possible that some happened while I was working from home.

The next meeting was on a Monday, and those of us who worked from home on Mondays were told that we had to switch our scheduled work-from-home day that week. That wasn't an issue. We'd been told when the program began that there would be instances where this might happen, and it was perfectly reasonable to expect to have meetings where everybody in the department was in attendance.

As we walked into the meeting room, there was a long hunting knife on the table in front of each one of the chairs. We took our seats and said nothing, though of course everybody looked at the knives.

"Nobody abused the public displays of affection policy," said Mr. Swanson. "I'll be honest, I thought for certain that I would have to reprimand somebody for penetration, but it didn't happen, and I think we're all happier with the policy in place. And I'm pleased to inform you all that violence is now acceptable."

Everybody was silent as Mr. Swanson picked up one of the knives and stabbed at the air. "I shouldn't even have to say this, but of course any fatal wounding is completely forbidden and will result in immediate disciplinary actions, up to and including termination of employment. If you're going to stab, stab an appendage, such as an arm, and not a torso. Let's not let this get out of hand. A rule of thumb is to ask yourself 'Can my co-worker continue to perform his or her job duties?' If the answer is 'no,' then stop stabbing. Any questions?"

Helena raised her hand.

"Helena?"

"Can we opt out?"

"Of being a stabber or stabbee?"

"Both."

"Well, nobody is going to make you stab anyone. That's simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don't want to be. Nobody is going to voluntarily get stabbed, right? That doesn't make any sense."

"I want to opt out."

"Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we'd have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don't like to think that they're wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks."

We left the meeting, taking our knives.

"Ow!" screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. "You can't do it when I'm not looking!"

"Mr. Swanson didn't say anything about that."

I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.

The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn't done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.

And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.

We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.

"I'm very disappointed," he said. "Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn't there?"

Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.

"Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you."

And now we work eight to six every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.

I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.

We had so much, almost too much, and now it's gone.

Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.

STOP STABBING ME

When I was ten, my older brother Mike asked if I wanted to play a game. I said, yeah, sure, of course. I mean, who wouldn't want to play a game?

"The object of the game is to see who can hit each other the lightest," he explained. "You go first."

I nodded. The rules seemed pretty straightforward. I reached out with the tip of my pinky finger (my left pinky, since I was right-handed and knew that my left pinky would have less strength) and gave him just the slightest hint of a tap with it.

Ha. My sixteen-year-old brother, with his thick, beefy fingers, could never hit me lighter than that!

Mike punched me in the face, so hard that I dropped to the living room floor. "You win!" he announced, chuckling as he walked out of the room.

As I lay there, I thought, Wow, my brother is a genius! I'm not saying I enjoyed the pain, but still, I had to admire him for coming up with such a clever idea. It was worth the bloody lip to be in the presence of such innovation and brilliance.

The next day, as I walked to school, I saw my friend Chet about a block ahead of me. I hurried to catch up with him. "Hey, Chet," I said, "do you want to play a game?"

I giggled, which probably gave away my evil intent, but Chet shrugged. "Sure."

"Okay, the way it works is, we're going to hit each other, and we're going to see who can hit the other person the lightest. I go first. I mean, you go first. Hit me as light as you can."

Chet shook his head. "No way. You'll hit me back hard and say that I won."

My shoulders slumped. "You've heard of that one?"

"Everybody knows that one. It's an old trick."

How disappointing. My brother wasn't an evil genius; he was a plagiarist. (Note that if the trick had worked, I promise I would have given Mike full credit as Chet lay on the sidewalk with his bloody lip.)

"Oh," I said.

"I can't believe you were going to punch me," said Chet. "Why don't you walk by yourself today?"

I obliged, standing in place until Chet was once again a block ahead of me. I didn't deserve to have any friends, not if I was so inept as to try an ancient gag on them.

When I got home from school, Mike (whose school let out fifteen minutes earlier than mine, which was unfair to me, but he had to get up fifteen minutes earlier each morning, which was unfair to him, so it all evened out) was in the kitchen, making a sandwich. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to play a card game?"

"No."

"It's a fun one!"

"No, thank you."

"Jeez, what's up your butt?"

"Nothing," I said. And then I wondered if I was being too pouty. Maybe this was a genuinely fun card game. "What's the game?"

"It's the best card game ever. It's called Fifty-Two Pickup."

I sighed. Even I, who had clearly been shielded from much of the world until now, knew about Fifty-Two Pickup. "Uh-uh. You'll just throw the cards on the floor and make me pick them up."

"No, this is a different version."

"I'm not playing."

"All right," said Mike, taking a gigantic bite out of his sandwich. He talked as he chewed. "It would've been the most fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup in history. Nobody in the world has ever played a more fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup, but if you're okay with missing out, there's nothing I can do." He shook his head in great sorrow. "I can't force you to have the most fun of your life. I can't force you to create memories that you'll look back on fondly in your old age."

"Shut up," I told him. "I'm not gullible."

I was pretty gullible, to be honest, but not that gullible. His variation would probably be something like Fifty-Three Pickup, where he included the joker.

"How about a different game, then?"

"Like what?"

"It's called Stop Stabbing Me."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"It's lots of fun. Basically we each get a knife, and we take turns seeing who can go the longest without saying 'Stop stabbing me.' Once they ask you to stop, you have to stop, you can't just keep going."

"I don't think Mom will like that."

"Mom doesn't get home until six." Mike set his half-eaten sandwich down on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. He took out two butter knives and gave one to me. "We start out easy. For round one, you can only do hands. Give me your hand."

"No way."

"Give me your hand."

"I said, no way."

"Stop being such a wuss."

"It's not wussy to not want to get stabbed."

"It's a butter knife. Is your hand made of butter? I've never seen such cowardice. How do you expect to ever get a girlfriend if you live your life in such a cowardly manner?"

"Okay, fine, whatever." I held out my hand, palm up, trying not to let Mike see that I was cringing.

He began to rapidly tap the tip of the butter knife against the center of my palm, not exactly gently, but not too hard. It was more annoying than painful.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Nope."

He began to tap a little faster and a little harder.

"How about now?"

"Kind of."

"Is it more than you can take?"

"No."

He kept tapping, getting progressively faster and harder. It finally started to hurt quite a bit, so I said, "Stop stabbing me."

Mike stopped, which was nice because I kind of thought the whole punchline to his game was that he wouldn't. I had a big red mark in the center of my palm, but nothing had broken the skin.

"That was thirty seconds," he said. I hadn't seen him check his watch so I assume he was just estimating. He held out his palm. "Your turn."

I began to poke at his hand with my knife. I was tempted to hit slightly harder than Mike had, but I knew deep inside that to do so would be unfair, so I tried to match his intensity and frequency as well as I could recall it.

He didn't look like he was in much pain, but he did start to get a similar red mark on his hand, and finally he said "Stop stabbing me."

I did.

"That was thirty-three seconds," he said, probably inaccurately, but since I hadn't been timing it myself I was in no position to argue. "I win round one." He took the butter knife from me and put both knives back in the silverware drawer.

"Mom will get mad if we don't wash those first," I said.

"How would Mom know? Is she going to do DNA testing on the knives before she uses them? Are you going to tell her?"

I hung my head, suitably ashamed. I hadn't meant to hint that I might rat us out. I would never do such a thing; there are many ways in which I'm a lame excuse for a little brother, but I'm certainly not a tattletale. "No, I'm not gonna tell."

"Good." He took out two steak knives. "Hold out your hand."

"I don't want to."

"Are you really going to give up after one round? One measly little round? I've never seen such a quitter."

Being known as a quitter was slightly better than being known as a tattletale, but both were laden with disgrace. I held out my hand.

"You ready?" Mike asked.

I nodded.

Mike jabbed the tip of the steak knife against my palm, deep enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin.

"Ow! Stop stabbing me!"

"That's it?" Mike asked. "You're quitting that easily?"

"It hurt!"

"It's supposed to hurt when somebody pokes at you with a knife! That doesn't mean you give up after the first poke!"

"This game isn't any good. Let's play Fifty-Two Pickup."

"No, we need to play this through or we'll never know who won." He held out his palm. "Go on."

I didn't want to hit his hand with the knife, but what was I supposed to do, not hit his hand with the knife? I gently poked at his palm with the blade. Mike didn't flinch, so I poked slightly harder, until a tiny drop of blood appeared.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Stop stabbing me."

I stopped. Mike took the knives from me and put them back in the drawer.

"That one had blood on it!" I said.

"So? Steak has blood in it. Are you scared that you're going to cut a bloody steak with a knife that has a tiny bit of my blood on it? If you think I have a disease, just say so. Most brothers aren't so selfish that they worry about getting diseases from their own family, but if that's the way you want to be . . ."

"No, no, it's okay," I said, though before Mom got home I fully intended to wash that knife.

Mike opened the drawer next to the silverware one, and took out two butcher knives. He handed one to me.

"Now the rules change," he said. "You can stab as hard as you want, and you can stab anywhere. I go first."

"No way!"

"You have to do this! If you don't, I'll tell everybody that you're a quitter! Quitters never accomplish anything in life. Do you want to be homeless, like Uncle Rick?"

"Uncle Rick isn't homeless."

"Yes, he is. He just doesn't tell anyone because he's embarrassed."

"I think you're lying."

"Well, I think you're a quitter. The rules say you can stab anywhere, but it's not like I'm going to stab you in the heart or anything. You'll be okay."

"This is a bad game."

"It's not a bad game! Chicks love this game! They don't love playing it themselves, but when they hear that a guy plays 'Stop Stabbing Me' they know he's a real man. But you aren't. You're just a little kid. Sad. Very sad."

I didn't know what to do. Only a fool would let somebody stab them like that, but he was my brother. Mike wouldn't let me come to any real harm. He wouldn't slash my jugular vein and let me bleed out. Worst-case scenario, he might poke me in the side, thinking that I'd scream "Stop stabbing me!" the instant the stainless steel blade touched my skin.

Well, I wouldn't do that. I'd win this game. Then he'd be sorry.

I held up my arms, giving Mike free access to my torso. "All right," I said. "Go."

Mike held up the butcher knife, slowly moving it around, biting his lip as if trying to decide the best place to stab me.

I could trust him, right . . . ?

Mike lowered the knife and burst out laughing. "Oh my God! Oh my God! You were really going to let me stab you with a butcher knife!"

"We were playing a game!"

"You don't let somebody stab you with a butcher knife as part of a game! Oh my God! You're mentally ill! What kind of dumbass would willingly stand there and let me do that? I mean, that's the kind of behavior where they lock you in an asylum. That's what's going to happen to you. Men in white coats are going to take you off to an asylum and fill you with drugs while they try to figure out why you'd give somebody permission to stab you!"

"I knew you weren't going to stab me hard!"

"You knew no such thing! I was standing here with a butcher knife! You don't gently stab somebody with a butcher knife! You are insaaaaaaaaane!" Mike began making insane faces, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue and twitching around like he was having a seizure.

He wouldn't really let them come and take me away to the crazy house, would he?

No. He was my big brother. He'd protect me.

But I'd trusted him a moment ago, and that hadn't worked out so well. If I was going to spend the rest of my life getting shocked, I'd rather it be because I was a maniac than an idiot!

So I stabbed him.

Mike yelped as the knife went into his side. "Stop stabbing me! Stop stabbing me!" he shouted.

I yanked the knife out. "Ha! I win!"

He pressed his hand against the wound. Blood quickly began to trickle between his fingers. "You little jerk! Do you know what you are?"

"What?"

"You're a cheater!"

"I am not!"

"You are so! It wasn't your turn!"

"Yes, it was!"

"No, it wasn't! I didn't stab you!"

"You forfeited your turn!"

"I never said I forfeited my turn!"

I paused. He hadn't, technically, yet he'd definitely implied that not only had he forfeited his turn, but that the entire game had been a scam.

"You quit," I said.

"I did not. Now you have to let me stab you back or I'll tell everyone you're a cheater. Everyone!"

I shook my head. "No. You'll just say that stuff about calling the asylum again."

"I wasn't really going to have you committed, but I am going to tell everybody you're a cheater." He pulled his hand away, looked at the gash, and sighed. "Look how much I'm bleeding. I'm going to have to go to the hospital and get stitches, you cheater."

"I'm not a cheater!"

"You're a cheater! Cheater! Cheater! I'm telling everyone!"

At this point, I figured, if I was going to get an undeserved reputation as a cheater, I might as well get a deserved one. So I stabbed him again.

"Ow!" Mike wailed, clutching at his upper thigh. "Stop stabbing me! Stop stabbing me!"

"That's what you get," I told him.

"I was trying to make peace, and you went and stabbed me again! Now I'm bleeding twice as much!" Mike clutched at both of his wounds, and then something marvelous happened.

My older brother began to cry.

"You're a crybaby!" I shouted.

"No, I'm not," he said, hurriedly wiping away the tears, leaving streaks of blood under his eyes.

"You are! I saw you! Crybaby! Crybaby! Mike's a great big crybaby!" I began to dance around the kitchen, doing my just-invented "Mike Is A Great Big Crybaby" dance.

"Shut up!"

"Crybaby! Cry-cry-cry-cry-crybaby!"

"Stop that!"

"I'm going to tell everybody that you cried. Everybody!"

"I'm sorry, all right? Look, I promise I won't tell that you were going to let me stab you, and that you stabbed me, and that you cheated, if you promise not to tell that I cried. We'll start fresh. Deal?"

"Deal," I said, and we shook bloody hands.

"Could you clean up the kitchen while I walk to the hospital?"

"Uh-uh. I'm not cleaning up the whole kitchen. This is half your fault."

"All right, all right."

So, working together as brothers should, we mopped up the blood on the floor, though Mike kept adding to the mess, making it difficult to finish. We argued about washing the butcher knives, and settled for only washing the one I'd used to stab him.

He went to the hospital and got sewn up, though unfortunately the stupid doctor called Mom. But he didn't tattle. He told her that he'd been trying to juggle knives, and that he now knew that he needed more practice.

Though we didn't play many games after that, we remained the best of friends. We're both grown now and live hours apart, but we still call each other every day. He's the best person I know.

I did not develop a taste for killing people after this, thank you very much. I know you want to hear that I went on some psycho rampage, or that I now keep body parts in my refrigerator, but that's not how it worked out. It's possible to play butcher knife games as a kid and not grow up to be a messed-up adult.

That said: you mess with my brother, and I'll fucking stab you.

Heh heh. Just kidding.

EIGHT-LEGGED VENGEANCE

I am not typically a vengeful person, despite my "Blood for Blood!" temporary tattoo. But when my girlfriend Erica became my ex-girlfriend Erica the Skank, a bit of revenge was in order.

She claimed that she was cheating on me with my casual acquaintance Dave. However, Dave had an alibi for each weekend in question, and the Guitar Hero scores to prove it, so Erica finally broke down and confessed that she hadn't been cheating on me at all — she just didn't want to admit that she was repulsed by the small mole next to my ear. Now, I'm not saying that it's an attractive mole, but give me a break. After six weeks of bliss, we were through.

And so I decided to seek revenge. I didn't want to kidnap her dog or decapitate her favorite teddy bear or anything like that. I just wanted to do something that was clever and memorable, but not illegal or too mean. I invited my friend Dave (a different Dave than my casual acquaintance) over for a couple of beers and a brainstorming session.

"You could burn her house down," Dave suggested.

"No. It can't be anything that would involve the cops."

"Wouldn't they send the fire department instead of the cops?"

"Yeah, but when they discovered that it was arson, they'd involve the cops."

"Bummer." Dave took a swig of beer and swished it around in his mouth. "What about keying her car?"

"Nothing destructive."

"What's wrong with being destructive?"

"Destructive makes it seem like she got to me too much. I don't want to convey rage. I want her to think I'm laughing at her, not punching holes in walls."

"So you're thinking more of a 'nyahh nyahh' than a 'screw you, hell-bitch'?"

"Exactly."

Dave drank some more beer. "I can work with that. The way I see it, the best alternatives to bloodshed and/or destruction are fear and/or humiliation. Do you agree?"

I nodded. "Fear or humiliation. Yep. Both of those are good."

"Which do you prefer?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "Humiliation might be kind of mean."

"Dude, are you seeking revenge or shopping for an engagement ring? You have to be mean. That's the whole frickin' point!"

"I know, I know. I just don't want to dump pig's blood on her or anything like that."

"So . . . fear or humiliation?"

"I'm not sure. Let's flip a coin." I reached into my pocket but found it coinless. I reached into my other pocket and found it equally lacking in coinage. "Do you have a coin?"

Dave patted his pockets, and then picked up the bottle cap from his beer. "I've got this."

"Okay, if it lands upside-down, we'll go with fear. If it lands right-side-up, we'll go with humiliation."

Dave flipped the bottle cap. It landed on the floor, upside-down.

"Humiliation," he announced. "Cool."

"No, that was fear."

"It's upside-down."

"I know. That was fear."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Dave finished off his bottle of beer. "Fear. Fear, fear, fear. Lots of possibilities in the fear arena. What's she most scared of?"

"Terrorists . . . cancer . . . dying alone . . ."

"What about spiders? Is she scared of spiders?"

"I'm not sure."

"What about a big ol' hairy tarantula?"

"I assume so. We never really talked about it. You think I should mail her a tarantula?"

"Not unless you're a complete loser," Dave said. "You've gotta be more inventive than that. Mailing a spider is a level one plan. You have to bring this to level two or three at the very least."

"You're right. What could we do with a tarantula to make it more memorable?"

"Dress it up?"

"Please stop being stupid," I requested.

"My bad."

"We need an inventive delivery method for the tarantula. Maybe a singing telegram or something."

"Do they really do singing telegrams?" Dave asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"I've never actually seen a singing telegram. I thought maybe it was just something they did on TV."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Have you ever had a singing telegram?"

"No."

"Then maybe I'm right. Where would you even go to get one?"

"I don't know! Any party store! How can you doubt the existence of singing telegrams? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"Sorry," Dave said. "Can I have another beer?"

"Later. Anyway, I don't think we'll find a singing telegram service that will sing a song and then chuck a spider at her. Let's think of a better delivery method."

"It would be cool if we could figure out a way to get it to jump out of a cake, like one of those naked girls."

I sat up straight. "I've got it!"

"What?"

"We could bake a tarantula in a cake!"

"When's her birthday?"

"Not for a few months, but still, there has to be a cake-giving occasion coming up. It's perfect! She gets this nice, beautifully decorated cake delivered to her house. She takes a bite, and something's a bit off. She investigates a little further, and there's a frickin' tarantula baked right into the cake! She freaks out. Vengeance is mine."

Dave rubbed his hands together in malicious glee. "You, sir, are a genius. Albert Einstein never would've thought of that. He would've thought of something about physics or science or something. A spider in a cake. That's brilliant!"

And so our nefarious scheme was hatched. After I gave Dave another beer, we divided up our duties equally: Dave would obtain the tarantula, and I would obtain the cake.

It was a difficult decision. Should I go with chocolate? Vanilla? Angel food cake? Pineapple upside-down cake? After much thought and price comparison, I settled on a yellow cake, since it seemed like it would show off the tarantula the best. I also bought some yellow frosting and a tube of red gook used for writing words on cakes.

I returned to my apartment and played football on my Xbox until Dave showed up. He had a tarantula in a small plastic aquarium, which he set on my coffee table.

"Cool," I said, tapping the plastic.

"You owe me thirty-five bucks."

"Thirty-five?"

"Twenty-five for the spider, ten for the aquarium."

"Twenty-five bucks for a spider?"

"How much did you think it was gonna be?"

"Free! I thought you'd go to a shelter or something, where they were going to step on it if nobody took it home!"

"It's not a puppy."

"Well, why did you buy the aquarium?"

"It was half-price with any pet purchase. I wasn't gonna drive it home on my lap."

I wanted to smack him in the face with an empty beer bottle. "It's not a pet! It's a sacrifice! Why did you get a live one?"

"Where am I gonna get a dead one? You think they have a dead tarantula aisle at Wal-Mart?"

"But . . . but . . . but . . . twenty-five bucks? It's not even a big one."

"It's average size for the species."

"No, it's not. Tarantulas are huge."

"You're thinking of tarantulas in 50's horror movies," said Dave. "This is a tarantula in real life."

"I didn't think it would be the size of my house, but it should at least be the size of my hand!"

"It's a perfectly good tarantula. Stop being such a whiner."

I held out my hand. "Let me see the receipt."

"I don't have it anymore."

"I'm not paying you back without a receipt."

Dave sighed. "Okay, fine, it was thirty-two, not thirty-five. You're so damn suspicious all the time. Jeez."

"Jerk."

"Cheapskate."

"Drunkard."

"Cheapskate."

"Fine." I took out my wallet and dug out a twenty, a ten, and two ones. That pretty much wiped out my beer budget for the rest of the month. Who knew vengeance would be so pricey?

"Oh, there was tax, too," said Dave.

"Screw you."

We went into the kitchenette of my studio apartment and I made the cake batter, while Dave provided helpful advice about what I was doing incorrectly, and I provided very specific suggestions about what he could do with his advice. I cursed as some eggshell dropped into the mix.

"Who cares?" Dave asked. "If it's going to have a spider in it, it might as well have some eggshell."

"If she crunches down on a piece of eggshell, she'll quit eating the cake, then she'll never find the tarantula, and then my devastating revenge will have been that she ate a bit of eggshell." I dug out the shell bit and flicked it at him.

"Ow! Ow! Dammit! You got my eye!" He recoiled and stumbled backwards, smacking into the counter.

"I did not."

"Take a look! Take a look! Is it protruding?"

"Move your hand away so I can see."

"I think you poked my iris, dude!"

"Move your hand."

"Oh, crap, I'm gonna be seeing eggshell for the rest of my life!"

"Move your hand." I grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his eye. "I can't see it."

"It's in there!"

"Okay, I see it. It's not jutting out or anything; it's just stuck in the corner."

"Oh, crap . . ."

"It's no big deal. We'll just run some water on it."

"What if the water flushes it up under my eyelid? It could slice my eye all up! Oh, crap . . ."

"Stop being such a baby. It's just a tiny little speck of eggshell in your eye." I took a dishcloth out of the sink, ran it under some cold water, and twisted the corner. "Don't move."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna scrub your eye out with a scouring pad. What do you think I'm gonna do? I'm going to flick the shell out."

"Be careful."

I poked at the corner of his eye with the cloth. I could no longer see the piece of eggshell.

"It's out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"I can still kind of feel it."

"Well, it's not in your eye anymore."

Dave rubbed his eye. "Thanks, dude."

"No problem. Can we go back to making the cake now?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing."

I stirred until the batter was completely mixed, then I poured it out into the pan. "When should we add the tarantula?"

"I'd say now."

"How do we kill it?"

"What do you mean?"

"How. Do. We. Kill. It."

"Just bake it."

"We can't just throw a live tarantula into the oven! That's cruel!"

"Dude, it's a bug."

"I don't care. You don't cook things alive like that. It's uncool."

"That's how they boil lobsters. And I think it's how they cook deer."

"Well, it's not gonna happen in my oven."

"Maybe it'll drown in the batter first."

"Shut up." I peered at the spider, which was crawling around on a miniature plastic log. "So what's a quick and humane way to kill it?"

"Stomp on it?"

"Get the hell out of my apartment, dumbass."

"What?" Dave asked. "I wasn't saying that you should stomp it flat and scrape the mess off into the batter. But you could, y'know, stomp on it gently and break its back or something."

"No."

"Cut off its head. It'll still look like a tarantula."

"This would've been a lot easier if you had just brought home a dead one in the first place."

"They don't sell dead tarantulas locally! I already told you that! Maybe we could poison it."

"The cake?"

"The tarantula. To kill it."

I considered that. "I don't think I have any spider poison."

"Do you have any ant poison? That would probably work."

"No. I don't keep a lot of poison in the apartment."

"Do you have any cigarettes? We could blow smoke in there until it chokes to death."

Instead of calling Dave a moron, I gave him a look that said, "You're a moron."

"Fine. You're the leader of the 'Be Humane To Cuddly-Wuddly Spiders' movement, you decide how to kill it."

"I don't know! I have no idea how to kill a tarantula without squishing it. Screw it. Let's just bake the stupid thing." I turned on the oven.

"We should name him."

"Yeah, sure, let's give a name to the creature that's going to die a horrible, agonizing death because of us. Let's call him Timmy the Tarantula and paint a smiley face on his back."

"We could name him Eight-Legged Vengeance."

"Don't be such a frickin' — actually, that's pretty cool. Let's go with that." I tapped on the aquarium. "Hello, Eight-Legged Vengeance. How's it going?"

Eight-Legged Vengeance did not respond.

"Maybe we should feed it a mouse as one last meal," Dave suggested.

"Do you have a mouse?"

"No. But I could go get one. I think the pet shop had mice."

I started to give him another "You're a moron" look, but decided that it wasn't worth it. "Let's just put him in the batter and get it over with."

"Sounds good."

I lifted the top off the aquarium. "Okay, reach in there and grab him."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen."

"What, you're scared?"

"It's a tarantula! They're venomous!"

"No, they're not."

"You do it."

I reached inside the aquarium, stopping a few inches away from the arachnid.

"So pick it up," Dave urged.

"I'm going to."

"I hope it doesn't take your hand off."

"I hope it takes your mouth off."

"Pick it up."

"I will."

"Time's a-wastin'."

"Why don't you go home? You've served your purpose."

"No way. I want to see this."

"Well, be quiet."

"Pick it up."

"I am."

"No, you're not. You're being motionless and cowardly."

The tarantula moved toward my hand. I let out a shameful cry and yanked my hand out of the aquarium so fast that I bashed it against the corner. Dave found this to be extremely amusing. I did not.

"Grow up," I told him.

"Oh, God, I wish I'd been taping that! I'd give anything to have been taping that! You looked like such a chickenshit jackass!"

"You suck."

"Reach in there again. It might growl at you this time."

I opened one of the drawers and took out a long wooden spoon. I poked the spoon into the aquarium and tried to scoop up the tarantula, but it kept scurrying away. "Dammit!"

"It probably doesn't like that flavor of cake. You should have bought chocolate."

"I'm just gonna dump it out." I very, very, very quickly reached into the aquarium and removed the plastic log. Then I picked up the aquarium, turned it over, and shook it over the batter. The tarantula didn't fall out.

"He's got some seriously sticky feet," Dave noted.

"Smack the plastic."

Dave knocked on the aquarium. The spider still didn't fall out.

"Shake harder."

I shook harder.

"Maybe you should just pour the cake mix into the aquarium and cook it that way."

"C'mon, keep smacking the plastic. It's just a spider. It can't hang on forever."

"You actually have to admire its resilience."

"I don't have to admire shit! Keep smacking!"

Dave hit the plastic over and over while I kept shaking the aquarium.

"Do you have a squirt gun? We could squirt it off."

"No."

"There was a toy store next to the pet store."

"Keep smacking!"

Finally, the spider dropped out of the aquarium and into the batter.

"Thank God," I said. "Open the oven."

Dave opened the oven. I picked up the pan as the tarantula waded through the batter, moving right toward me. I hurriedly slid the pan into the oven and slammed the door shut. We breathed a sigh of relief.

Dave flipped on the oven light. "I want to watch it burn."

"That's messed up."

"How often do you get to watch a tarantula die in an oven? Never. I'm not going to let this opportunity slip by. Oh, crap . . ."

"What?"

"It crawled out of the pan."

I opened the oven. The batter-covered tarantula was on the bottom. "Give me the spoon! Hurry!"

Dave handed me the spoon. I frantically scraped the tarantula off the bottom of the oven and onto the open door. It scurried across the door and onto my kitchenette floor.

"Stomp it! Stomp it!" Dave cried.

"Don't stomp it!"

Dave quickly backed away. "Where is it? Where did it go? Is it on me? Get it off me!"

"It's not on you. It's crawling on the cabinet door."

"Did it get cooked?"

"Not too much. It's still moving. Let's just kill it. I can't have a tarantula running around my apartment."

I swung the wooden spoon but missed the spider. It dropped onto the floor next to my foot. I backed into the oven door, lost my balance, and fell. I threw out my arms to break my fall, and my hands came down on the hot metal door. I cried out in pain as I landed on my butt.

The tarantula crawled onto my leg. I yelped and tried to shake it off.

"It's eating me!" I shouted. It wasn't actually eating me, but I can be forgiven for exaggerating my situation in my cloud of panic.

Dave crouched over me. "I don't see it!"

"Kill it!"

"But I don't see it!"

"Kill it!"

"There it is!" Dave slammed his foot down, missing the spider but hitting my shin.

"You dick!" I shouted.

"It's too fast!"

"Get something to murder it with!"

Dave glanced around the kitchenette for an effective weapon, and then slid a butcher knife out of the wooden holder. I mentally acknowledged that this was not a wise selection, but then the tarantula scurried up my leg and I batted at it in frenzy.

"Don't move!" said Dave, crouching down. "I'll poke it!"

"Don't poke it!"

"Don't move!"

"If you stab me I'll fuckin' kill you!"

"I'm not gonna stab you! I'm gonna stab the spider!"

"Put the knife down!"

"Trust me!"

"I don't trust you! You're not trustworthy! No knife!"

Dave held the tip of the knife above the tarantula. "I'm gonna poke it! Don't move!"

I froze.

Dave winced and clutched at his eye with his free hand. "Ow! The eggshell is still there!"

The tarantula crawled out from beneath the knife and underneath my shirt. I flinched so violently that my upper leg slammed up onto the knife tip. I reacted poorly.

"It wasn't my fault!" Dave insisted, still clutching his eye. "I didn't do anything!"

I slapped my palm against my shirt, squishing Eight-Legged Vengeance onto my belly button. Dave pulled the knife out of my leg and stood up.

"Did you get it?" he asked.

I pressed harder until I was positive that my navel was covered with tarantula guts. I yanked my shirt up and wiped the goo off.

"Sorry about the knife," Dave said.

I kicked him in the shin.

He dropped the knife.

It hit my other leg, burying itself about an inch into my flesh. It hurt like hell and I kicked the son of a bitch again, as hard as I could.

He stumbled backwards, slipped, spun around in a failed attempt to regain his balance, and struck the corner of the counter with his face. His eyeball burst upon impact. I wasn't immediately sure if it was the one with the eggshell or not.

Dave silently dropped to the floor, blood and slime oozing from his ruined orb.

"Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry!" I said. "I didn't mean to!"

"That . . . that was . . . that was . . . ow . . ."

I yanked the knife out of my leg. "You'll be fine," I promised. "We'll get you to the hospital."

Dave let out what I'm pretty sure was supposed to be a battle cry and dove at me. I instinctively held the knife out in front of me to protect myself (although, in retrospect, my hands would have worked just as well) and an instant later my buddy was skewered through the throat.

He said something. The gargling made it difficult to determine exactly what it was, but the tone was not complimentary.

I pulled the knife out. The huge gout of blood that came out of his neck made it clear that an ambulance would probably not do him a whole lot of good.

So I didn't call one. I held him, crying softly, until he was done bleeding and living.

The apartment manager called and asked if I would please turn my damn television down because it was disturbing my neighbors. I said that I would.

In the middle of the night, I dragged Dave out to my car, drove eighty miles out of town, and buried him in a shallow grave. I drank a bottle of beer to honor his memory. I drove back home, climbed into bed, remembered that I'd left my fingerprints on the beer bottle, drove the eighty miles back to the grave, retrieved the bottle, and drove back home.

Since Dave had given his life for revenge on Erica, I vowed to complete my plan so that his passing would not be in vain. The next day, I bought a rubber spider from a toy store, baked it into a cake, and decorated it nicely with a "Happy Labor Day" message, even though Labor Day was two weeks away.

That night, the news reported that she had choked to death on a rubber spider leg.

Dave would've thought that was kind of funny. So I laughed.

I laughed and laughed and laughed and even kept laughing when the very polite men loaded me into the white van.

Hell, I'm laughing as I type this.

Hee hee hee.

Revenge is fun.

THE DROP

Whoops. Parachute didn't open. That's not good.

Okay, no need to panic. There's a backup chute somewhere. Is it this thing? No. This one? Uh-uh. Wish I'd paid more attention during the training. Damn cleavage.

Ground sure looks far away. Hope I hit a spongy part.

Guess I'm going to die. Think I'm taking it rather well. Would've expected to find myself shouting "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!" Almost at peace.

No, wait, peace is gone. Scared now.

So many things I wanted to do with my life. Like skydive. Pretty stupid way to deal with my mid-life crisis. Should've just stayed on the couch.

Hope it doesn't hurt. Probably won't. Predicting instant darkness on impact. Gotta be optimistic.

Heard that a fall from this height kills you before you even hit the ground. Always thought that was dumb. Think they meant that you die of a heart attack on the way down. My heart seems to be holding up rather well.

One nice thing about this situation is that I'll get to choose my last thought. My final thoughts won't be "Gosh, my butt itches" or something like that.

Really hope it doesn't hurt.

Better than getting mauled by a pit bull. Or dying of cancer. Certainly one of the top ten ways I'd want to go, if I had to choose.

Would rather die in my sleep, though.

Unlikely that I'll be able to fall asleep before I hit.

Ground's getting closer.

Closed casket funeral for sure.

At least my financial affairs are in order. No burden on the kids.

Won't get to see Greg graduate. But also won't have to yell at him if he flunks out. Sort of a mixed blessing.

Y'know, if I'm doomed anyway, I might as well try to enjoy this skydiving experience. Get my money's worth. Enjoy the adrenaline rush.

Woo-hoo!

Nope, not working. Too scared.

Wonder how far I have left to fall? Never been a good judge of distance. Not much longer until the end.

Should I hit feet-first, head-first, or try for a belly flop? Not certain it makes any difference. Head-first might be more impressive if somebody's down there with a camera.

Hope I don't hit anybody. Would hate to take an innocent life. Will just have to be careful.

This is definitely going to mess up my hair.

Heh heh. That was kind of funny. Must try to re-think it right before impact.

Ground is coming up fast.

Heart attack might be nice. Shouldn't have changed my diet.

Gonna die.

Gonna die gonna die gonnadiegonnadiegonnadie.

This is definitely going to —

Ow.

Darkness.

I can't open my eyes. There's something on them.

Ahhh, nice cool breeze. Blew the dust off my eyeball. I can see now.

Am I still alive?

Can't be. I'm looking at my splattered body. I guess an eyeball popped out. Surprised it still works.

Looks like the chute finally opened. That's nice.

I'm hungry.

I had a bowl of pasta before the drop. That must be it next to my open stomach.

I think hungry for human flesh.

Aw, crap. I must be a zombie.

I don't even have a jaw left. It's in five . . . six . . . at least seven different pieces. Maybe eight. I can't be sure what that one chunk is.

Go away, bird. Shoo. I mean it.

Being eaten.

Darkness.

Dammit.

HERE'S WHAT HAPPENED . . .

So I'm sitting in Harvey's Diner, okay? It's me and Joey, and it's about eleven-thirty at night, and there are . . . I dunno, maybe ten other people in the restaurant. The waitress is hot, but she's pretty much incompetent, and we've been waiting for almost fifteen minutes just to get a cup of coffee.

You know Joey, he's all like "Let's just go!" but that's stupid. Even if it takes her another fifteen minutes to bring us our coffee, that's still less time than it would take to find another place that's open this late. And you know Harvey's; their food is borderline poison, but they make great coffee. None of that $3.95-for-a-small-cup-with-fifteen-words-in-the-name nonsense. It's hot, black, and they'll refill it all night without complaining. Good stuff.

Anyway, we're sitting there waiting, and I forget what else we were talking about. Movies, I think. Some romantic comedy his girlfriend made him see. No, it wasn't that one. He didn't see it in the theater — I think it just came out on DVD. No, it had that one chick from that sitcom, the one where they're at work. The redhead. She was in that other movie that won the Academy Award. No, it wasn't that. Ah, it doesn't matter.

We're sitting there talking, and then the chef pushes through the swinging door from the kitchen. He's wearing this apron that's got streaks of red on it, and he's holding — I swear — a meat cleaver. Not a bloody meat cleaver, but it's a frickin' meat cleaver, and he's holding it up like he's ready to whack it into somebody's head! And he walks down the aisle, stomping his feet, and he goes "Who sent back the goddamn turkey sandwich?"

No, it definitely wasn't Julia Roberts in that movie. She was never in a sitcom. I'm trying to tell you about the chef with the meat cleaver, okay? Yeah, I know she was in that one episode of Friends, but that's not who I'm talking about. No, it wasn't Sandra Bullock. You're missing the point of my story.

So the chef is holding this meat cleaver, and he wants to know who sent back the turkey sandwich. And Joey is all tensed up and looking like he wants to bolt, but at this point I figure we're okay, since neither one of us ordered a turkey sandwich. And the chef starts walking past the tables. He's this bald guy with a really big gut, but he looks strong, y'know? Like, you have to assume that if he did bring the meat cleaver down on your skull, it would crack through a couple of inches of bone, easy.

And we see this one guy looking really nervous, and there's no question at all that he's the poor schmuck who sent back the sandwich. Have you ever had a sandwich there? I've never had the turkey, but the roast beef was rubbery and the tomatoes were all slimy and the bread was stale. So I don't blame the guy one bit for sending his back. He just picked a really bad night to do it.

Jesus, I'm sorry I brought up the romantic comedy! Just forget that I said anything about it and try to focus on — yes, that was it! No, I didn't see it, but Joey said it sucked.

The chef walks right up to the guy's table. This lady is sitting across from him — maybe his wife, I'm not sure — and she's staring at the chef with bugged-out eyes and her jaw hanging open and a milk mustache. And here's the part that's gonna mess with your mind. The chef screams "How do you like this turkey sandwich?" and then — thwack! — he slams the meat cleaver right into the guy's face!

I'm not lying, I swear! He whacked it into his nose! Joey and I, we're all like "Holy cow, the chef's gone berserk!" and the guy's wife or girlfriend or whatever is screaming and crying and people start jumping up from their tables and freaking out. The guy with the cleaver in his face, he's not dead. He's hollering "My nose! My nose!" but it sounds all funny because he's got a cleaver in his nose, y'know? You can't really blame the guy for being upset.

Then the chef yanks out the meat cleaver and . . . you wanna hear something gross? This is really nasty. The guy must've had a bad cold. There's this big string of snot on the blade along with all the blood, and it stretches out like cheese on a pizza. Oh, man, I thought I was gonna puke!

So now I'm thinking, what do I do? Should I call the cops? Should I run? Should I try to save the poor bastard?

What? I don't know why he didn't put up his hand to block the cleaver. Yeah, I guess it should have been instinctive, but he didn't do it. I didn't get a chance to ask him! It wasn't the kind of situation where I'm going to stroll over there and say "Excuse me, kind sir, but if I might borrow a moment of your time, I'd like to know why you didn't elect to use your hand to deflect the meat cleaver." I don't care if it doesn't make any sense — I'm just telling you what I saw, okay? He was dead in the next few seconds anyway.

Damn it, now you're making me get ahead of the story.

So the chef swings his arm back, and then whack! Slashes the cleaver right across the guy's throat! Joey and I are both like, no way did that just happen! And then I start to think that maybe the whole thing is a publicity stunt, y'know? Like maybe Harvey's is trying to cater to edgier clientele, so they're faking homicides. But then I realize that there's just no way. The guy is spraying blood everywhere, his wife or girlfriend is shrieking, and most of the other people in the restaurant are running for the exit.

Joey looks me right in the eye and he says, totally calmly, "Dude, this is really messed up."

What do you mean, how could I hear him over the other noise? Are you trying to be a jerk? I've got this great story, and you want to just sit there and poke holes in it. Well, screw you. I've got better things to do than talk to you if you're going to act this way.

Oh, that's real mature. What a class act you are. I don't care if you ever hear the end of the story or not, so that doesn't bother me a bit.

Okay, look, could you at least let me tell you the next part without interrupting me? You're not gonna believe what happened.

People have made it to the door, and they're trying to push it open, and this lady screams, "It's locked! It's locked! Oh my God, they've locked us in!"

Can you believe that? A chef storming out of the kitchen and attacking a restaurant patron I can maybe understand, but they locked us in! How demented is that?

The turkey sandwich guy is all flopped back in his seat, gurgling and clutching at his throat. The chef grabs the guy's wife/girlfriend by the hair, bashes her down on the table, and slams the meat cleaver into the back of her neck. I don't think she even ordered a turkey sandwich! Now the chef is a big guy, but he couldn't get all the way through her head in one blow, so he does it again and again and again.

Finally I turn away, because there are only so many times you can watch somebody try to chop somebody's head off, y'know? And people are trying to grab chairs and tables to break through the windows, but the chairs and tables are all bolted to the floor at Harvey's, so people are just shouting "Oh no! The chairs and tables are all bolted to the floor!" I think at this point Joey and I are the only ones left in our seats, if you don't count the guy and girl that the chef already killed.

People start kicking and slamming their fists against the glass, but it's not glass! It's plastic. Or maybe it's not actually plastic . . . it's that clear stuff you use that doesn't break. I'm not a restaurateur so I'm not sure. But these people have now gone completely out of their minds. It's nuts, dude!

I look back at the chef, and he finally got the woman's head off. And my stomach gets all twisted up because I think he's going to do something completely disgusting and flat-out wrong with the head, but he just knocks it off the table. It bounces a little.

At this point, I'm disturbed but I'm not too concerned about my own personal safety. I mean, yeah, the chef has a meat cleaver, but it's not like he can chop off all of our heads, right? If the crowd would've rushed him instead of getting bent out of shape over the locked door, we probably could have saved the headless woman.

Then the other chef walks out.

He's got a frickin' rifle!

Now even I'm starting to question the motivations that are going on here at this point. I start to think that it may not really be about that turkey sandwich.

Bang! A guy who was pounding on the window gets the back of his head blown open. No multiple whacks with a meat cleaver for this guy — he's dead.

Bang! Another guy dead!

Bang! This old lady gets it in the back!

Now, if this were a made-up story, I'd talk about how brave I was and stuff, but I'm not making any of this up. So Joey and I, we got our butts right under that table, and we did it quick! And I can hear the rifle going off: Bang! Bang! Bang!

No, I'm not sure what kind of rifle it was. I don't know guns very well. It was brown, and it had a leather strap, I think.

Joey and I hear footsteps, and we can tell that the other chef is running across the diner. Bang! Bang! We're not hearing as much screaming anymore, if you know what I mean. Bang! Bang!

Joey goes "We have to do something!"

I go "What?"

Joey goes "Anything!"

I go "But what?"

Joey goes "I don't know! Something!"

I go "I agree, but what?"

There are maybe another six or seven shots, and then that's it. No more noise. They've slaughtered everybody else in the place. Joey and I are huddled under the table, trying to be very, very quiet, although since Harvey's is a pretty small place and there aren't tablecloths hanging down to cover us or anything it's a safe bet that we're gonna be found.

And this really sucked: Joey's cell phone went off.

It's sort of a double whammy, y'know? Not only did the phone give away our position, tenuous as it might have been, but it made us realize that we'd been too stupid to use our cell phones to call the cops when we had a chance. We're all like, d'oh!

So I hear footsteps running, and suddenly there's the chef, pointing the rifle under the table. And he —

Oh. I think the restroom's in the back, right next to the dartboard. Sure, no problem.

Hmmmmmhmmmhmmm. La-de-da.

Yeah, I'll have another one. Thanks.

Hmmmmmhmmmhmmm.

Jesus, how long does it take? You're not building a frickin' ark in there.

Hey, welcome back! Where did I leave off?

No, no, I was way past the meat cleaver decapitation. Then what's the last part you remember? I know I told you about the rifle. The second chef came out and he started shooting everybody. Me and Joey hid under the table. Then Joey's cell phone went off and the chef was right there with the rifle. I don't know what kind. I told you, it was brown with a strap.

I have no idea who was calling Joey. He didn't answer because he was a bit too preoccupied with the rifle-toting chef. So the chef says "Get the hell out from under there." And neither Joey nor I particularly want to do it, but we also don't want to join the other people who've got bullets in them, know what I mean? We're both kind of hesitant, because I figure that whoever comes out first is gonna get shot first, and I'm guessing that Joey figures the same thing, and we aren't quite prodding each other, but we're definitely trying to use nonverbal communication to suggest that the other person should go first.

And the chef is like "Now!" and so Joey scoots out from under the table. But the chef doesn't shoot him, which immediately makes me wish I'd come out first. He just pushes him out of the way and then looks at me. I climb out from under there and stand up.

The whole place looks like there was a massacre. 'Cause there was one. I mean, there's blood all over the floor, blood dripping off tables, blood splattered all over the windows, corpses all askew . . . it's sick.

The bald chef with the meat cleaver walks over and stands next to his buddy. And they're just staring at us sort of funny, like maybe they're thinking "Shoot or cleave? Shoot or cleave?"

Joey goes, "Why are you doing this?" Which is a pretty legitimate question, you've got to admit, but it also sounds kind of hokey. But I don't tell him that because I want to know the answer.

The rifle chef says, "We're sick of people complaining about our food." And then he goes off on this rant that I swear lasted a good ten minutes. I mean, if you make crappy food and charge people for it, they're gonna call you on it sometimes, right? But, God, he just went on and on and on, babbling about the lack of respect his customers give him, and how he worked his way through culinary school while he was taking care of his dying sister, and how nobody knew what kind of pressure he was under, and blah, blah, blah. By the end of his speech I was ready for a meat cleaver to the face.

Then he points his rifle back and forth between me and Joey, like he's trying to decide which one of us to shoot. And I'm trying to do this thing where I subtly move my eyeballs in Joey's direction, so that it might be some kind of subconscious signal that he should be the one to get shot. I mean, I don't wish Joey any harm or anything, but if one of us has to get shot, why not make it him, right?

The chef shoots Joey.

Not in the face or stomach — right in the kneecap. I cringe like he shot me instead, because I can't even imagine how much that's gotta hurt, though Joey's wailing is a pretty good clue. And the cleaver chef pushes Joey into the booth, laughing like he's gone completely insane. And Joey is bawling and shouting "Why me?" and now both chefs are laughing and the situation is so messed up that I can hardly even describe it.

The one chef twirls his cleaver and whack! There goes Joey's pinky. And the other chef presses the barrel of the rifle against the detached pinky and shoots it right off the table! Then they both laugh some more.

Is this too gross for you? It gets worse.

Pretty soon there's a pile of nine fingers on the table. The chef pushes them together into a nice tight pile, and then the other chef shoots again, sending fingers flying everywhere. And my first instinct is to bend down and try to scoop them up, just in case Joey lives through this and surgeons can reattach them, but I don't want to call attention to myself.

Then the chef starts slicing up his arms. No, Joey's arms, not his own. Duh. The cleaver isn't going through the bigger bones too well — it's probably dull from all the work he's put it through. I can't help but wonder if he'd offer me some kind of immunity if I went and got the blade sharpener for him, but of course I'm not really gonna ask that.

Then I guess they got tired of Joey making so much noise, because the other chef shoves the barrel of his rifle into Joey's mouth and pulls the trigger. And as all this stuff comes out of his head, I swear to God my first thought is that I should gather it up in case the surgeons can sew it back inside. Your mind does funny things under stress.

So Joey's dead. And since I'm the only non-psychopath left alive in the place, I figure I'm next. And, yep, my fears are confirmed when that rifle is suddenly pointed in my direction.

No, they didn't kill me. Are you trying to be a smartass? I'm telling you a story where one of my best friends got chopped up right before my eyes, and you're making fun of it. Oh, you thought I might be a ghost, real funny, real hilarious.

I'm almost done with the story. Can you find it within yourself to let me finish? I promise I won't take up much more of your ever-so-extremely-valuable time.

So I see my chance. The chefs are still laughing like maniacs, and I realize that the one with the rifle is only about eighty percent focused on me. That's when I kick him as hard as I can, right square in the upper thigh. And we struggle for a few minutes, and meanwhile the other chef slams his cleaver right into my arm. You can see the scar there, see? It's kind of faint. I'm not sure why it's jagged — that's just the way the meat cleaver hit it.

I get the rifle away from him, and kaboom! Right in the forehead! That chef is history, dude! But there's no time for me to celebrate my victory, because the other chef is coming at me with that damn cleaver again.

I shout "This one's for Joey, you son of a bitch! And for everybody else, too!" and pull the trigger.

Click. Rifle's empty.

So I bash the shit out of him with it. A lot messier, but it gets the job done.

And then the incompetent waitress from before comes out of the back room, looking all scared and stuff. She runs over and throws her arms around me and says "Thank you! Thank you so much! I was sure they were going to kill me next! Oh, I just don't know how I can repay you for what you've done!"

I tell her.

She looks at me, and starts to unbutton her blouse. I toss the rifle onto the floor, pull the waitress close to me, and —

Where the hell are you going?

This is the best frickin' part!

Ah, screw it. That's what happened.

PREGNANCY TEST

"Congratulations on your purchase of a Smith-White Studios pregnancy test! To get the most out of your interactive experience, please answer all questions honestly. If you hope that you're pregnant, press the blue button. If you hope that you're not pregnant, press the pink button."

[Beep.]

"Okay, you do NOT want to be pregnant. Well, we'll see how that works out for you in just a few short minutes!"

[Suspenseful music.]

"The next step is to hold me under your urine stream for five seconds. If that seems awkward, don't worry, it's much worse for me than it is for you! Ready? Go! Aaaugh, I'm drowning! I'm drowning! Ha ha, that's just a little joke to lighten the mood. You can take me out now."

[Catchy jingle.]

"The disgusting part is over, so now all you have to do is wait! If you think this baby could be an unplanned blessing, press the blue button. If you think this baby will ruin your life, press the pink button."

[Beep.]

"Ooooh, so you must be pretty stressed out right now! Well, I'll do what I can. If you visit our website, you can see the full line of Smith-White Studios birth control products to keep this from happening again. Of course, if you don't get the answer you want, you can always pre-order them for nine months from now!"

[Suspenseful music.]

"This has been the longest thirty seconds of your life, hasn't it? In another two-and-a-half minutes you'll know if you can return to normalcy as if nothing ever happened, or if everything will change! Press the blue button if you're going to keep it. Press the pink button if you're going to give it up for adoption. If you choose to burn in eternal hellfire, no need to press a button."

[Beep.]

"You're going to keep it! Wow, the stakes are really high now, aren't they? Only two minutes until you know the results of one moment of indiscretion. Or maybe lots of indiscretions that finally caught up to you. Or just a malfunction, which never happens when you use Smith-White Studios birth control products, available now at your local pharmacy!"

[Catchy jingle.]

"You really should get in a nap before I reveal the results, since it's the last ninety consecutive seconds of sleep you're going to get for the next couple of years. Ha ha, that's an exaggeration, of course, but a baby really will significantly cut down on your ability to get a good night's sleep. I don't want to say that your life is going to suck, but we both know that parts of it are going to suck, at least."

[Suspenseful music.]

"Down to the last seventy-five seconds. Are you sweating? Does your stomach hurt? You could be defusing a bomb and it wouldn't be this intense. Remember going to movies? That was fun, wasn't it? Not anymore. Dining in restaurants without everybody glaring at you? Those days might be gone! And what if the child is born with some sort of defect? You could literally have no life outside of taking care of this kid."

[Horror film music.]

"One minute! In one minute you will know if your life will be ruined! Are you trembling? Are you ready to have a nervous breakdown? Oh, God, it's like somebody has a gun to your head, and you don't know if they're going to pull the trigger! What are you going to do if I deliver bad news? Fall to the floor and scream in anguish? Stare silently into the mirror for a few hours? How will your impregnator react? So much rides on my yes-or-no answer to the question of are you pregnant? Did you think you would ever be in this situation? That's for other girls, not you! Not you!"

[Music similar to the Jeopardy theme but altered just enough to avoid a lawsuit.]

"It's almost time. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Feel like you're going to throw up? Three. Two . . ."

[Drumroll.]

"You . . ."

[Drumroll increases in volume.]

". . . are . . ."

[Music similar to the Loser's Theme From The Price Is Right.]

". . . pregnant. It's all over."

[Wacky music.]

"Juuuuuuust kidding! You are not pregnant!"

[Triumphant music.]

"Yes, you took the gamble, rolled the dice, and this time lady luck was on your side! There will be no consequences to your actions except the affordable cost of this pregnancy test! I can just feel the waves of relief shimmering off of you. Now get out there and celebrate, but not with unprotected intercourse, or you'll be right back here! In the future, we hope you'll consider Smith-White Studios birth control products, available now at your local pharmacy. Thank you and have a nice day!"

[Music swells.]

"Disclaimer: Test results not guaranteed. Please consult with your physician. Do not reuse test. Thank you."

MR. TWITCHER'S MIRACLE BABY-CHOPPING MACHINE

Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine was a wonder to behold. Why, that thing could lop an infant in half in the blink of an eye! It took some doing to reset and clean it up, but on a good day we could slice almost two hundred babies. Our record was two hundred and thirty-eight. That was quite a day.

I guess I'd worked for Mr. Twitcher for about six years before the moral implications of his whole empire started to bother me. When you're in the factory, you're so busy pulling levers, setting dials, and scrubbing surfaces that you don't have time for a lot of introspection. We'd just load the crying babies into the machine, chop them in two, properly dispose of the halves, and repeat the process. It didn't occur to me that I was doing anything wrong.

I'm really not sure what started my little quandary. It wasn't like we chopped a particularly charming baby or anything. But while I was scooping the lower half into a plastic bag, it suddenly hit me: This was wrong.

I kept working, of course, but I'd never been happier to hear the lunchtime whistle blow. My tuna fish sandwich didn't taste as good as it normally did, and my potato chips seemed stale even though the expiration date was months away.

"Another day, another dollar," said my buddy Garry, plopping down at my table. Garry said this every day. Usually I would respond with "You know it!" but today I wasn't in the mood. Garry finished off half of his BLT before he realized that I wasn't being talkative.

"Hey, Joey, what's wrong?" he asked. Six of us worked for Mr. Twitcher, but I'd always felt my strongest bond with Garry.

"Do you ever feel like what we do is . . . you know, evil?"

"Evil? How so?"

"I dunno," I admitted. "Chopping babies in half all day; it just feels like some kind of ethical line has been crossed."

Garry shrugged and took another bite of his BLT. "Those babies need chopping."

"Why?"

"Mr. Twitcher says so."

"But how do we know he's right?"

"Do you really think Mr. Twitcher would go to all the effort and expense of running this baby-chopping factory if there was no reason for it? It took him nearly a decade to perfect his miracle machine. You think we should just use a hacksaw? You think that's humane?"

I shook my head. "That's not my point. I'm wondering if we should be killing babies at all."

"What would we kill then? Hamsters? Monkeys? The machine was specifically calibrated for a human infant. You put a monkey in there and it'll take hours to get the gears unstuck."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," I admitted. "For some reason I just had this weird feeling about the whole thing. The sobbing mothers never bothered me before today. Maybe I'm just tired."

"What time did you go to bed last night?"

"About ten."

"Aren't you usually a nine-thirty kind of guy?"

"Yeah, most nights."

"Well, there you go," said Garry. "The mind does funny things when it doesn't get enough rest."

"Come to think of it, I am feeling kind of lethargic today. That must be it. Thanks!"

Garry was always a fine source of wisdom, and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my sandwich and chips. When the whistle blew again, I went right back to work. While Garry plucked the babies off the conveyer belt and strapped them to the iron slab, me and the other five guys got the machine ready to chop them in half. It was hot, tiring work, and before long I was covered with a thick sheen of perspiration and my hands were filthy with blood and grease.

The shower afterward felt great. Garry asked me if I wanted to join him for a couple of beers, so we pushed through the protestors outside, stopped at Vito's, and drank and laughed the evening away. I stumbled home, got undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

I woke up out of a dream and glanced over at the alarm clock. 2:21 A.M.

I couldn't fall back asleep.

Killing babies all day was wrong.

No. No, it couldn't be. Mr. Twitcher was a decent man and one hell of an entrepreneur. Chopping those newborns in half with his machine was right and proper. Anybody who said otherwise was just trying to cause a ruckus.

You know that isn't true. Those babies don't deserve to be severed like that, their corpses discarded like useless refuse. You've got baby blood on your hands, and someday you'll have to answer for it.

I put in an honest day's work.

You put in an honest day's baby murdering! Those babies could've been future doctors. They could've written classic works of literature, or brought the world laughter or fashion sense. But you had to go and chop 'em in half, you sadistic bastard.

"Stop it!" I screamed. "Stop it! Stop it! Leave me alone!"

I was suddenly glad that I lived alone, since that kept me from having to explain why I'd shouted, "Stop it!" at my own brain. I pulled the blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut, but sleep wouldn't return.

Six years of working for Mr. Twitcher.

Eight hours a day, five days a week, doing nothing but chopping babies with his miracle machine.

Was I a monster?

My stomach hurt.

I lay there, miserable, until the alarm went off at six-thirty.

The next day was almost unbearable. I watched Garry grab an infant off the conveyer belt and wondered if its mother was part of the picket line. I wondered if the poor thing was terrified out of its mind as Garry strapped it to the slab. I'd never really considered that the wails of the infants might be signs of terror — I figured babies just cried a lot — yet now I couldn't help but believe that the child was aware of its own mortality, its own violent demise.

Sammy, who we called Fat Sammy even though he was only moderately overweight, pulled the main lever back with both hands. I watched as the giant blade sliced the baby neatly in half through the belly button. Then I scooped the pieces into the bag, sealed it, and wiped up the blood, feeling almost as if I were hiding the evidence of a terrible crime.

I opened the lid of the disposal unit. The final step of my job was to toss the infant into the unit, bag and all. The remains would be thoroughly ground up, and then the semi-liquid substance would be sucked through a tube into the crematorium, where it would be burned to ashes in batches of ten. The ashes were then scattered to the wind. All in all, it was a very efficient process.

The next baby squirmed so much that Garry could barely hold it. Fortunately, he got it onto the slab without incident — Mr. Twitcher didn't like Droppers.

That unfortunate, innocent creature. It will never get a chance to grow up, to laugh, to lose its first tooth, to even grow its first tooth, to have a birthday. Chopped in half as its mother lies on her bed at home, weeping, asking God how He could let this happen . . .

I realized that my eyes were beginning to moisten. I frantically blinked the tears away, hoping nobody saw.

What was happening to me?

My world, once as comfortable as a pair of well-worn socks, was a spiral of confusion. I didn't know right from wrong. Good from evil. Heaven from Hell.

The enormous blade slammed down, halving the infant with a splatter of crimson, ceasing its cries forever.

And I gasped.

My fingers trembled as I stared into its dead eyes, its lifeless gaze. I hurriedly put it in the bag, facedown. I took hold of its left foot, which wore a little pink bootie.

No, not its left foot. Her left foot.

What was her name? Charlotte? Vanessa? Tina?

I bet it was Tina. She looked like a Tina.

Some drops of blood hit the cement floor as I tried to get Tina's lower half into the bag. "What the hell are you doing, Joey?" Garry called out. "Be careful!"

I mumbled an apology and got the rest of the baby in the bag. I sealed it and shoved the whole thing into the disposal unit, feeling amazingly queasy.

I knew then what had to be done. I had to talk to Mr. Twitcher. I had to find out why.

Though he was a stern man, Mr. Twitcher always had an open-door policy for his employees. Few ever took him up on it, because he wasn't the kind of person you would invite to dinner or chat about last night's television programs with, but his office door was indeed ajar as I approached it after the lunch whistle blew. I knocked.

"Come right in," he said.

I pushed the door open all the way and walked inside. Mr. Twitcher sat behind his desk, peering at me through his spectacles. He was an elderly man, nearly bald, with a crooked nose and thin mustache. He pushed some papers aside and folded his hands on his desk. "Welcome to my office," he said. "Please have a seat."

I nodded and closed the door behind me.

"I'd prefer you left the door open," said Mr. Twitcher. "I can't very well purport to have an open-door policy for all employees if the aforementioned door is closed, now can I?"

"Of course not. Sorry, sir," I said, opening the door just a crack. I sat down on a chair in front of his desk, hoping that nobody would walk past the office as we spoke.

"So what's on your mind?"

I wasn't quite sure how to tactfully bring up the subject, and so I blurted it out: "Why do we kill babies?"

Mr. Twitcher seemed nonplussed by my query. "Ah, the real question is, why wouldn't we kill babies?"

I waited for him to elaborate. He did not.

"It's just that . . . I like my job, of course, but I can't help but think that we ought not to chop up infants."

Mr. Twitcher frowned. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Well, they're innocent babies."

"Innocent? Since when does innocence provide value? That's nonsense, hogwash, and poppycock. Tell me, what has a baby done for you recently?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Of course nothing! Have you ever changed a diaper?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I have, and let me tell you, it's an unpleasant process. Babies do nothing but cry, soil diapers, and spit up. I defy you to name one other thing that a baby does."

I considered his challenge for a moment. "They coo."

"Coo? You think that cooing is a benefit? If I wanted to hear something coo, there are plenty of better sources than a baby, trust me on that." For a moment I thought that he was going to banish me from his office, but to my surprise, Mr. Twitcher smiled. "You're not the first person to bring these concerns to me."

"I'm not?"

"Oh, no. Far from it. There are plenty of individuals who feel that my baby-chopping operation is questionable at best. You'd be amazed at some of the names I've been called."

"Such as?"

"Baby Killer, for one. But I don't let it bother me. I hold my head up high as I walk into my factory each morning. For I know that I am in the right. Cooing aside, babies contribute nothing to society."

"Not as newborns," I agreed. "But when they grow up —"

"Oh pish-posh. I've heard that argument a hundred times. Let me ask you something. Are you a hard worker?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do I pay you a fair wage?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Well, let's imagine that I hired you expecting a hard worker and paid you a fair wage. But for the first twelve or thirteen years of your employ, you did nothing at all. Would that be a sound business decision for me?"

"I guess not."

"You guess not? You know not! Yes, babies eventually become productive citizens, but until that time they're the epitome of laziness and wanton consumption. By the time they're ready to contribute, it's too little, too late. That's why I chop them, grind them, and burn them. Do you understand?"

"I think I do."

"Excellent. Feel free to stop in with any other concerns. My door is always open."

I walked to the lunchroom, feeling at peace with the world. And for the next few months, I was one of Mr. Twitcher's best employees. Garry and I even beat the baby-chopping record. Only by three, but we still beat it!

Sometimes I'd make a game of it, tossing the halves into the air and trying to catch them in the open bag. Unfortunately, Mr. Twitcher didn't approve of horseplay in the factory, and we were both reprimanded.

Then one day we came into work and saw a great big tent next to the machine. Well, not a tent exactly, but rather something covered with a huge white sheet. Mr. Twitcher stood in front of it, proudly, and gestured for us to gather around.

"Behold!" he shouted, tugging off the sheet. "My Miracle Puppy and Kitten Dicer!"

It was truly an impressive machine. The steel gleamed in the fluorescent lights. Unlike the Baby-Chopper's single slicing implement, this contraption had no fewer than eight blades. Awestruck, everybody moved closer to get a better look.

"So we're killing puppies and kittens now?" Garry asked.

"We certainly are! Lots of them! And I'll give an extra day's wages to the first person who can tell me the best part of my new invention!"

I immediately raised my hand. "It can chop eight at once!"

Mr. Twitcher shook his head. "No, no, no, no. One at a time. That's the only way to do it, Joey, one at a time! Who else has a guess?"

There were other guesses, none of them correct. Mr. Twitcher grinned. "It won't kill them right away!" he announced. "Eight blades of the sharpest steel, but they won't damage any vital organs! The canine or feline will remain alive to die a slow, agonizing death as we watch!"

Everybody applauded.

"That would've been my next guess," Garry muttered, although I doubted his honesty.

And so Mr. Twitcher expanded his empire. We chopped and diced all day, and though I couldn't explain it, another mild sensation of guilt began to wash over me during the following weeks. I started to wonder if I was sick. Perhaps I had a brain tumor, or something even worse.

I went to the doctor and had a full physical examination. He assured me that I was perfectly fine.

So what was wrong with me?

I lay in bed, again unable to sleep. I thought about the last puppy. It wore a collar that said "Woofy" and had held onto its chew toy until its final moment of life. I couldn't get the image of the puppy's soulful eyes out of my mind. Why? Why did this torment me so?

And the truth instantly became crystal clear.

Killing puppies was wrong.

Killing kittens was wrong.

And, yes, even killing babies was wrong.

There was no moral grey area here. Every single weekday I walked into Mr. Twitcher's factory, and I did terrible things. Ghastly things. Unforgiveable things. I was worse than the mugger who stole an elderly woman's purse. Worse than the vandals who covered exquisite statues in spray paint. Worse even than the businessman who cheated on his taxes.

In fact, I was worse than the first two put together.

Well, this was going to stop. The next time a precious kitten was dismembered, I would not be the one to pull the lever to release the stainless steel blades! Tomorrow morning I was going to march right into Mr. Twitcher's office and tender my resignation.

I felt as if the weight of a thousand anvils had been lifted from my shoulders. I now understood the sense of happiness, the bliss, the feelings of self-worth enjoyed by those who didn't murder babies and kittens and puppies as part of their daily employment. I was one of them now. I was pure.

I almost got out of bed and marched to the factory right then and there, but nobody would be at work in the middle of the night and my moral victory would go unnoticed. Instead, for the first time in my career, I showed up to work fifteen minutes late.

"Where've you been?" Garry demanded. "We've got a baby backlog!"

"I don't care," I said, calmly.

"What?"

"I don't care. I'm not killing any more babies."

With some effort, I climbed on top of the Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine, standing on top of the slab, although not where the blade could get me. Climbing on the equipment was strictly forbidden, but I just didn't care anymore, not even when I saw Mr. Twitcher come out of his office to see what was going on.

"There is evil in the world," I announced. "We may think it exists only in faraway lands, but it exists right here in our own town. In fact, it exists underneath my very feet. I've been walking around with blinders on, but no more. No more! Only yesterday I was like the rest of you. I gave no more thought to chopping up a baby than I did to eating a bagel. And that is deplorable. More than deplorable. Yesterday when I looked into the mirror, I thought I saw a man, but instead I saw a beast!"

"Get the hell down from there!" Mr. Twitcher shouted.

"I will," I said. "I will get down. In fact, I will get down from this whole appalling operation. Because no matter how you justify it, it is flat-out wrong to murder babies just because you don't like them. And the same is true for puppies and kittens. They may not pay taxes, but they have almost as much of a right to live as we do!"

I gazed into the faces of my co-workers. I knew they did not believe me. They thought I was a madman.

But you know what? That was okay, because I didn't speak my words of wisdom for them. Nor did I make this speech for the babies of the world, nor the puppies, nor the kittens.

I did it for myself.

I climbed down from Mr. Twitcher's machine and walked out of the factory, forever.

Please don't call me a hero. I'm just a regular man whose eyes opened just a little bit wider that day.

I kept in touch with Garry. He told me how Mr. Twitcher unveiled a third machine, this one capable of stretching a panda bear to twice its normal height before the cuddly creature split. Garry's eyes gleamed as he described the device, but my own eyes were unimpressed.

Because I won't torture an innocent panda bear. I'm not that person anymore.

Sometimes in life, you have to take a stand for what you believe in. That's what I did that warm August morning. And you can do it, too. You may not save any lives, and you may not make the world a better place, but if you can stop yourself from making it worse, then you've done your small part to help.

Me, I can look in the mirror again.

And I like what I see.

THE CARVER

Though Frank always thought that using those trace patterns to carve impressive jack-o-lanterns was cheating, he had no such reservations about using them on humans.

"Why are you doing this?" his victim wailed.

It was the sixth or seventh time the man had asked that. Frank wasn't sure why he cared. Frank knew that if he were strapped to a chair with a trace pattern taped to his face and a madman slicing at him with a scalpel, the motive would be irrelevant. Maybe the man was just trying to fill the awkward silences between screams.

"I'm doing this because I'm insane. Doesn't my mad cackle make me sound insane?" Frank asked, knowing perfectly well that it did.

"Please . . . just let me go!"

"That would be kind of silly. I went to a lot of trouble to get you. You resisted when I tried to put the burlap sack over your head. Remember that? You bit me on the finger. Right here. You didn't quite break the skin but you came close. After enduring that, why would I just let you go?"

The man began to weep.

Even though he fully and cheerfully identified with the label of "psycho sadist," Frank didn't like it when they cried. Screaming was awesome. Choking and gurgling were also nice. But when his victims cried, there was always a tiny part of Frank that thought, Am I doing the right thing? Could I somehow put my cutting skills to better use?

He always got over it quickly, though. "Stop crying," he said.

"Please," said the man, still crying, "my wife is pregnant."

"Is she?"

"Yes."

"Why aren't you wearing a wedding ring?"

"I'm allergic."

"To what? To gold?"

"Yes."

"I think I've heard of that, actually. But how come I've been tracking you for the past couple of days, and I've never seen you hanging out with any pregnant women? You tried to pick up that one lady at the bar, but I didn't really get a 'pregnant spouse' vibe from her. I mean, I couldn't hear the whole conversation, but she did kind of shake her head at you a few times and then leave with a different guy. Based on what I observed, if you really do have a pregnant wife, then I should be mad at you, and torture you longer and more ferociously."

"Please . . ."

"You already said please. Manners don't help."

"I didn't do anything to you."

"You're right. You didn't. And if I kept shouting 'Revenge!' the whole time I was cutting you, that argument would have some substance. But since I've given no indication that my actions are vengeance-based, it was a pointless thing to say."

"I'll do anything."

"Like what?"

"Anything."

"Would you stab a baby?"

"What?"

"If I brought a baby in here right now, would you stab it? Not dozens of times; just one really good stab. Maybe in the soft part of its head. Would you do that?"

The man didn't answer.

"Hey, for all you know I've got a newborn in the next room and this could be your key to freedom. Would you, or would you not, stab a newborn baby in the soft part of its head if I promised to let you go?"

The man was silent for a long moment. "Burn in hell," he finally said.

Frank desperately wished that he had a baby in the next room, so he could bring it in and see if the man would really stab it. But he didn't have one, and he didn't have any way to get one outside of fathering one himself, which would take too long.

"That's a no, huh?" Frank asked. "I can respect that. If I were in your position, I'd be all like 'Bring that baby in right now! Hell, line ten of 'em in a row and I'll stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab, stab . . . uh, was that nine or ten? I think it was nine. Stab. But you're a better person than I am."

Frank slashed the scalpel across the man's chin. The man winced. Frank wished he'd winced louder.

"Don't take that as a big compliment, though," Frank continued. "I'm morally reprehensible. Most people are better people than me. Not Hitler, and not Saddam, but I like to think that I'm around the Jeffrey Dahmer level. Did you know that he was trying to make people into zombies? Seriously. He wasn't trying to create an army of zombies or anything like that, but he did want to make a couple of them to do his bidding. If I was going to let you live, you could look it up."

He slashed again. Damn. That wasn't quite where he was supposed to cut. It was hard to stay on the lines. Oh well. Close enough.

"You never really answered the baby question," he said. "You told me to go to hell, but that's not a definitive answer. That was basically expressing your disapproval of the idea while leaving the option open. I think you'd do it."

"I wouldn't stab a doll for you."

"Is that so? You just said that you'd do anything."

"Changed my mind."

"My, my, my, well, well, well, look who's all rebellious now! I'm gonna have to siphon out some of that testosterone or you might just kick my ass. Where did this sudden courage come from? I like it. Make you a deal: I'll let you go right now if you wet your pants. Ready . . . set . . . wet 'em!"

"I'm not doing anything for you."

"It's not for me. You'd be wetting your pants for yourself. You can leave that part out when you talk to the press if you think it might interfere with you getting a movie or book deal."

"Go to hell."

"You've already said that. I still think you're being kind of politician-y about it. Go on and wet them. Wet them or I'll stab you in the chest."

"You'll stab me anyway."

"No, I won't. Not in the chest. Do it."

"Never."

"Never? That's kind of melodramatic. You sound like a superhero. Maybe you're counting on your chest of steel to deflect my knife. Do it."

"No."

"I'm not asking for number two. It's no big deal."

"I'm not doing it."

"A few drops."

"No."

"C'mon, only a few . . ." Frank frowned. "You just made me act whiny. None of my victims have ever made me act whiny before. How the hell did you do that?"

The man didn't answer.

"I'm serious. It's really kind of upsetting that you drew that out of me. You're supposed to be the whiny one. I can't believe this happened. Damn."

Actually, Frank had behaved in a faux-whiny manner with at least three of his former victims, and it amused him that the man's eyes seemed to light up with the thought of somehow having obtained the upper hand.

"I'm kidding, of course," he said. "If you'd really wet your pants I would have scolded you then stabbed you."

The light went out of the man's eyes. It was a glorious sight. But he didn't start crying again.

"You're not going to be alive much longer," said Frank. "I'd say five minutes and counting. Do you want to say a prayer? I'd be more than happy to point and giggle while you do that."

"No."

Frank sliced his cheek. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Any final requests?"

"Want to hear a joke?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if you wanted to hear a joke. Have you heard the slop joke?"

"I don't think so."

"Really? It's the funniest joke ever."

"I might have heard it, but I don't know it as the slop joke. How does it go?"

"So three men, a son, a father, and a grandfather, run out of gas. They walk for miles, and it's scorching hot out, and they're dying of thirst, and finally just as the sun is setting they reach a small farm."

"Okay."

"The farmer comes out of his house, and he says, I'm happy to give you some gas, but my night vision is terrible, so I can't drive you back to your car until the morning. However, you're more than welcome to sleep here. There's just one condition: stay away from my beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter."

"Ah, yes, the farmer's daughter. Always a classic."

"The son can't sleep, so he wanders around the house, and when he walks into the kitchen, who does he see but the farmer's daughter, standing there completely naked. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? Well, the son says, of course, I can be as quiet as you want, and they go at it like rabbits."

Frank lowered his scalpel and wiped the blood off on his sleeve.

"The son goes back to sleep, happy as you can imagine. And then the father wakes up, and he can't sleep, so he starts to wander around, and he finds the farmer's daughter right there in the kitchen. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? The father says, hell yeah I can be quiet, and they screw like it's the end of the world."

Frank couldn't help but smile. He loved jokes.

"So the father goes back to sleep and has the best dreams of his life. And then the grandfather wakes up, and he can't sleep either, so he wanders around, and, yes, he walks into the kitchen and she's still there, still naked. And she says, I've never been with a man; do you think you could be quiet? And the grandfather says . . ."

The man trailed off.

"What did he say?" asked Frank.

"Go to hell. I'm not finishing the joke."

"Really?"

"Nope."

"That's your big master plan, huh? Leave off the punchline and hope it haunts me for the rest of my life."

"Yep."

"Pretty weak."

"Maybe."

"You're really not going to finish the joke?"

"Not even if you cut off my penis."

It turned out that he was not bluffing. Frank had no idea where all of this willpower came from. Maybe it was some sort of inner peace that came from knowing you were going to die and accepting that fact, but it was annoying as crap.

Finally he just stabbed the man to death.

His victim had failed. This wasn't going to haunt Frank forever. At best, it would mildly bug him.

Mildly bug him for the rest of his life.

Mildly bug him for eternity.

Dammit.

He made the last couple of cuts and then pulled off the trace paper. "What the hell?" he asked. "That doesn't look anything like Homer Simpson."

PUSH THE BUTTON

Ladies and gentlemen reading this book, you are now about to witness two people sharing a moral quandary. Will it bring them all of the happiness they could ever want . . . or will it destroy them?

We are in a house. A living room, specifically. A living room owned, along with the rest of the house, by Tom and Esmerelda. They are seated on the couch, watching television. The show they are watching is unimportant, though if it upsets you to have that detail omitted, we shall say that they were watching America's Next Top Model. Rest assured that the content of the show is unimportant.

As they watch, a being known as The Viewer gazes upon them. It is time for him to test Tom and Esmerelda as they have never been tested before.

He appears in their living room.

Under normal circumstances, having a middle-aged man in a tuxedo suddenly materialize in front of them would cause Tom and Esmerelda some anxiety. But it is part of the power of The Viewer that they do not freak out, and in fact are curious as to why this stranger has appeared before them.

"Tom and Esmerelda, I come bearing a gift," he says, holding a small metal box with a red button on the top. "If you press the button on this box, you will be given the sum of one million dollars . . . but somebody you do not know will die!"

"Oh, hell yeah! Hand it over!" Tom reaches for the box.

"You must carefully consider the moral implications of this action," says The Viewer. "Can you sleep at night, knowing the great price that came with your newfound wealth?"

"Sure, I don't even know the dude."

"This is not a decision to take lightly," The Viewer warns him. "You must fully consider —"

"Stop talking and just give me the kill box!" Tom stands up and snatches the box out of The Viewer's hand. "Wow. I've always wanted one of these boxes that kills people you don't know for a million dollars!"

Tom sits down next to Esmerelda. She looks uncomfortable.

"Are you sure we shouldn't make a list of pros and cons before we do this?"

"That's sissy talk."

"But what if it comes with an ironic twist?"

"Look, honey, if you waste time worrying about ironic twists, you'll never get ahead in life. For all we know, the person we don't know could be a serial killer, who could kill even more people, and the people he kills could get up and kill, and the people they kill could get up and kill!"

"Well, we don't want that."

And then Esmerelda presses the button. What did you think, dear reader? Did you think she would make that decision, or did you think she would make a different decision? Discuss this in your own mind.

"You have made your choice!" says The Viewer. "Check your PayPal account." The Viewer, though he has lived for thousands of years, appreciates the convenience of modern technology.

And then The Viewer disappears. But he is still watching. Oh, yes, he is still watching.

"We're rich!" Tom declares. "We can buy anything in the world that costs a million dollars or less!"

"Let's go on a cruise!" Esmerelda suggests.

Tom shakes his head. "No! I'm going to take that million dollars and buy an army of pugs! An entire army. Oh, they may look harmless, but my army of pugs will take down the entire city!"

"Please, Tom, no! Maybe we should invest the money.

"Never! Death and destruction is the way to go! All prepare for the pug apocalypse!" Tom cackles, fully exposing the evil that has permeated his soul.

Esmerelda weeps. "Oh, Tom, it's like I don't even know you anymore!"

Tom considers that statement for an extremely brief moment, and then drops dead.

Yes, reader, the choice made by Tom and Esmerelda came with an ironic twist. For when Esmerelda checked her account . . . PayPal had taken out a substantial service fee!

And The Viewer laughed and laughed, the sound of his laughter echoing throughout the farthest reaches of the universe.

MY KNIFE COLLECTION

Aren't they pretty? Each one has a story.

The one you're looking at, the one on the left — that's sterling silver. Got it for six bucks at a flea market. The guy wanted ten. I used it on a college girl who wanted a ride home for Thanksgiving. Trivia: that was the first kill where I ever got to spend more than an hour. The blade held up, though. Well worth the six bucks.

That one? It wasn't rusty when I used it. I wish it had been. There's something appealingly raw about that idea. But, no, I left it outside after rinsing it off and it succumbed to the elements. That's the only one I don't like to touch, because I'm worried that the blade will fall off.

The one on the left really wasn't sharp enough for what I needed. And not only was the blade dull, but I had to do the job quickly. I knew I had maybe two minutes of cutting time, tops, before somebody came to investigate. I felt kind of unfulfilled afterward — I hate to rush. But it's not like you can hang a "Do Not Disturb" sign outside of a dark alley, right? Sometimes you just don't get the luxury of savoring your work.

Now that knife is awesome, my friend. Cuts through bone like it's cutting through an eyeball. I have a very strict one-victim-per-blade rule, but let me tell you, I'm very tempted to bring this one back for an encore. This thing can slice.

Yep, that is indeed the handle of a plastic butter knife. I just wanted to see if it would work. It didn't — the blade snapped off as soon as it hit her stomach. Of course, I'd brought along a backup tool, that one with the turquoise handle, and it worked fine.

All in all, not a bad collection. Fourteen knives. It's not a complete set, since two are missing, but sometimes you have to get rid of the evidence right away. I wish I'd kept the ones from back when I was doing animals, but back then I wasn't thinking about souvenirs. Anyway, I'd have to buy a bigger display case.

So, see, I'm just like you. I understand you. Your actions make perfect sense to me . . . which is why you shouldn't kill me. You don't kill the one person who understands, right? That would be insane.

I'm not suggesting that you're insane, sir. I just think it's crazy — I mean, unwise — to kill a potential soulmate.

Yes, I can see where you might think I was making this up to save my life. I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. As nervous as I am, do you really think I could make all of that stuff up on the spot? It's the complete truth; hand on my heart. Why else would I have such an eclectic knife collection?

Quiz me. Ask me about my crimes, and I'll convince you that I'm being honest. Go on ask me anything.

My first victim? We're not counting ants or butterflies, right? Do you mean human or just mammal?

It was a squirrel, when I was twelve. My dad shot it out of a tree. He got it in the leg. I lied to Dad and said that it was dead, and when he went inside I grabbed a medium-sized rock to finish the job. It took me three blows. What's funny is that Dad saw me through the window. He was absolutely furious and told me to never, ever tell anybody what I'd done. Guess I just broke that promise, didn't I?

I don't think squirrels count, either. That's why I asked you if you were talking about humans or just mammals.

My first human was ten years later. Her name was — why are you laughing at that? Waiting ten years does not make me a chickenshit. I was resisting the urges! If I'd wanted to, I could've started before I was even a teenager. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I've racked up sixteen bodies in five years. What's your count?

I see.

Well, it's not a contest. I'm competing with nobody but myself. And even there, it's not like I'm trying to beat any personal records or anything — I'm simply doing what I'm compelled to do. I've tripled Jack the Ripper's count, so I think my accomplishments speak for themselves.

Fine. Whatever you say. I'm a great big fraidy-cat late bloomer underachiever. Happy now?

No, no, no, no, put the hatchet down, I'll continue with my story!

Her name was Denise. She lived in the apartment next door and was always nice to me. She kept a very tight routine, which made it very easy to plan things out. Every Saturday night, around midnight, she did her laundry. She'd sit on the machine and read a book, usually something off the bestseller lists. We'd spoken many, many times, so she wasn't suspicious when I joined her in the laundry room and struck up a conversation. She didn't even get nervous when I started cleaning underneath my fingernails with my pocketknife — the blue one right there with my name engraved in the handle. I think it was, oh, about a quarter-second before the blade pierced her throat that she realized something was amiss.

What do you mean, how did I clean up the mess before I was discovered? We were in a laundry room! There were cleaning supplies everywhere! Who else do you know who does their laundry at midnight on Saturday? That was the quirk that led to her demise!

What's that? A body? A body . . . a body . . . a body . . . yeah, I can show you a body. Not Denise's, of course, but I can take you to my last one. The problem is that I don't hunt where I live — at least, not anymore — so it'll be a couple of hours' drive from here. She's in a not-so-shallow grave about a mile into the woods, but I think I can find it again without too much trouble.

Not interested? All right, fair enough.

Please, there's no reason for this! Even if we're not kindred spirits, we could at least share some professional courtesy! Maybe we could do one together!

Ah, you like that idea?

My usual modus operandi involves weeks of planning, but I'm flexible. We could try it out. This might work.

Well, of course I'm just trying to save my life. I wouldn't insult your intelligence by suggesting otherwise. The key factor here, though, is that I'm not planning to run away. You know where I live and you've seen my knife collection, so you could make things very miserable for me with a quick call to the police, right? Believe me, I'd rather die from your hatchet than rot in prison for the rest of my life. I think we should give my idea a shot.

Wouldn't you like to have a confidant, somebody who knows what you're feeling? After a really spectacular stab, there's nothing I'd love more than to tell somebody all about it, let them share in my excitement and bloodlust, and yet I can't. It's frustrating as hell. Don't you feel the same way?

Then let's do this.

I do indeed have a pair of handcuffs. I'll go get them and be right back. No, I'm kidding — naturally I'll let you accompany me while I go get them.

See? Right here in the drawer. Do you want me to snap on my end first, or have you do yours first? Does it matter? I didn't think so; I'm just erring on the side of caution. Here we go. Kind of awkward, but not too bad. My car's in the garage if you're ready. I'm not going to disrespect you by asking if you want to keep your hatchet in the trunk. I guess as long as nobody can see it through the window we'll be fine. Ready? Good.

Let me know if the A/C is okay. It doesn't always work that well. Do you have a favorite radio station? I listen to pretty much anything but rap. I'm not even sure if they still make rap.

No, I don't have to talk all the time. Just let me know when you see a decent potential victim.

What about her? Yeah, she's my type; I'm making sure she's yours. I mean, obviously since you were going to kill me I know that I'm your type of prey, but I'm certainly not my type of prey, so I'm happy to go with whatever type you pick. Too old? That's fine. We'll keep driving.

Her? Ummmm . . . I don't know. I mean — I'm just — I'm not big on kids, okay? Not that young, anyway. You can laugh. I'm not offended.

Thanks. I appreciate that.

Her? I don't know . . . seems too risky. We should stick to back roads. If we just try to snatch somebody off this street, we'll get caught for sure. Let's pull in here and wait. This is a nice place to hang out, right? An appropriate victim will be by soon, I'll bet.

The cat would be okay, I suppose. I've moved past that era in my life, but it might be fun, for old time's sake. A little cat-killing nostalgia.

You're just playing around, aren't you?

Toying with me.

Fine.

You must be one of those guys with nothing to lose. Here I am trying to live a long, happy life, but you figure you're going to die young anyway, so you might as well throw caution to the wind. Have a good laugh at my gullibility while we drive around in handcuffs. Ha ha. Clever.

If you're going to kill me, get it over with. Slam that hatchet right into my face. I'm not playing your stupid game anymore. I tried to be a nice guy, tried to form a friendship, but if you're just here to ridicule me I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. Go to hell. Go on, chop my head off while we're driving.

Ow! Goddamn it!

You sick son of a bitch! I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you!

No, no — please don't! Just — just — just take the hand as a souvenir, okay? Start a collection. Don't kill me. Don't hurt me anymore.

Yes, I am. I'm pathetic. I know it. I'm too pathetic for you to kill, right? Oh, God, it hurts.

I'm going to pass out.

Please let me go.

Die, fucker! Die! Eat dashboard, you son of a bitch! Yeah, that's right! How does that feel, huh? Feel good? Miss your teeth yet? Yeah! Yeah! You fucked with the wrong serial killer!

Look at that mess your face made. Lick it up. I said lick it up. Not so tough now, are you?

I think we'll go somewhere more private.

Ah, this is nice. I love it when the leaves change color in autumn, don't you? The cool, crisp air — makes you feel alive. Enjoy it while you can.

Keep screaming. Don't be mellow on my behalf.

Does your poor ouchie hurt? Look at all those ouchies. Well, I guess you can't look at them, not anymore, but just form a mental picture of lots of ripped flesh and spurting blood and you'll get the general idea.

Have mercy? Oh, sure, why not?

I have to admit, I like the way this hatchet feels. Maybe it's time for an upgrade.

Gonna start a new collection.

DRAIN BAMAGE

Yes, I dropped my baby sister.

Not on purpose. God, no.

It happened while I was babysitting her. She was six months old, and I'd just turned nine. Too young to be responsible for an infant, but to be fair to my mom, she hadn't gone out for a wild night on the town or anything like that. All she did was ask me to watch Laurie for a few minutes while she went to talk to our next-door neighbor. Laurie was asleep in her crib, so it really shouldn't have been a big deal.

The thing is, when you're nine, you don't necessarily obey all of your mother's instructions. Such as, oh, I don't know, the one about not taking your baby sister out of her crib. I wasn't trying to hurt her. I just wanted to pick her up. She didn't wake up as I lifted her, but she did when I walked around the living room with her - I don't think I was holding her right.

She started to squirm and cry, and before I could get her back into the crib, she slipped out of my hands. Laurie hit the ground, headfirst.

The floor was carpeted, so it's not like I dropped her onto concrete, but I still let out a gasp of one-hundred-percent absolute horror. I scooped up my sobbing sister and hurriedly put her back in her crib, feeling like I was going to throw up and hyperventilate at the same time.

I checked her head. There was a pink mark, but no blood or skull chips. I watched her for several minutes, stomach acids boiling. She stopped crying and went back to sleep.

As soon as my mom came home, I said, "I'll be in my room!" and ran upstairs. I didn't want her to see me trembling. I closed my bedroom door and sat on my bed, an open comic book in front of me, waiting for the inevitable shout of "Oh my God! What did you do to your sister?"

It never came.

My dad got home from work, and my mom called me down to dinner. We had a nice meal of Hamburger Helper, and my mom didn't say a single word about me potentially ruining my sister. Maybe Laurie was okay.

While Mom and Dad did the dishes, I walked over to the crib and peered over the side at her. The pink mark was gone. Laurie looked at me and giggled.

I had an awful dream that night. Laurie, who had the body of a nine-year-old but kept her infant head, stood in front of the blackboard at school. She was trying to do a simple arithmetic problem. There was a huge chunk missing from her skull, and I could see her brain writhing around inside. It crawled out, sliced itself in half on a jagged piece of bone, and splattered onto the floor.

I had the same dream every night that week. Although the arithmetic problem changed each time.

* * *

I knew I should tell my parents what I'd done so they could take Laurie to the doctor, but I couldn't bring myself to confess. This wasn't like having a messy room or sneaking some red licorice from my dad's private stash - if I had really hurt my sister, they might send me away. Even though I was scared for her, she seemed fine. Mom and Dad would know if something was wrong with her, right?

Of course they would. Parents knew when something was wrong with their kids. They could sense it.

Laurie was fine.

* * *

I pretty much stopped worrying about it until Laurie's first birthday. It was an outdoor party. She was crawling around on the grass in our backyard, while about a dozen of my relatives chatted and drank. I'd been allowed to invite one friend to the party, so I'd invited Howie Taylor because he had the best comic books.

"You know who's boring?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Your baby sister."

We giggled at this clever, insightful observation.

"You know who else is boring?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Your baby sister."

We giggled some more. Howie was a witty guy, although I still only liked him for his comic books.

Laurie cooed and picked up an earthworm. It was a small one, just over an inch long, and it wrapped itself around her index finger. She smiled, then popped it into her mouth and chewed happily.

Howie burst into hysterical laughter. "Did you see that? Did you see her eat the worm?"

I couldn't even nod. Laurie's birthday cake felt like a chocolate-flavored rock in my stomach. Were babies supposed to eat worms? Was that normal? I had no idea. She was only one year old, so it was entirely possible that her sucking down a raw earthworm was nothing to be concerned about . . . but what if it wasn't normal? What if she was brain damaged?

"What's going on?" my mom asked, walking over to join us.

I tried to respond, but my mouth went completely dry. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, Mom, I think that my disobedience six months ago has transformed my sister into a worm-chomping freak?"

"Laurie scarfed a worm!" Howie gleefully announced.

"Oh, yuck." My mom crouched down and poked her finger into Laurie's mouth. She dug out an uneaten piece of worm and flicked it onto the grass, then wiped some drool off Laurie's lips.

"She's going to poop worms tonight," said Howie.

"Behave yourself," my mom warned. She'd never much liked Howie.

"I don't think she ate it on purpose," I said. Yeah, it was a dumb thing to say, but I was scared and sweating and not thinking straight.

Mom scooped Laurie into her arms and stood up. She didn't seem too distraught about what my sister had done. Maybe it was just a normal thing for a baby to do. Maybe I'd eaten a bug or two at that age. They probably tasted good, and we simply had that activity socialized out of us.

My mom sat back down with a couple of my aunts. The party atmosphere hadn't been disrupted. Clearly, my sister was not insane.

That evening, while Mom and Dad watched television, I snuck down into the basement to retrieve a dead roach. I'd noticed it laying on a cardboard box a couple of days ago but saw no reason to move it until now. I brought it upstairs and placed it in Laurie's crib, right in front of her.

Would she dine?

Laurie poked at the insect, laughed, and returned to playing with her Sesame Street Grover doll.

She didn't try to eat it. That was good.

What if she just wasn't hungry?

What if she only craved live bugs?

I picked up the roach and placed it on Grover's stomach, to give her another chance. Laurie ignored it. Though I wanted to do further study, I also didn't want my parents to see me messing with dead roaches around my baby sister, so I pocketed the bug and watched Laurie play.

She looked normal.

She was normal. So what if she ate a worm? I was just being paranoid about the whole thing. If all she ever did was sit in the corner of her crib and drool, then we'd have something to be concerned about.

I'd made a mistake, but no harm had come from it, and it was way past time to forget the whole matter.

* * *

Okay, it was way past time to forget the whole matter . . . after I consulted with an expert.

"Hey, Jacob, how's it going?" I asked, walking over to Jacob Terremy during afternoon recess. He looked at me suspiciously. We were both in the third grade, but he was in Mrs. Hansen's class while I was with Mrs. Raver, and we didn't interact very often. He got beat up a lot.

"Okay."

"Your dad's a shrink, right?"

"Yeah."

"If you drop a baby on its head, you can mess it up, right?"

"Well, duh. Yeah."

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"You mean if you turned it into a retard?"

I shook my head. "I just mean messed up. Doing weird things like eating bugs and stuff."

"Retards eat bugs."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's cool."

"Can the mom and dad always tell?"

"Nah. Some parents are even worse retards."

"No, I'm being serious. If the mom and dad are normal, can they always tell if the baby is retarded?"

"Naw. They have no idea."

"Oh."

"So when did you get dropped on your head, retard?" Jacob asked this with a grin, although his grin quickly disappeared, as he seemed to realize that this was a good way to get beat up.

I thanked him and walked off. I usually favored the swing set for recess, but there were already a couple of people counting. If the three swings were occupied, you'd stand in front of the swing of your choice and count out loud until the current swinger had gone back-and-forth twenty times, at which point he or she was required to vacate the ride. In my current mood, if somebody started counting on me, I'd probably try to kick them in the face. Instead, I walked to the far corner of the fenced-in playground and stood alone, thinking.

Confess.

No.

It's not fair to Laurie to let this go on.

It's not fair to me to tell what I did. It was an accident. I didn't mean to drop her. Why did she need to squirm so much? I wasn't hurting her.

They can get her help.

Yeah, and I'll go to jail.

You won't go to jail. What kind of stupid idea is that? You really think Mom and Dad would send you to jail? It's not even a crime.

It's not?

Well, I'm not sure. If you did it on purpose it would be.

What if they think I did it on purpose?

They'd never think that. C'mon, get real.

They might.

In what universe?

I dunno.

Stop being so dumb. Tell them. They can help Laurie. Take her to a good doctor.

They'll be mad.

They'll be grateful.

No.

I couldn't do it. What I'd done was too bad to confess. Especially six months later. This wasn't like tracking mud in the house and blaming the dog, where the punishment of getting caught faded with time. I had to keep the secret. They'd never know it was me.

* * *

I tried the dead roach trick again, and Laurie ignored it. Then, after a very long search, I dug up another earthworm-a much longer one-and dangled it in front of her. She batted at it but didn't try to eat it.

Batting at it was normal. If somebody dangled an earthworm in front of me, I'd probably bat at it, too. Flicking it with your fingers would also be acceptable.

I held it closer to her mouth. She didn't take the bait.

"Open wide, Laurie," I said, trying to use the same vocal inflection that Mom did when she was encouraging my sister to eat something good for her. "I've got a yummy yummy worm for you. Mmmmmmm . . . good! It's squirmy and tasty!"

I touched it to her lips. She turned her head away.

Thank God.

I squashed the worm in my fist, then washed off its gunk in the bathroom. Laurie wasn't brain damaged. Her head was fine. I'd done all of this worrying for nothing.

* * *

Still, I couldn't help but watch her closely.

One time, her eyes crossed for no reason. Brain damage?

She laughed at nothing. Brain damage?

She babbled all the time. All babies babbled, but sometimes it just sounded weird. Brain damage?

My stomach hurt a lot. There were times when I wished that Laurie had simply turned into a drooling mongoloid as soon as I dropped her. At least it would end the constant worrying. Seeing my sister in a catatonic state would be miserable, unbearable, but could it possibly be worse than this constant stress?

Less often, but sometimes, I wished that her head had just splattered on the floor.

Of course, I could end the stress by confessing, but . . . no.

* * *

A couple of months after her first birthday, Laurie developed a cough and Mom took her to the doctor.

"Is she okay?" I asked, as Mom walked in the front door.

"She's fine," said Mom, setting Laurie in her playpen. "I just wanted to be sure is all. I love you guys too much to let anything happen to you."

"The cough isn't because of anything in her brain, is it?" I asked.

"Of course not. Why would you even ask something like that? It's just a regular baby cough."

This seemed like a good time to ask something along the lines of "Mom, would you still love me if I did something really bad?" but I just couldn't. I couldn't risk getting sent away, to wherever it was that they sent horrible little boys.

What if Laurie had to live in a cage?

What if I had to live in a cage, for what I'd done to her?

I couldn't stop the tears. Mom kept asking what was wrong, but I just couldn't tell her.

* * *

"I need you to watch Laurie for a couple of minutes," Mom said. "I'm going to vacuum out the car."

"Can I help you vacuum?" I asked, suddenly breaking into a cold sweat.

"You can help by watching Laurie. You don't have to do anything-just make sure she stays in her playpen."

"I can keep the cord from getting twisted."

"Sweetie, just keep an eye on your sister, okay? I'll be right outside."

Okay, this was a good thing, right? It had to be. If Mom suspected what I'd done, and there was any actual sign of Laurie being brain damaged, she'd never leave me alone to watch her again.

Of course not. That would be insane.

Unless Mom was going to spy on me . . .

No, no, no, no. Laurie was fine, Mom trusted me, the car needed vacuuming, and there was nothing else to it. Basically, the only thing I had to do was shout "Hey, Mom!" if Laurie managed to get out of her playpen-something she'd never been able to do, and a feat she was unlikely to accomplish in the next few minutes. My responsibilities were pretty much just ceremonial.

I dragged a chair from the dining room table across the living room over to her playpen. As I heard Mom turn on the vacuum in the driveway, I sat there and watched Laurie sleep for the full fifteen minutes.

* * *

Not too long after Laurie started pre-school, I heard Dad talking on the phone with her teacher about how Laurie was really smart for her age. That was weird. Had I actually helped her? Had I maybe pushed a smarter part of her brain in front of a dumber part?

No, probably not, and I certainly wasn't going to test this theory by dropping her a second time . . . but I hadn't hurt her. Thank God, I hadn't hurt her.

* * *

I can't say that I ever really forgot about it. I mean, she still occasionally did strange things, like wet the bed or spill things that didn't seem like they should be spilled quite that easily, but overall she was an intelligent, cheerful, friendly little sister. Bratty sometimes, yeah, but I liked that. It meant that she was normal.

When my parents and I sat in the auditorium, watching her graduate from high school, I think I was even more proud than Mom and Dad were. I didn't cry as much as Mom-nobody could-but I don't think I'd ever been happier in my life.

* * *

Now that I'm telling you this, I guess it all had a happy ending. I didn't remember it working out like that, but I can't really think of anything bad that happened. I'm not even sure why I'm here.

Oh, yeah. My own child.

I know I checked on the baby this morning.

The blood on my hand proves it.

Don't worry, I didn't hurt the baby. God, no. It's entirely my blood. You see, I have memory problems these days. I used to leave the house and be absolutely miserable all day, not remembering if I'd checked the baby, paranoid about what I might find when I got home. I tried the usual tricks, like tying a string around my finger, but that didn't work because I could never quite convince myself that I hadn't just forgotten to take off the string from the last time I checked.

Writing notes to myself, calling and leaving messages on my voice mail, taking photographs . . . none of it worked.

Pain? That worked.

It's a wonderful idea, jabbing my palm with a knife. I do it hard enough to draw blood and hard enough to make sure it really hurts, but not hard enough to do any permanent damage. That is something I didn't forget. Thirty or forty times a day I gasp and suddenly have this horrifying feeling that I've forgotten to peek into her room before I left, but all I have to do is look at the blood on my palm and see that, yes, I had indeed peeked into her room.

After all, I wouldn't stab myself unless I'd genuinely checked on the baby. Right?

And I never forget to disinfect the wound in the evening and apply a bandage. Otherwise I'd get blood on my bed sheets, and I can't risk that. Sure, the blood might wash out, but then so would the scent of Yasmine's perfume. It's faded so much that I almost think it's only in my imagination, but still, I can't bear to lose it.

I didn't hurt the baby. I watched her perfectly.

You know that Yasmine told me I didn't need to watch the baby so closely, right? She said it was creepy to stare at her so much. Can you imagine that? Creepy to watch our own child?

And she kept insisting that it was okay to hold her. It was not okay to hold her. When you dodge a bullet, you don't jump back in front of the gun, right? If it were up to Yasmine, we'd be carrying her all over the house. I saw her holding the baby in the kitchen, where there isn't even carpet. I swear I didn't lose my temper. I just had to keep the baby safe.

See, I had a moment where I got worried, just now, but the blood on my hand tells me that everything is okay. She's sleeping soundly.

Yasmine can't watch her very well anymore, but that's fine because I checked on her for both of us.

This blood I know is mine. It's how I know that everything's okay. For a while I couldn't remember if it was mine or Yasmine's, but that was a while ago, and now I know it's mine for sure.

When you let me go, I should check on her again, just to be safe.

What's funny is that I feel like somebody dropped me.

GRAMMA'S CORPSE

Pa looked mighty angry as he walked into Jamie's room, holding her report card. She'd been dreading this moment ever since she flunked two spelling tests in a row. He'd grounded her for three weeks the last time report cards went out, and on that one her lowest grade had been a C.

"Do you mind explaining this to me?" he asked, waving the paper at her.

Jamie lowered her eyes. "I did my best, Pa."

"Is that what you think? You think that getting a C in math and a D in spelling is doing your best?"

"I got two A's."

"You got an A in PE. That don't count. I'm proud of you for getting an A in science, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about these C's and D's."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry ain't gonna cut it."

"I'll try harder next time!"

"You just said you did your best. So you were lying. You didn't study hard enough and you were lazy. Ain't that right?"

Jamie slowly nodded her head. "Yes, Pa."

"Lazy kids need to be punished. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Pa."

"Grounding you obviously don't work. Neither does taking away your allowance. I guess the only punishment that'll teach you a good enough lesson is if you sleep with Gramma's corpse tonight."

"Pa, no!"

"Your ma and I discussed it already. You need to start taking your schoolwork more seriously. So tonight you're going to bed early, and Gramma's dead body is going to be there right next to you."

"That's not fair!"

"Don't you try to tell me what's fair and what ain't. You're lucky it's only for one night. Do you want the same treatment we gave your brother?"

"No, sir." Matt had slept with Gramma's corpse for three nights after he got into a fight at school: one night for fighting, one night for disobeying the teacher when she told them to stop, and one night for losing.

"Good. You ain't watching no TV tonight. You sit here, and you do your homework. If you finish it, do it again. We'll bring Gramma in at eight-thirty, so you'd better be ready."

Pa was always punctual, and it was exactly eight-thirty when he came back into her room, holding Gramma underneath the shoulders while Ma held her feet. Gramma was still wearing the red dress with white dots that she'd wore to her funeral, and her head lolled forward so that Jamie could only see her stringy gray hair.

"Pull down the covers," Pa told her. "Help us tuck Gramma in."

The awful smell was already filling her room. Pa had filled Gramma's body up with something "to keep the rotting down," but it made Jamie's nose burn, and Gramma's arms and legs looked a lot worse than they had when she died six weeks ago.

"Please, Pa, don't put her in my bed! I promise I'll get better grades next time! I'll study all night! I won't watch TV for the whole rest of the school year! Please!"

"Don't make me get out the belt, Jamie."

"I'll take the belt! You can belt me all you want! I'll go fetch it for you! That's a good punishment, right?"

"Dammit, I said to pull down the covers! Your Gramma's body ain't getting any lighter!"

Jamie wanted to cry, but that would make Pa even madder. Instead, she walked over to her bed and pulled down her pretty pink blankets with the horses on them. She'd never be able to sleep under them again.

"The sheets too!" said Pa.

Jamie pulled down the sheets. Ma and Pa gently lay Gramma's thin body down on the bed on her back, right in the middle. Pa moved Jamie's pillow to the center and rested Gramma's head on it. Her wrinkled, yellow face was pinched up in a scowl. (Jamie figured that she'd scowl, too, if her mouth was sewn shut.) Her eyes were closed.

"Go brush your teeth and get in your pajamas," said Ma, smiling kindly. "Wear the blue lacy ones that Gramma bought you for your birthday. She'll like that."

Pa gave Ma a dirty look. "Now, don't go acting like she's alive. This is a dead body that ain't got no preference on the pajamas. We've talked about this."

"I know, I know . . ."

Jamie got the blue pajamas out of her dresser drawer and went into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth for as long as she could, until Pa yelled at her to hurry up. Then she changed into her pajamas and slowly returned to her room.

Gramma was still scowling.

"Can't you move her over just a little?" Jamie asked.

Pa shook his head. "You two are sleeping close. That's the only way you'll learn your lesson. Now get in bed."

Jamie climbed into her small bed. The only way she could avoid touching Gramma was to have half of her body dangling off the side.

"Stop playing around!" said Pa. "You snuggle up tight to Gramma's corpse."

"I can't!"

"The hell you can't! Snuggle!"

"Please, Pa!"

"I'm gonna count to ten, and I'm gonna skip the first five. If you aren't all the way in bed you'll be sleeping with Gramma for the rest of the week!"

"Harold!" said Ma, shocked.

"I mean it! I won't tolerate no disrespect in my house! Six . . . seven . . ."

Jamie quickly scooted against Gramma's cold body. The smell made her want to throw up and she slapped her hand over her own nose and mouth.

"That's more like it. Now we'll be checking on you, and I expect to see both of you in that bed when we do. You lie there real still, and you think about what you've done, and you go to sleep. Understand?"

"Yes, Pa."

Ma pulled the covers up over both Jamie and Gramma. "Good night, sweetheart. We'll see you in the morning."

"Can I sleep with the light on?"

Pa shook his head. "No, but we'll leave the door cracked open so you get light from the hallway."

"Okay."

Ma and Pa both gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then they left the room. Pa closed the door almost all of the way, letting a single strip of light in across the bed, illuminating Gramma's wrists.

The smell was absolutely horrible. Jamie knew that she'd never get it out of her skin.

Gramma's flesh was chilly and moist. It was cold and wet down in the basement where Pa kept her, so that wasn't surprising. Jamie wondered how long it would take the dead body to at least warm up to room temperature.

She closed her eyes. If she could just fall asleep quickly, it would all be over, except for nightmares. She lay there, trying only to breathe through her mouth, and willed herself to fall asleep.

It wasn't working.

She'd never fall asleep next to a dead body. Even if Gramma smelled like candy and was warm like an electric blanket, she'd never be able to do it.

To be honest, Gramma had been scary before she died. She was always looking at invisible things and licking her lips. She also muttered under her breath, weird words that Jamie couldn't understand. Though she knew that it was bad, really bad, she was actually kind of relieved when Pa told her that God had taken Gramma away.

But just her soul. Not her body.

"No mother of mine is gonna be buried six feet under the dirt," Pa had said. "They did it to Grampa, but they aren't doing it to Gramma! They aren't gonna burn her up, either, and that's a promise!"

Ma and Pa had argued about it, but Pa told her that this was just the way things were going to be. He was going to respect her body until there was no body left to respect. He liked to fix up animals that he'd shot or caught in traps, even though some of them fell apart sometimes, and he'd been really proud when he showed Ma, Jamie, and Matt what he'd done with Gramma.

Most of the time they kept her in the basement. Sometimes they brought her upstairs to sit on the couch when the family watched TV. They never sat her down at the dinner table, though, because Pa said it was unhygienic.

Jamie squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could. She squeezed them shut until her eyelids ached, while she begged her mind to let her fall asleep.

Was somebody breathing?

She held her own breath and listened carefully.

She couldn't hear anything except the soft sounds of the TV from downstairs. She opened her eyes and stared at Gramma, watching carefully for a rise and fall of her chest in the shadows, but she wasn't moving.

Of course she wasn't. She was dead.

Gramma's corpse was still cold, and it was also kind of sticky. Jamie would've given almost anything just to be able to scoot away from her, but she had no doubt that Pa would make good on his threat to check on her, and there was no way she could sleep with the body another night.

She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She tried to imagine horses galloping across the ceiling, splashing through a river, carrying her away from her bedroom into a beautiful meadow.

She thought she heard breathing again.

Jamie stared at Gramma, silently praying: Don't open your eyes. Don't open your eyes. Please don't open your eyes.

Gramma did not open her eyes. She didn't move at all.

Jamie wanted to cry, but she refused to. No matter what, she wasn't going to cry, and not just because it would make Pa angry. She was going to be brave. Gramma was dead. She couldn't hurt her, not even a little bit. This was her room, and her bed, and she wasn't going to let a dead old lady scare her anymore.

It was like the creepy doll Ma had got her last Christmas. At first it terrified her and made her cry, but Ma forced her to hold it, and after a while it wasn't so scary anymore. She'd just have to make Gramma's corpse less scary.

Her eyes were starting to adjust to the light, so she observed Gramma closely. Just a stupid ol' dead lady. It wasn't like she could come back to life and bite her. All she could do was lie there and stink. Matt stunk a lot of the time, and he wasn't the least bit scary.

Please don't open your eyes . . .

Jamie extended her index finger, and held it up to Gramma's nose. She hesitated for several moments, gradually building up her courage, and then —

— no, she couldn't do it . . .

Yes, she could.

She poked Gramma on the nose. In her mind she made a "Boing!" sound.

Gramma didn't move.

See? Just a stupid dead body that couldn't hurt anybody. Jamie could do anything she wanted to it. She pinched Gramma's nose shut and started to count to ten.

She only made it to three before pulling her hand away in revulsion.

She'd never make it through the night. Never ever.

And now she had to go to the bathroom.

But she couldn't get up. If Pa heard her leave her room, he'd be furious, and if she did leave her room, Jamie didn't think she'd ever be able to crawl back into bed with that creature.

No, not that creature. Creatures could hurt you. This was just a dead body. A stupid, harmless, dumb-looking dead body.

She wondered if Gramma's spirit was in the room, watching over her body. Maybe her ghost was mad that Jamie had pinched the corpse's nose.

So what? A ghost couldn't do any more to her than a dead body could.

Gramma's corpse licked its lips.

No, it didn't. She'd imagined that. Gramma's mouth was sewn shut. It couldn't do anything. Nothing at all.

Why hadn't she studied harder?

Why hadn't she at least cheated on that spelling test?

She could feel herself starting to cry but refused to let it happen. No way. Not a single tear.

Jamie lay quietly until the tremors in her chest subsided. She closed her eyes and tried to think about the horses again.

She felt something warm and slimy — a tongue — slide across her neck.

She gasped and opened her eyes, but Gramma's corpse lay still, exactly where it was before.

Thank God she hadn't screamed.

Jamie touched her neck in the spot where she'd felt the tongue. It was dry. Nobody had licked her. It was just her brain trying to scare her.

She hated Gramma.

She hated her rotten, smelly corpse. Probably full of bugs and worms. Maggots.

What if the bugs came out of Gramma while Jamie slept? What if they crawled into her ears and mouth?

Maybe she could pretend. She could scream for Pa, and say that a maggot came out of Gramma's nose. Pa wouldn't make her sleep with a corpse if maggots were coming out of it, would he?

No . . . but he'd know she was lying. He always did.

There were no bugs anyway. When Ma and Pa had argued about it, Pa said that the chemicals kept them away.

Stupid Gramma. Stupid dead Gramma. Jamie wanted to punch her in the face.

Why not?

If she was scared of her, why not punch her in the face? You couldn't be scared of something that you could beat up, could you?

Jamie clenched her right hand into a tight fist.

She shouldn't do it. Pa might find out. Or Gramma's ghost might get mad.

She didn't care.

She punched Gramma as hard as she could, right on the cheek. Her fist made a wet slapping sound as it hit, and one of Gramma's eyes popped open.

What had she done? Pa was going to kill her!

But Gramma didn't move. Not at all.

See? She couldn't hurt anybody. There was nothing to be scared of. She was like a big rag doll. And she wasn't so cold anymore.

Jamie was going to close her eyes, and she wasn't going to open them again until morning, no matter what. Maybe she'd ask to sleep with Gramma for a couple more hours, just to show Pa that he hadn't scared her.

She couldn't close her eyes. Not while Gramma's own eye was open. It was hard to see in the dark, but Gramma's eye didn't seem to have a pupil, it was just white.

Jamie very, very quickly put her finger on Gramma's eyelid and closed it, squealing as she accidentally touched the eyeball.

She froze, listening for Pa's footsteps.

Nothing.

She heard Matt laugh at something on TV.

Good. She was safe. Gramma's eye was closed again, and nothing could hurt her. Jamie closed her own eyes and lay still.

No sounds but her own breathing.

No tongue on her neck.

No teeth on her shoulder.

It was almost funny the way Pa thought he could teach her a lesson like this. Maybe she'd get worse grades on her next report card, just to show him what she thought of his punishment.

Jamie rolled over on her side. Gramma's arm came with her, wrapped around her waist.

Don't scream.

Without looking back, she lifted the dead arm and tossed it back on Gramma's chest.

Horses. Pretty horses, galloping away from here . . .

She imagined Gramma's laugh, a high-pitched, scratchy laugh that hurt Jamie's ears.

Was Gramma looking at her? Staring at the back of her neck?

Gramma was going to kill her. Gramma was going to lean over and take a big bloody bite out of her neck. "Mmmmmmmm," Gramma would say. "So, so tasty!"

No, she wouldn't.

Maybe she would.

Jamie realized that she was crying. She didn't remember when she started.

She didn't want to die.

She shouldn't have punched Gramma in the face.

Gramma's fingertips danced across Jamie's back. Gramma was licking her lips — Jamie knew it. Licking her lips and thinking about how delicious Jamie would taste.

No, no, no, no! She was not!

There were no fingers on Jamie's back.

Or on her neck.

It was a lie.

Please, please, please let me fall asleep . . .

When you fall asleep, I'm gonna get you . . .

NO!

Oh, yes, little Jamie. You never loved Gramma enough. You always turned your head when Gramma tried to give you a kiss? Why wouldn't you give your Gramma a kiss, Jamie? Why don't you make it up to her and give her a kiss right now?

Jamie slammed her hands over her ears.

Mmmmmmmm . . . Gramma's hungry . . .

Leave me alone!

Jamie didn't know if she'd screamed that out loud or in her mind.

She was sobbing now, and she didn't care if Pa heard her.

A hand grabbed her neck.

Squeezed.

This wasn't in her mind. She really couldn't breathe!

Jamie tried to call for help, Pa, Ma, Matt, anyone, but her voice wouldn't work. The fingers on her throat were too tight.

Gramma squeezed and squeezed.

Such a bad little girl . . . never studies, never does her homework . . . and doesn't love her Gramma . . .

"Please stop . . ." Jamie managed to say. She'd definitely said this out loud.

No, sweetie. I'll never stop until you're just like me. Just. Like. Me.

Jamie fell asleep.

* * *

Jamie's hands were so tight around her own neck that Martin could barely pry them off. While his wife stood next to the bed, screaming, Martin checked his daughter for a heartbeat.

"My baby! My precious baby!" Patricia wailed. "What have we done?"

There was no heartbeat or pulse. His daughter was dead.

She'd needed to be taught a lesson, but, God, he never thought something like this could happen. He just wanted to scare her, that's all. Make her realize that her future was important.

Patricia scooped up her tiny body and cradled it to her chest. "My baby . . . my baby . . ."

Martin just stood there, absolutely stunned.

Gramma lay on her back in the bed, unmoving.

Patricia looked at Gramma and continued to shriek. "Why is she grinning like that? Dear God, why is she grinning?"

BURDEN

Life takes you in a lot of unexpected directions. I went to college to become a dentist. Never looked at a single tooth — now I do data entry for a couple of bucks above minimum wage.

I didn't get married to Jeannie, my fiancée. She didn't leave me at the altar, which would've at least have made for a memorably tragic tale, but instead broke it off two weeks before the big day. It "just didn't feel right." There wasn't another guy. I spent many long nights wondering if that would've made it easier or more difficult to take.

I'd assumed I'd be living in a mansion by age thirty. Would've settled for my own place. Never would've expected to still be living with my parents. I pay rent and come and go as I please, but even so, it's not quite how I'd envisioned things.

I like mashed potatoes now. Always hated them before. What's up with that?

Of course, the biggest surprise in my life's journey is that I never expected to find myself planning to murder a quadriplegic. Not something you see coming.

It was supposed to be oh-so-wonderful when Danny came home. My mom got her house all ready. She installed a wheelchair ramp, rearranged the furniture, bought this contraption that's like a toilet seat on wheels that hovered over the real toilet and also doubled as a shower chair — she did everything she could to create an appropriate living environment. Made him a chocolate cake and a "Welcome Home, Danny!" banner. The whole family within driving distance — eight of us — hid behind the sofa, waited for Mom to push him through the front door, and shouted "Surprise!" like it was his birthday or something.

Danny didn't react. He just didn't react to things anymore.

Everybody acted like it was the greatest thing in the world to watch him eat his cake. Oh, yeah, a beautiful sight — huge globs of cake stuck to his teeth and hanging off his lips. Did he even know it was chocolate cake? Could he even taste it? Was I really supposed to be elated at the sight of my younger brother being fed like an infant? At least with an infant you can make plane noises.

"Isn't this great?" Mom asked me.

Great. Sure, she thought it was great. She wasn't the one driving. She wasn't the one who nudged Danny in the side and pointed out the woman on the sidewalk whose blouse had popped open while she struggled with two bags of groceries, who accidentally ran the red light, who got a few bruises and a broken arm while his brother broke his back and cracked open his skull, who had the inconvenience of a few weeks with his arm in a sling while his brother had the inconvenience of a coma, brain damage, and paralysis?

Is it great that this was shoved in my face every day?

I tried to move out. Not enough room, I insisted. Ridiculous, Mom said. There was plenty of room for both Danny and I before the accident, and there was plenty of room now. Besides, she needed me to help take care of him.

What was I supposed to do? Refuse to help? Say, oh, nope, sorry, I've got places to be and people to meet. Big business deals to negotiate. I'm a busy, busy guy. No time to help my mom and brother. Yeah, right.

And that was my life. Go to work. Come home. Take care of the vegetable in the wheelchair. I know, I know, he wasn't truly a vegetable — sometimes he kind of looked like he understood what you were saying, and if you switched channels in the middle of a TV show, he might shift a bit like he was annoyed — but there wasn't enough going on to put me through this nightmare.

I had to help him go to the bathroom. Pull down my own brother's pants and ease him onto that stupid toilet contraption. You want to know my minimum standard for quality of life? Being able to take a dump by myself. Anything less than that, pull the goddamn plug. I refused to wipe his ass, and I doubt he even noticed.

Two years of this.

Two years. Every single day, having to watch my brother's non-existence. And my own existence wasn't that much better. Mom, Dad, they didn't complain much, at least not to me, but it had to be killing them to be trapped in this life. They were supposed to be done spoon-feeding kids. They were supposed to be going on vacations and enjoying having their home to themselves and doing the things that people do when they don't have a crippled son sucking away all of their energy.

Would my parents be sad if Danny died? Outwardly, yes. They'd cry and give each other mournful hugs and ask God why He would allow their son to perish . . . but deep inside, they'd know God's answer: Quit bitching. I did you a favor.

A few weeks of tears, and then everybody would be better off. Including Danny.

Especially Danny.

I'd waited two years for my brother to die on his own, and if I didn't do something, he could outlive us all. Once a year some nurse might wheel him out to the cemetery and he'd sit for a couple of minutes, not even realizing our tombstones were there.

Guilt? My life was nothing but guilt. Murdering Danny might make me an awful human being, but at least I'd be an awful human being who didn't have to stare at the ruined person he'd created every night. At least I wouldn't have to endlessly relive two goddamn seconds of distraction.

I wouldn't make it hurt. Hell, I could probably take out an electric carving knife and slice him up like bread and it wouldn't even tickle. But I wouldn't do it that way. I wouldn't slit his throat or bash his head or zap his wheelchair with a live wire. I'd keep it simple: suffocation. Pillow to the face. Over in three minutes.

Though I'd considered the idea of killing him a million times, once I made the decision to actually do it, I knew it had to be that night. It was sort of like that big public speaking engagement you're dreading, and you just want it to be over so you can stop worrying about it.

Around 9:30 on Saturday night, I helped Mom get Danny into bed. We watched television for another hour or so. Then she and Dad went to bed, and I waited. I heard the soft sounds of them making love — not a treat for my ears, I assure you.

I sat there until midnight, when the house was totally still.

I slowly walked into Danny's room. I could see him lying on his back in the center of the bed, exactly where we'd left him. It was too dark to tell if his eyes were closed.

His bed had two pillows, not that he had any need for the second one. I walked to the headboard and carefully picked up the unused pillow with both hands.

Danny's eyes were open.

Whether they'd been open all along or if I'd awakened him, I didn't know. I wasn't sure if they were focused on me or not.

I clenched the pillow tightly in my fists, trying to summon up all of my hatred. He'd ruined my life. Ruined the lives of everybody in my family. It wasn't his fault, it was my fault, but if I were in his position I'd have the courtesy to spare everybody else the excruciating suffering and just die.

I wasn't a murderer. I was doing something that needed to be done. Taking a human life wasn't usually a win-win situation, yet in this case I truly felt that everybody would be better off three minutes from now.

Danny was looking at me.

That is, his eyes were pointed in my direction. He wasn't looking at anything. The sight of your brother standing over your bed with a pillow aimed at your face would seem to indicate that something unorthodox was about to happen to you, but he showed no fear. No understanding. No opinion on the whole smothering matter one way or the other.

I still silently begged him to close his eyes.

I took a deep breath, squeezed my own eyes shut, and smashed the pillow into his face, pushing down on it as hard as I possibly could. I held it there for ten seconds. Eleven. Twelve.

His arm brushed against my side.

It was just a small twitch, but I still let out a startled yelp and quickly pulled the pillow away from his face.

Shit! What if my parents had heard me?

I stood there, hands trembling, listening for any sounds to indicate that I'd disturbed somebody.

No floorboards creaked. Nobody called out to ask if I was okay.

I slid the pillow across my face to wipe away the panic sweat. My waist had been right next to his arm when I leaned over him, so it may not have even been a conscious movement on Danny's part, but it still scared the crap out of me. I breathed in and out, slowly, trying to regain my composure.

I didn't want to look back at my brother.

I had to, of course. And when I did, he was still lying there in the same position, eyes open, looking in my direction.

Looking at me this time.

I hurried out of the room, not even caring if my footsteps woke up Mom or Dad. It wasn't like Danny could tell them what I'd tried to do. I just had to get the hell out of there, immediately.

I went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed some cold water on my face. It helped a little, though my hands were still shaking. Though I felt like I was going to burst into tears, at least I didn't feel like I was going to scream.

After shutting off the water, I stood there for a few minutes, staring at myself in the mirror. I didn't look any different. Didn't look like somebody who would try to kill his brother. I looked pale and freaked out, yes, but not like an attempted murderer.

I went to bed. Tossed and turned for a couple of hours before I finally fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep. I woke up and just lay there, wondering if it hurt to be suffocated. Drowning was supposedly a truly horrible way to die, so did smothering fall into the same category? It was probably worse than simply having your throat cut.

"Good morning, sleepy boy!" said my mom as I padded out of my bedroom, feeling groggy and more than a little queasy. "You must've been really tired!"

I nodded and wandered into the kitchen, not even really caring what time it was. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, returned to the living room, and sat down on the couch to eat it. I didn't want company, but I didn't want my mom to suspect that anything was wrong.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asked.

I shrugged, suddenly feeling that if I spoke, the tears would start flowing. I took a small bite of cereal. The milk tasted sour, and I forced myself to choke it down.

"I thought I might run some errands today," Mom said. "Are you okay to stay with Danny?"

"Sure." I took another bite of cereal, trying not to grimace at the foul taste.

"Thanks. I'll try not to be home too late, but it could be a few hours."

I nodded. I glanced over at Danny, who was sitting in his wheelchair, looking at me. There was no expression on his face, but his blank stare shouldn't have been fixed on me. He should've been watching TV. Or staring at the fucking wall. Or looking anywhere else but at me.

My mom got up from her recliner, walked over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then she grimaced. "What's that smell?" She took the bowl of cereal from me and sniffed it. "The milk is bad, honey. Couldn't you tell?"

"I didn't notice."

"That's disgusting. Pour it out and fix yourself something else."

I returned to the kitchen and poured my breakfast into the sink. I didn't want anything else, so I rinsed out my bowl and returned to my spot on the couch just as Mom gave Danny a kiss.

"See you both in a bit," she said.

I watched television for a few minutes, trying to absorb myself in the lame-ass cartoon but having no luck. I knew my brother was staring at me. He had to be.

I turned to look at him. He was indeed staring at me.

"What do you want?" I asked.

Did he know what I'd done? Had he even been awake? Did Danny understand that I'd tried to kill him last night, or was something like that outside of his ability to comprehend?

If he didn't know what I'd done, why was he still looking at me?

I pointed at the television. "Watch it. It's your favorite show." It wasn't, at least not before the accident, but he didn't know that.

He didn't move.

I picked the remote control up off the coffee table and switched stations to see if he'd react. He didn't. He just kept staring at me.

"Watch TV," I said. "Stop being an asshole."

I was always uncomfortable talking to him when it was only the two of us. Trying to have a conversation with somebody who had no visible response to your words seemed like a sign of mental illness.

I got up from the couch and walked over to Mom's recliner on the other side of the living room. Very slowly, Danny's head moved toward me.

"Stop it," I said. "I mean it."

He continued giving me that blank stare.

Fine. He could do whatever he wanted. I didn't have to sit in his line of vision. I got up, went to my bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

Calm down. It's not like he can tell anybody. All he can do is stare at you. Big fucking deal. What are Mom and Dad going to say? "Oh, my, Danny won't stop staring at you! You must have tried to smother him with a pillow in the middle of the night!"

I wondered what Danny was thinking. Was it driving him insane not to be able to tell anybody about me? Was he desperately trying to figure out some way to communicate the truth about his brother? Or was he silently begging me to actually finish the job this time?

I didn't know. And I hated him for it.

And why the hell was I going to let a quadriplegic keep me in my bedroom? He'd stolen away enough of my freedom as it was; I sure wasn't going to let him control where I went in the house. I wanted to watch some TV. If he thought he was going to stare at me all day, I'd just turn his ass around to face the wall.

I left my bedroom and returned to the living room. He watched me as I sat down on the couch. I gave him the finger and turned up the television's volume, even though Danny wasn't making any noise to distract me.

Then I shut it off.

"You would've done the same thing," I told him. "If I'd been hurt like that, you would have done the exact same thing. And I would've wanted you to do it, so you could go on with your life. I never would have wanted to put you, or Mom, or Dad, or anybody else through this."

There was a thin line of drool dangling from the left side of his mouth. I was justifying myself to a drooling vegetable. Jesus Christ.

"I could have killed you, and I didn't. It would have taken nothing at all. Another minute with the pillow and you'd be gone, and I'd be able to breathe again. So you're just lucky I spared you. I didn't have to. You could be dead right now."

Still no reaction, not that there ever would be.

I walked to the other side of the room, to see if he'd continue to follow me with his idiotic stare. He did, slowly. I snickered at the idea of quickly walking back and forth across the room, faster than his gaze could follow, but then I felt guilty about even thinking it and sat back down.

"C'mon, Danny. We're brothers. It shouldn't be like this. Don't hate me. I was doing it for you. I know you wouldn't want to be trapped in that body. We should have had a living will, but we never thought this kind of thing would happen, not to us, and I'm sorry I did this to you, okay? I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention. I'm just trying to make it all better."

Though my voice cracked, I didn't feel like crying. I wanted to bash his face in. Punch him so hard that his wheelchair fell over.

How dare he make me feel like this?

"Nobody's home," I said. "I could end it right now. How would that feel? That would make you stop staring at me, wouldn't it? You want me to go get the pillow? I'll get that fucking pillow right now and suffocate you in your goddamn wheelchair. Quit looking at me!"

He was enjoying this. My own brother was enjoying the torment. Oh, he was having himself a grand old time. He'd been powerless for two years, but now he could make me sweat. Turn me into a complete nervous wreck. Just by looking at me, he could put me through hell.

I wanted him dead.

I wanted to rip his barely functioning head right off.

"Quit looking at me, Danny! Please!"

He wouldn't enjoy this for long. I pushed Danny in his wheelchair into the kitchen. I quickly opened one of the drawers and took out the biggest knife I could find, the one Mom used to cut pork ribs.

"You think I won't use this? You think I won't cut you? I'll slit your throat and watch you bleed all over the floor. Want me to gouge your eyes out? Huh? I bet your vegetable body would respond to that, don't you think? How about I let you live and just take your eyes?" I jabbed the knife in his direction, twice. "Pop, pop, and we're done! I'll tell Mom and Dad some crows flew in and pecked them out!"

Danny was still enjoying it. He knew I was faking. He knew I wouldn't really kill him.

But even I didn't know that for sure.

"I'll do it. I don't even care if I go to jail. Jail would be a hell of a lot better than here, I know that much. Turn your eyes and I won't do it. Look at something else. That's all I want. Look at something else."

His eyes remained fixed upon me.

"I swear to God I'll do it," I told him. "I'll do it. I'm not going to live with the guilt anymore. I'm not going to let you do this to me. You should have died in the car accident. We both should have died. I'm not going to let you hurt anybody else. You hear me? I'm going to stop you."

I heard the patter of some drops of liquid hitting the tile. I hadn't even realized that I was clutching the knife by the blade, and it had cut deep into my palm. I didn't care. I clutched it tighter, and a thin trickle of blood ran down my arm.

"Look away," I told him. "I don't care what the fuck you look at, but don't look at me."

Danny's eyes didn't move.

I wanted to let loose with a howl of fury and slam the knife into his chest, again and again, puncturing his heart and his lungs and then slashing the blade across his chest and his neck and his face and chopping away at him until there was nothing left of my brother but a red mess. Mom and Dad would come home and find me sitting in the corner, covered with blood, giggling and cradling the knife like a baby.

I wanted so badly to do that.

Instead, I dropped the knife into the sink and drove myself to the emergency room. I got eight stitches in my hand and a lecture from my mom about knife safety.

I can't kill Danny. I won't ever be able to. I know it, and he knows it.

He never stops looking at me.

I haven't worn my seat belt in six months. I don't think I really want to get in an accident, but I can't bring myself to fasten it.

Danny never stops looking at me, and I swear to God that every once in a while, he almost smiles.

ROUGH DRAFT

He stares at the house, wishing he were already inside. Already upstairs. Already in the room with her, watching her sleep, perhaps brushing his fingers softly across her cheek.

[Note to self: Is present tense the right choice? I don't want this to sound pretentious. I like that it adds an immediacy, but I'm usually kind of turned off when other authors do the same thing. Maybe I'll just see what my critique group says.]

But he knows that he must wait. At least until darkness. At least until he knows that she is asleep. If he visits her during her slumber, she will not scream.

["Slumber." Does anybody say that except for "slumber party?" Now I wonder if I'm going beyond pretentious into being campy. That's no good. And maybe "she will not scream" is too much, too soon. It shows that she'd consider him a threatening presence in her bedroom. I should let the reader think that he's her husband or boyfriend or something, and save the stalker revelation for later. Something else for the critique group I guess.]

He waits until nightfall, always staring at her window. He tries not to fidget. Tries not to grow impatient. There is nothing else he needs to do. Nowhere else he needs to be.

[Nice!]

The light in her bedroom window goes out, and he smiles.

["Grins," maybe? "Grins" seems more sinister. But do I want him to seem sinister? He should still be sympathetic at this point, I think. I'll stick with "smiles."]

Now is the time. Suddenly his palms are sweating. His heart is racing. His throat is dry. He has never felt such anxiety . . . or excitement.

[Too many clichés. Those are all accurate descriptions, but it's all stuff people have read a million times. Need to come up with some original similes to make it more interesting.]

He picks the lock to the front door and walks inside.

[This is supposed to be a really short piece and I don't want to spend a lot of time on exposition and description, but I wonder if I'm going to lose my readers by skipping over the lock-picking so quickly. Will people just accept it? Do I need to mention the hours of practice and the tools involved? Do I need to explain that her house was completely isolated, so that even though it took about ten minutes to pick the lock, there was no danger of neighbors seeing what was going on? Does anybody care?]

[These notes are longer than the story! What's up with that?]

He looks around. Though he has never been inside, the surroundings feel comfortable. Familiar. He stands there, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, even though he feels that he could navigate to her room in the blackness.

[Awful. "Navigate?" Come on. "Blackness" also sounds wrong, but I used "dark" in the same sentence so I don't want to say "darkness."

This is crap. Nobody is going to like it. I'm going to get kicked out of my critique group after the second meeting, and they're all going to have a great big laugh. Why am I even trying?]

Finally, he walks up the stairs, moving slowly so they won't creak and awaken her. The knife feels good in his hand.

[This present tense really isn't working for me. I'm going to have to start from scratch before I let anybody read it.]

He walks into her room. She looks so beautiful as she sleeps. Like an angel. Like a goddess.

[Okay, this is a crucial moment, and I'm ruining it with lame descriptions like "angel" and "goddess." Anybody could write it like that. I wasn't staring at her thinking "Oh, she looks just like a precious angel" or anything corny like that. What was I thinking? There weren't really any words going through my mind, just this feeling, and I can't figure out how to write about the goddamn thing.

Should he tingle? I didn't really tingle, but this isn't supposed to be strictly autobiographical. Still . . . tingling is stupid. I don't want people to laugh at this. How did she look? Can I just say "beautiful?" That seems weak. Gorgeous? Iridescent (check spelling)? Sensuous? Damn it, it just can't be that hard to describe her! People make this kind of stuff up all the time, and yet I can't figure out how to say what I felt! This is insane! What's wrong with me?

The critique group can give suggestions, I guess, but why the hell do I have to let a bunch of strangers with no publication credits help me with this?

"Breathtaking?" "Sumptuous?"

Maybe "angel" isn't so bad. Anything else and it might feel like I'm trying too hard.]

He moves over to the bed, feeling as if he is gliding rather than walking. She lies on her back, completely at peace. Her eyes do not open as he slowly brings the blade toward her pale neck. He knows this is right. They will be joined forever. It will be a wonderful thing.

[Actually, that's not so bad.]

Gently, like the caress of a lover, he draws the sharp blade across her throat. The blood flows quickly, warm and red. Her eyes open now, and she gazes at him. It is not love in her wide eyes. It is fear. Delicious fear. She gasps but does not struggle. It would be of no use.

Her blood stains the white satin sheets, a spreading pool of her essence. And he watches, relishing every instant, almost wanting to kiss her lips as the life flows from her body.

But he does not. He watches. And laughs.

He has done what he longed to do for as long as he can remember. And it is an experience he will never forget.

[Freewriting exercise:

They said to just type and type and not think about what you're writing, which I can do, nobody will ever read this, I may have to stop and fix typos as I go along but nobody will know. Heh look at me writing about cheating on the freewriting exercise, that kind of defeats the whole purpose, but you're not supposed to stop typing so if the only thing I can think about to type is how I'm not supposed to stop typing, that's how it's got to be, right?

This story is bullshit, and I don't know why. Why can't I make it work? I have to get these words out on paper, and I need them to get published, they need to have permanence. I don't need hundreds of thousands of readers but I need the permanence. I need it need it need it need it.

He laughs. That's how it should have ended. I should not have had to start stabbing her in the chest like a fucking maniac just to keep her from getting away. Jesus how many times did I stab her? Ten? Fifteen? I can't even remember. I wanted to remember every detail, and I don't even know how many times I stabbed her.

Joined with her. That's all I wanted. Not bent over in the corner, puking my guts out, sobbing. Standing there with vomit and snot all over my goddamn face and crying like I was three years old. I didn't even care if somebody heard me and called the police. She wasn't even dead yet — at least ten stabs to the chest and I hadn't killed her, and if there's been a phone by the bed the bitch probably would have been able to dial 911 before I did anything.

I didn't even take her with me. I just left her there. I was supposed to take her! I was supposed to keep her! I just left a bloody corpse on the bed. Didn't even take the sheets. Didn't even keep the knife — I just threw it against the wall, ran out of the house, didn't even wipe the puke off my chin until I got home.

If the cops had my fingerprints on record, or even my goddamn shoe size, I'd be so screwed. Probably still am.

But that wasn't supposed to be the story. I wasn't supposed to sleep alone. I wasn't supposed to wake up crying. My stomach wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

I need a better story. Please, I just need a better story.

Enough freewriting for now.]

He carried her lifeless body out of the house and through the forest, pleasantly surprised by how light she was. He didn't even need to stop and rest.

She would stay with him forever.

And she was only the first of many.

He laughed, placed her on his bed, and closed the bedroom door.

FANGBOY AND THE TROLL

(A FANGBOY STORY)

(AND ALSO A TROLL STORY)

Many people believe that the best parts of the tale of Fangboy have already been told. It's a natural assumption when one considers the high quality and wide variety of adventures that have already been shared with the general populace. But there is at least one story that was omitted from The Many Adventures of Nathan Pepper, Who Was Known As Fangboy Because He Was Born With A Mouth Full Of Razor Sharp Teeth (published — under great protest from the transcriber — as Fangboy).

As we all know, real life sometimes has uneven pacing. Things will happen, and though they are perfectly interesting little events, they do not contribute to the primary through-line of our lives. These are not the times we reflect upon as we lay dying in a hospital bed, or inside of a great white shark if we are lucky. We edit them out of our narratives. Only one human being has ever been able to literally go back and edit his own life, a power that he used to rule the world in a most cruel manner indeed, until he became so arrogant with his power that he accidentally erased his own conception, and was thus removed from all but the most omniscient of narratives. Nathan Pepper did not have any sort of magical abilities; he just had the teeth. But the story of how he met the troll was not known by many, until now.

It happened when he was six years old. He spent much of that year wandering around a deep forest, all alone. And then he met a troll.

Nathan did not immediately realize that it was a troll. Though he had very specific mental pictures of certain monsters, such as Bigfoot, he didn't know exactly what a troll was supposed to look like, so instead of thinking "Uh-oh, a troll is standing before me," he thought "Uh-oh, a greenish lumpy greasy large-nosed smelly beast is standing before me." It was carrying a large wooden club, so perhaps it was a caveman.

The creature snarled at him. Nathan would have expected a caveman to grunt.

"Who are you?" asked the creature in a low, rumbling voice.

"I'm Nathan, sir," said Nathan, since he believed that even the most foul-smelling of forest inhabitants deserved respect.

The troll had planned to devour Nathan in forty-two bites (one bite for each of his fingers and toes, three for each arm and leg, four for his head, and six for his torso) but he hadn't expected the young boy to be polite. It confused him. He was used to dividing living things into only two categories: Eat Now or Eat Later.

"That's a silly name," said the troll. He was being somewhat hypocritical, since his name was John, which is a very silly name for a troll.

"Well, some people call me Fangboy," Nathan admitted.

"Fangboy? Is that because you kill trolls and wear their fangs around your neck?"

"No, sir." Nathan opened his mouth wide, revealing his sharp teeth.

"Goodness!" cried out the troll. He liked to call himself a fanged creature, but the truth was that his teeth weren't very sharp at all, just crooked and brown.

"What sort of animal are you?" Nathan asked.

Normally the troll would have tried to devour anybody who didn't immediately recognize him as a troll, but Nathan intrigued him. Perhaps they could hunt together.

"Why, I'm a troll, of course. What did you think I was, a platypus?"

"No," said Nathan. "Actually, 'platypus' would have been at least two hundred and seventy-eight guesses down the line, and I would have been embarrassed when I got to that guess, because there's so little of you that has any resemblance to any sort of a platypus. I suppose if I saw your kidneys . . ."

"You will see nothing of the sort," said the troll. He tried to sound indignant, but deep inside he knew that he'd had every intention of seeing Nathan's kidneys before he ate them, so there was only so much offense he could take. "I was being sarcastic."

"Oh," said Nathan. "None of the other creatures I've encountered in this forest speak at all, much less in a sarcastic tone."

"How many of them have you eaten?" asked the troll.

"None."

"What do you mean, none? None as in zero? Or were you asking me to clarify if I was asking how many nuns you'd eaten?" The troll didn't really think Fangboy had been asking about nuns, but it made his head spin — not literally, though he could do so if he wished — to think that the boy hadn't eaten any living creatures in the forest.

"Yes, I was asking you to clarify if you were asking how many nuns I'd eaten," said Nathan.

"Are you just saying that to avoid an awkward social situation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, stop that. How many nuns have you eaten?"

"None."

"Good. That way lies hellfire. But have you seen your teeth? They're works of art! What a waste to have such amazing choppers and not to sink them into any succulent flesh! What do you eat with them? Celery?"

"A lot of tree bark," Nathan admitted.

"Tree bark? Why, that's . . . well, tree bark isn't bad; if you soak it in water it's sort of like jerky . . . but that's still a tremendous example of not living up to your potential. Do you really mean to say that you haven't eaten so much as a squirrel?"

"Yes, sir," said Nathan, opening his mouth wide to show the troll that there was no squirrel fur between his teeth.

"That can't be allowed to continue," said the troll. "Here, eat . . . uh, a bird."

The troll looked around for a bird, but saw none. This enraged him, because when he didn't want birds around, the damn things fluttered all around his head.

"Or . . . that deer!"

"I think that's a pond."

"No, no, next to the pond."

"I think that's a log."

"No, no, standing on the log."

"I think that's a moose."

"That's not a moose, you fool, that's a . . . oh, it's another log. Doesn't look like a deer or a moose, actually. Here, eat this raccoon."

The troll spent the next two hours trying to catch the raccoon, while Nathan stood there, politely waiting. The troll grew angrier and angrier each time his massive hands failed to grasp the raccoon's neck, and soon he was spitting out words that Nathan had never heard before, but that he assumed were not synonymous with "joy" and "peace to all."

"Wretched taunting cur!" shouted the troll. "Forget the raccoon, then! Here, eat this panda!"

"I don't think pandas live in these woods," said Nathan.

"You're right, they don't. But I am being driven nearly mad with the knowledge that your teeth are not being put to proper use! It vexes me beyond all comprehension! It is like seeing a man with a six-foot tongue who licks nary a thing! Oh, my brain throbs just thinking about it. Can you hear it throbbing? Can you?"

"No, sir."

The troll clawed at his scalp, then brightened. "Here," he said, holding something out toward Nathan. "Eat this."

"But that's your arm."

"Then just bite it."

"That idea strikes me as —"

"Do it!"

And so Nathan bit down on the troll's arm. Cognitively, the troll had known that this would cause him discomfort, but it wasn't until Nathan's fangs pierced his skin that the full extent of the lack of wisdom of this idea occurred to him.

The troll let out a shriek that could be heard throughout the forest.

"Aaah!!! My arm! My tooth-marked arm! Release it! Release it!"

Nathan opened his mouth and the troll pulled away.

"I feel, all things considered, that it is best if we do not continue to interact," said the troll, summoning up as much dignity as he could, which was not much. "I wish you the best of luck in all of your future endeavors."

"Thank you," said Nathan.

And so the troll left, eventually finding peace and comfort under a bridge, and though a great many people saw him again, none of those people were Nathan.

Which brings us to the conclusion of this side adventure of Nathan "Fangboy" Pepper. As stated previously, it was not an adventure of great importance in his overall saga, but it did have a reference to eating a panda, and thus cannot be entirely discounted.

DEAD IN THE WATER

Because I'm a Tampa guy, I wasn't all that concerned about the zombie infestation of St. Pete. I mean, sure, I had rations, weapons, and a full tank of gas like everybody else, and I kept tabs on the situation whenever I went online, so it's not like I ignored it. But there's about ten miles of bridge between the two cities, and our side of the Howard Frankland Bridge was protected by soldiers with machine guns, so there was no way in hell those rotting corpses could make it over here.

Even now, when I'm forced to acknowledge the irony, that attitude seems reasonable. I don't care how many people are on the news going "We told you so! We told you so!" It was a ten-mile bridge over a freaking bay that was protected by soldiers with machine guns. Zombies move, like, a mile an hour. How'd they overwhelm us? It's crazy.

I heard about it because the neighbor kid — Kyle, who was an obnoxious little brat but really didn't deserve to have so many fingers bitten off two days later — ran up and down the street screaming that the zombies were through the barricade. I turned on the television and, yep, they were through. A couple of weeks ago I'd vowed "No zombies are gonna kick me out of my home!" but I quickly retracted that vow and raced out to my car.

The tires had been slashed. Dammit! Sure, I'd slashed a few tires in my life, but I'd never be so tactless as to do it during the zombie apocalypse!

I knew who'd sabotaged my escape. It was my jerk of a neighbor Greg, with whom I'd been engaged in an (admittedly petty) feud over . . . actually, I don't even want to tell you because it makes Greg and I both look bad. Let's just say that I understood why he did it, but that didn't make me any less terrified about my chances of survival.

A spare tire would've been nice. I'd had one, a few months ago. Should've replaced it.

Okay, this was bad, but it didn't mean that my destiny was to be devoured. My neighbor Alex across the street had just come out of his house, carrying a large blue duffel bag. His six-year-old daughter was right behind him. I hurried over there to greet them.

"Hey, Alex," I said. "How's it going?"

"You heard the news, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Crazy stuff, huh? Thought we were safer than that. I hope the people in Clearwater don't have the same problem."

Alex didn't say anything. He opened the trunk of his car and crammed the duffel bag in there.

"You did make a wise car buying decision," I said, gently patting the roof of the vehicle. "Very roomy. Nobody can ever say that you don't know how to shop for cars."

"I'm not taking you with me," said Alex, shutting the trunk.

"Why not?"

"Because you yelled at my daughter for writing in chalk on the sidewalk."

"That's not true! I didn't yell at her. I just asked her not to squeak it so much. I was hung over."

"Yes, well, a drunkard is not the kind of example I want for my daughter as we rebuild society."

"So this is where it begins, huh?" I asked. "This is where we turn against each other in a time of crisis? This is where we lose our humanity?"

"Looks that way."

In theory, I could have wrestled him to the ground, bashed his head against the cement driveway, and stolen his car keys, but I wasn't quite ready to regress into savagery yet. Instead, I said "Fine," in a tone of voice that made it clear that I was more than a little disgusted by his behavior. Days from now, if I was dead, he'd remember the way I said "Fine," and feel a great sense of remorse. This would always haunt him, a subtle nagging at his conscience that he could never quite escape, until his dying day, which was hopefully at the hands of the zombies.

Okay, no, I didn't really want him to get eaten by zombies. The guy had a kid. The subtle nagging at his conscience would be sufficient.

I walked back to my own driveway. Alex hadn't even asked why I couldn't just use my own car. I wondered if he was the one who'd slashed my tires instead of Greg. Bastard.

Maybe I could call a cab. What was the worst thing they could say? "Are you serious? You think you can just call a frickin' cab and get out of here at this time of widespread panic? And even if you could get a cab, do you have any idea what the fare would be with all the time you'll spend stuck in bumper-to-bumper dead-stop traffic? What kind of deranged idiot are you?"

Actually, they probably just wouldn't answer.

I took my cell phone out of my pocket an instant before it rang. The display said that the call was from Millie Loans. My "friend with benefits."

I had only received those benefits once, mostly because I'd considered it a "friends with benefits" situation and she'd considered it an "eternal love" situation, and she'd reacted poorly when I corrected her afterward. I wondered if she was calling for one last fling before our doom.

"Millie?" I answered.

"Tony?" She was crying.

"Yeah."

"Have you heard?"

"Yeah, it's insane. You'd think that the city of Tampa could afford more bullets."

"Will you take me to St. Pete?"

"I can't," I said, thinking I'd misheard her or she'd misspoken. She obviously didn't want me to take her to St. Pete. She wanted me to take her someplace that emphatically was not St. Pete, such as Quebec. "Somebody slashed my tires. I'm trying to get out of Tampa myself."

"I have a car," she said. "I'm about five minutes away from your house. I just need you to come with me to St. Pete."

"Wait a minute . . . you want to go into the city? On purpose?"

"My brother is there. He just called. He's still alive."

"Seriously?" It was not out of the question that there were survivors over there, I guess, but it was still a pretty big shock. Like everybody else, I'd written off the St. Petersburg population several weeks ago.

"Yes. Nobody else will help. We have to go get him."

This didn't sound great to me. "We can't just drive over there," I said. "The bridge is swarmed."

"I know that. I have a jet ski."

"You want to jet ski over to St. Pete?"

"Yes."

"And he'll be waiting there on the other side?"

Silence.

"Millie . . . ?"

"He's kind of trapped. But not that far away from the beach. I have guns."

"I have guns, too! That's not the point."

"I'm about to turn the corner. See you in a second."

"I thought we had five minutes!"

She hung up. I snapped my phone closed and tucked it back into my pocket. This was going to suck. I could turn down a desperate woman in her time of need over the phone, but in person I'd be able to see the tears, and I was screwed.

Her green truck turned onto my street. As she pulled up in front of my house, I saw that she did indeed have a jet ski in the back.

"How many people did you call before you worked your way down to me?" I asked.

"Several. You said you have guns?"

"Yes."

"Good. Throw them in the truck." Her face was tear-stained, but there was a definite no-nonsense tone about her. This was a very different Millie from the one to whom I'd said "Uh, I didn't realize that we weren't still just friends. My bad."

I popped open the trunk of my car and took out my bag of guns. I only had two of them, a pair of pistols, but they were fully loaded and I had about four-dozen rounds of extra ammo. That was at least fifty dead zombies, unless I missed, which meant that it was more like three dead zombies.

"I think this is a bad idea," I said.

"I don't."

"I'm not doing this," I told her, using my most authoritative tone of voice.

Unfortunately, by the time I said it to her in that tone of voice, it was half an hour later (all of the traffic was intelligently moving in the opposite direction, so we made good time) and we were already in the water and sitting on the jet ski, with me holding tightly onto Millie with one hand and the bag of guns with the other.

Millie didn't answer. She started the engine, and we sped off through Tampa Bay toward St. Pete. The Howard Frankland Bridge was several hundred yards to our right, and we could see a couple of army (Navy? Air Force? Marines? Coast Guard? I didn't know the divisions very well) soldiers mowing down zombies, but it was nowhere near the military presence we'd had before today.

Nobody tried to stop us. I guess they had more important things to deal with, or figured "Screw it! If those morons want to get themselves munched by zombies, who are we to tell them to do otherwise?"

Whether we saved her brother or not, I assumed that the "benefits" part of our relationship would return. That was only fair. If not . . . well, I mean, I wouldn't force myself on her or anything uncool like that, but I'd definitely be annoyed.

After about a mile, she moved underneath the bridge. I asked her why, but she didn't hear me over the jet ski engine, and I didn't care enough about the answer to poke her to get her attention. I did have to admit that the jet ski was pretty fun. If you took the zombies out of the equation, it would've been a very enjoyable afternoon.

When we were about halfway across, there was the sound of another engine, much louder than the jet ski. I looked around for the source. Sounded like a plane. Or planes.

Ah, there they were. Three of them. Moving fast.

I guess the missiles they launched shouldn't have been a surprise to me, but they were.

My first thought, I'm ashamed to admit, was "Oh my God! They're trying to blow us out of the water!" How self-absorbed is that? Yeah, as if Millie and me on a jet ski were worth three sets of missiles. I mean, c'mon, it's not like we were secret agents or anything like that.

No, the missiles were aimed at the bridge, and all three of them hit their targets.

The bridge exploded above us. I screamed something (probably "Shiiiiit!!!") as Millie swerved the jet ski to the right, trying to avoid the immense shower of bridge chunks that rained down upon us, not to mention a strip of bridge that — I swear this is true — had to be at least half a mile long.

It smashed into the water like . . . well, like a giant piece of a freakin' bridge hitting the bay. It didn't crush us, which was nice, but the huge wave flipped over the jet ski. Millie and I plunged into the water.

There was another wave, and for a moment I lost track of the jet ski. Then another piece of bridge came down upon it, and that was the end of our mode of transportation.

About thirty feet away, Millie popped up to the surface and spat out a mouthful of water. "Are you okay?" she called out.

"I'm fine!" I shouted back, although I didn't really mean that I was fine — all I meant was "I'm not currently dead!"

We were screwed. Just as the spare tire would've proven extremely helpful, I found myself wishing that we were wearing life preservers.

"We've gotta swim!" Millie said, doggy paddling toward me.

If I'd had enough breath to say the whole thing, I would've said, "Where the hell are we going to swim to? There's nowhere for us to go!" Maybe an Olympic swimmer could get back to dry land, but I sure couldn't, and from the looks of Millie's swimming technique, neither could she.

About a mile ahead, part of the bridge was still standing, but swimming to it wouldn't do us a whole lot of good unless we could leap out of the water like a genetically enhanced Shamu.

Millie screamed.

Let me back up. You know the bridge that exploded and collapsed? You probably don't need me to remind you about this, but I'll do it anyway: the bridge was filled with zombies.

Which were now in the water with us.

Hundreds of them.

Though I was relatively clear of the living dead — at least there were none within immediate biting range — there were several of them in the water next to Millie.

She hadn't lost her guns, or at least not all of them. She pressed the barrel of a pistol against the closest zombie's forehead and pulled the trigger. Its brains burst out of the back of its skull, just the way they were supposed to, and bobbed on the surface of the water.

She fired again. Another headshot.

Unfortunately, swimming with one arm while shooting with the other wasn't working out for her, and one of the zombies chomped down on her elbow — not the meatiest nor most tender place to bite, but it sunk its teeth in deep and tore away a small piece.

Millie shrieked.

I gasped in horror.

Blood darkened the water. What if it attracted sharks? Even as I thought this, I knew that I should be worrying about the real and plentiful zombies and not some hypothetical shark, but still . . .

"Tony!" Millie screamed, as the zombie took a much larger bite out of her arm. "Help me!"

Let's review my attitude toward helping members of the opposite sex: when a woman calls me on the phone to beg for help, I can turn her down, no problem. When she shows up in person, I end up doing dumb-ass things like riding a jet ski to zombie-infested St. Petersburg.

So, what's my attitude when a woman is right there in person, but she's being eaten by zombies?

I've gotta be honest. I figured I'd say, "See ya, see ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!" and swim the hell away. I mean, c'mon, what good is fifteen seconds of heroism if you're dead afterward and nobody is around to document your glory? But I didn't take the cowardly path. Instead, I found myself actually swimming toward her. I even shouted, "Don't worry! I'll save you!"

I regret to say that discovering I was not a chickenshit at heart didn't do Millie or me any good, since a moment later she disappeared beneath the water in a cloud of red. When she came back up, a zombie's mouth was latched onto her throat. She went under again, and when she came back up a second time the zombie was gone, as was most of her aforementioned throat.

So at that point, my only real chivalrous option was "Swim over there so you can die together in a romantic and tragic fashion." Not my kind of thing. Instead, I screamed a little bit as she lived out her last fifteen-to-twenty seconds of life.

I could've vowed that her death would not be in vain, that I would not rest until I saved her brother, no matter what it took, but I didn't know where he was or his cell phone number. So her death pretty much was in vain.

Worse than in vain, actually, because she'd made things a lot worse for me. I would've been fine if I'd ignored her call and just kept trying to call a taxi.

Ten minutes later, I was dead, too.

No, I'm kidding. This isn't being narrated by a zombie.

I paddled in place for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out what to do. If the planes came back to blow up more of the bridge, it was possible that I could get their attention, and they might call for a chopper or something, but most likely I'd have drowned by then.

I looked around the water, desperately seeking a plank of wood or a buoy or something, anything that I could hold to keep myself afloat.

But there was only one thing in the water with me that floated.

Zombies.

Had I taken the time to fully consider this plan of action, I probably wouldn't have done it, in which case I would have died and this story really would be narrated by a zombie. But I knew that my strength wasn't going to last much longer, and so I had to do this quickly.

When one is attempting to fashion a life raft out of zombies, there are a few important points to consider.

First, you don't want to get bit. That's your number one concern. If your zombie raft bites you, let's face it, you're better off drowning. Fortunately, a facedown zombie can't bite you, so if you're in relatively good physical shape, you can keep their teeth in the water and out of your flesh.

Second, you need about six zombies. This is based on my own personal experience and your mileage may vary. If you're particularly obese, you may need nine or ten, and if you're petite, you may need only three or four. But six worked for me, and I'm an adult male of average build.

Third, binding them together can be challenging, especially if you're adrift in Tampa Bay without any rope. I used shirts. Fortunately, most zombies, at least the ones who were wandering on bridges, are wearing clothing, so if you can tear off their shirts, you've got some makeshift zombie binding materials.

They do struggle. Be aware of that. But they don't struggle anywhere near as much as live humans would in this situation, so again, if you're in relatively decent physical shape and are consumed by the urge to survive; you should be able to handle it. And once you get two of them tied together (I won't lie; it's a real bitch) the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth aren't as problematic.

Yes, if you're brave, determined, strong, and a little insane, you too can construct a zombie raft. I'm not going to suggest that it was a fun raft — I mean, I certainly wasn't sitting there saying, "Look at me! I'm Tom Sawyer having a magical rafting adventure!" But it kept me from drowning.

The biggest downside? A zombie raft is very, very difficult to steer. Almost impossible. This means that if you wanted to float to, say, Tampa, which was still relatively safe, you might end up floating to, say, St. Petersburg, which was infested with zombies.

It would've been nice if Millie's brother was waiting at the shore in a motorboat. He could've grinned and pretended to check his watch and said "Hey, what took you so long?"

But . . . nope.

And that's pretty much where my story ends. I'm in St. Pete with no way out; no weapons, and no clue what to do. You probably thought I was going to get back to Tampa because of that part earlier where I said that the neighbor kid Kyle got some fingers bitten off a couple of days later, but I made that up. I'm not a very reliable narrator.

Okay. Well. I guess that's it. Sorry to leave you hanging like this. If anything changes, I'll let you know. I'll just add an epilogue or something.

* * *

Epilogue

Killed seven zombies without a gun. Yay me!

That leaves approximately three hundred zombies outside of this tiny pet store where I took refuge, (not including the zombie pets in cages inside the place) and if they got through the military barricade, they're getting through this weak door with a tiny little bell that tinkles when you come inside.

So there won't be another epilogue.

Sorry.

P.S.: Millie's brother says "Hi."

IMMUNITY

Believe me, I howled when that corpse — putrid meat dangling from its bones — sunk its teeth into the underside of my right arm. I won't say the pain was indescribable, since there are plenty of good descriptive words: excruciating, agonizing, unbearable, and so on. I'd seen friends, family, and strangers get bit, and even while they shrieked I'd never imagined it could hurt this much.

I pulled my arm away, leaving a strip of flesh in the zombie's jaws, and cried out for help. Not that it was necessary; my traveling companion Allen was right there. He shot the zombie in the head and it dropped. Then he looked at me sadly. "You know what has to be done."

No. No way. I'd been on the other side many times, but I wasn't going to let Allen murder me. I could fight off the infection. I knew I could. So before he had a chance to get over his moment of melancholy, I dove at him, tackled him to the ground, and pulled the gun out of his hand. Then I blew his brains out.

Heh. You didn't often see zombies shooting humans in the head.

Stop that. I wasn't a zombie. I'd never be a zombie. The others were weak. They succumbed to the infection because they believed what everybody said — you couldn't fight it. Well, I could fight it. I'd fight it and be stronger for the experience. I'd be an inspiration to The Bitten. A hero.

* * *

Not dead yet, so that was a promising sign. I'd been bit twelve hours ago, according to my watch, and I was the furthest thing from a shambling, mindless creature. The average time from bite to death? Two hours. But not me. Still alive and kicking, thank you very much. I was awesome.

* * *

Twenty-four hours. I didn't sleep during that time because that might've allowed the infection to overpower me, but I felt fine. My arm didn't even hurt.

I was immune.

Immune!

I was the key to humanity's survival! Whether it was something in my blood or my brain or whatever, I possessed the ability to withstand a bite from one of those things and not become one myself.

I needed to find people. There were scientists studying what was happening, and I could be the link to a cure. The zombies would eventually lose their spot at the top of the food chain, and life would return to normal. They'd build statues in my honor. Write songs. Name cathedrals.

I slowly walked through the forest, feeling pretty darn legendary.

* * *

The little girl screamed when she saw me. So did her mother.

I tried to tell her that I was okay, that I was immune, that I was humanity's savior, but my voice didn't work — it was merely a soft groan. I wanted to weep as I fed upon the little girl's flesh, but there were no tears, just hunger.

THE BIG BITE

The funny thing about a sixty-five-foot vampire is that once it reaches that size, the fact that it's a bloodsucking beast becomes kind of irrelevant. It's hard to be concerned about something biting your neck when it's flinging your automobile into the air.

Believe me, there was a lot of finger pointing amongst the city officials once that vampire began its rampage. "You shouldn't have locked him in the corner cell closest to the nuclear power plant!" the mayor kept saying. Well, yeah, with 20/20 hindsight that's a pretty obvious statement, but if the mayor had been standing right there when I locked that regular-sized vampire in the cell, would he have raised a fuss? Would he have even tried to subtly suggest that perhaps we should find a better holding spot? No. He would have been perfectly fine with the whole situation, and that's a fact.

They'd arrested the vampire for disorderly conduct earlier that evening. He wasn't doing anything vampiric — just got into a bar fight with a couple of locals. Once they shoved him in the back of the squad car, he started hissing and showing off his fangs, so they smacked him a good one (off the record) and discussed whether they should give him a holy water shower.

Thing is, you can't dispatch a vampire just for getting into a fight, so they followed proper law enforcement procedure and brought him into the station for processing. As soon as those two cops walked in, I knew they were escorting a vampire, because he cast no reflection in the mirror on the wall.

"That's a vampire!" I said.

The cops, Officer Barton and Officer Pack, got all pissy about that, as if I were suggesting that they didn't already know he was a vampire. Well, for all I knew, they didn't know, and I was providing useful information that might improve their personal safety. But they just glared at me, as if I'd said something stupid like "Hey, you're dressed like police officers."

"You're not going to lock him in the holding cell with the other prisoners, are you?" I asked. That earned me another set of glares, even darker than the first. I wasn't trying to say that I thought they were incompetent. I was just thinking ahead: If they put the vampire in the holding cell, and he started biting the necks of the eight other people in there, we'd have nine vampires to contend with. That's a lot of vampires. And six of them would've been drunken vampires, which I assume is even worse. So I simply wanted to make sure that they'd thought everything through. No big deal.

They briefly discussed where to put him. There was some concern that he might transform into a bat and fly through the bars, but Officer Barton said that if he belonged to that particular vampire mythos, he probably would've transformed already. So they took him to the corner cell and locked him up tight.

The proximity of the nuclear power plant hadn't caused many problems in the past. A few prisoners got headaches, maybe. One case of frothing at the mouth, though the frothing wasn't all that bad. A couple of weird lesions. Certainly nothing to make us worry about putting a vampire in that cell.

They locked him away and figured that was it until somebody posted bail. We assumed that at some point he'd have to return to his coffin lest the sunlight disintegrate him, at least that's what he kept hollering, but it was still relatively early and there was no rush.

Somebody did post bail, some guy named Lucian, so I went back to let our captive vampire out . . . and I came very close to wetting myself when I saw that he filled almost the whole cell! I called out for backup and waved my arms frantically. The vampire kept growing, getting bigger and bigger until he broke right through the concrete walls.

Everybody in the station came running back to see what had happened. "The vampire broke loose!" I shouted. I figured that Officers Barton and Pack would make some sort of sarcastic comment about how they already knew that, so I was pleasantly surprised when they didn't.

The vampire kept growing. He looked kind of freaked out by the whole experience, which I guess is only natural. It's easy to get into a mindset where you believe that creatures like vampires are used to pretty much any kind of bizarre phenomena, but suddenly growing to an unnatural height is going to be disturbing to anybody, undead or not.

When he reached fifty feet, I started to worry that he might never stop growing, and that he might weigh the earth down and knock it out of its orbit. I'm told that I have a tendency to see the more cynical side of many issues. But after growing another fifteen or so feet, the process stopped, and the vampire just stood there, being big.

We stared up at him, hoping that he didn't hold any grudges over the incarceration.

The vampire smiled (sort of a "heh heh I'm a great big vampire and you're a tiny little human" grin) and smashed his foot right through the top of the police station. I wasn't expecting that, because he'd grown right out of his shoes, and even if you're sixty-five feet tall, you don't necessarily want to slam your heel into a building without proper footwear. But it didn't seem to hurt him at all. When he raised his foot again, rookie Officer McGroom was stuck to the bottom.

Grisly stuff. Not why I got into the law enforcement business, I'll tell you that.

My immediate concern was that the vampire might try to stomp those of us who were responsible for him being locked up. And that's pretty much what happened. He slammed his foot down on Officer Barton, and though he only got him with his pinky toe, that pinky toe was substantial enough to crush my co-worker in a really nasty manner. I suppose I should've been happy about the situation, considering how Officer Barton treated me, but witnessing a gruesome death is never a pleasant experience, no matter how rude the victim.

Officer Pack, who I'll admit was being a bit more forward thinking than me at that particular moment, unholstered her revolver and fired several shots at the vampire. The vampire let out a great big hiss that sounded like a tornado, then stomped on her as well. Her body squeezed between his third and fourth toes, and believe me, it was a messy, sloppy sight.

I ran.

Nope, I'm not ashamed of it. You might not have done the same thing in my situation, but you'd be a sticky smear on the bottom of a vampire's foot if you hadn't, and that's no way to be. I may have even screamed while I ran; I don't remember for sure. I just know that by the time that vampire got done smashing the police station into soot, I was one of the few people in that area who wasn't dead.

"What are you doing?" a gothy-looking guy shouted at the vampire. I figured this was Lucian. "Why must you engage in such violent — ?"

Oops. No more Lucian.

I don't mean to take a casual attitude toward Lucian's demise, but if you'd been there, you'd probably see the humor. It's kind of hard to explain unless you actually saw it happen, but the timing was perfect, and Lucian's expression right before impact was priceless. Yeah, I wish he'd lived — after all, he was the kind of person who'd bail a friend out of jail — but I'd be an unreliable narrator if I tried to pretend that his death didn't have amusement value.

And I also realize that I'd said not too long ago in this narrative that witnessing a gruesome death is never a pleasant experience, but . . . trust me, you just had to be there.

I'm not sure when "destruction" officially becomes a "rampage," but when that vampire started kicking down the buildings next to the police station I decided that we had a good old fashioned rampage on our hands. He started smashing roofs, knocking down telephone poles, flinging new and used cars into the air — everything you can think of. I went the other way.

It wasn't long before news of the vampire's hijinks spread all over town. The now-defunct police station wasn't too far from City Hall, so that's where I went, figuring I could share important information, having been there from the beginning, and also that any evacuation plan would start with the bureaucrats.

I probably should've fibbed about the reason for the vampire's rapid growth, because they got off on a big tangent about whose fault it was, and all that stuff I alluded to when I started telling this tale. The thing is, whether it was nuclear radiation or a mad scientist or magic monkeys, the fact didn't change that we had a giant vampire on the loose, so why not focus on the problem?

Some gentleman in a suit and tie mentioned the obvious: A vampire perishes in sunlight, and there was no way this one could fashion a large enough coffin in time. So, technically, if we were all willing to just hang out and wait patiently until sunrise, our problem would be solved. Which sounded all right, except that we had a good six hours until the sun came up, and he'd most likely have stomped on the entire city by then. The gentleman in the suit and tie conceded that point, but asked everybody to keep it in mind as a back-up plan. The mayor blurted out that it wasn't an actual plan, it was just waiting for mother nature to take its course, and the gentleman in the suit and tie agreed with him but insisted that, if it did come down to the vampire being naturally dissolved by sunlight, he should get credit for the scheme. They finally moved on.

"How do you kill a vampire?" asked the mayor. "Let's all throw out some ideas."

"Sunlight," said the gentleman in the suit and tie, who was then escorted out of the room.

"Running water," said another man.

"What?"

"I heard something about running water."

The woman next to him nodded. "I seem to recall something like that, too."

"I've never heard anything about running water killing vampires," said the mayor. "Are you sure you aren't thinking of holy water?"

"No, I'm pretty sure I remember something about running water," said the man.

"Actually, now that you mention it, I may be thinking about running holy water," the woman admitted.

The mayor sighed. "Holy water kills them whether it's running or not! You people are wasting time!"

"Can we get a priest to bless a fire hose?" asked somebody else.

The major gave a "What kind of dumb, pathetic, incompetent mouth-breathers do I have working for me?" look, then seemed to reconsider. "That's not a bad idea. Look into it."

"Yes, sir."

"How else can vampires die?"

I raised my hand. "Wooden stake to the heart."

"Well, of course, that's the traditional method, but how would we get a stake that big?"

"Curly's Cigars has that big wooden Indian out front. I'm sure he'd let us file down the top to give it a pointy tip."

"You're right! He would! Curly loves innovative marketing! But . . . but . . . but having the stake isn't enough. We'd need a way to drive it into his heart."

"We could dangle it from a rope from a helicopter, and fly the stake right into him."

"That could work!" said the mayor. "It probably won't, but it could! Make it happen while we continue brainstorming."

It's not my intention to get bogged down with details here, so I'm not going to spend much time on the whole military intervention part of the story. The military and the National Guard did come in to help us out, but there were some communication issues, and I think pretty much everybody involved who survived (which wasn't many) will have negative memories of the experience.

Anyway, Curly's Cigars was in the same general vicinity and hadn't been flattened yet, so I hurried over there with an older man whose name escapes me, and we explained to Curly what we needed. I offered to dangle a sign with his store's address from the makeshift giant stake, and he said no, the lives he saved would be advertising enough.

Transforming a wooden cigar store Indian into a deadly stake is a lot more difficult than it seems. We got a couple of hacksaws and went to work, but I kept hearing crashes of buildings being destroyed and screams of populace being squashed and couldn't help but think this was all taking way too long. Still, a job's not worth doing if you don't do it right, and we managed to get that Indian's head to a point sharp enough to pop right through a vampire's chest.

The older man whose name escapes me asked if we couldn't have just taken a strip of broken wood from one of the destroyed homes and used that instead of taking the time to file the head of a wooden Indian. I asked him why he hadn't made that suggestion earlier. He said he wasn't sure. I said, okay, that was understandable, but I didn't really mean it.

Getting a helicopter was a pain, and hooking our giant stake to the helicopter was even more of a pain. We finally did, though. I rode along as we flew toward the monstrosity, stake hovering beneath us. The vampire was busy ripping the clock off the Main Street clock tower, but it turned to look at us as we flew right at it at top speed.

"Die, you blood-sucking fiend!" I shouted, even though I knew the vampire couldn't hear me over the roar of the engine or whirr of the helicopter blades or the wind.

The pilot looked frantic. "This isn't gonna work! This isn't gonna work!"

It occurred to me that he was right. This was a ridiculous plan. That vampire would knock us right out of the air and use our stake to pick his fangs.

So we turned around, landed safely, and apologized to Curly for ruining his wooden Indian for no good reason.

A huge blast of water hit the vampire. They were drenching him with the fire hose! I let out a great big whoop of joy, ready for that vampire's skin to start burning and flaking off and floating to the ground like ashes.

"Die, you blood-sucking fiend!" I shouted.

But it wasn't doing anything. "The holy-to-water ratio isn't high enough!" the mayor shouted. "Get more priests!"

The mayor didn't last long after that. His death wasn't nearly as funny as Lucian's.

Upon some reflection, I started to think that maybe my "stake dangling from the helicopter" plan wasn't so bad after all, but I felt kind of sheepish about bringing it up again, and decided not to.

"Has anybody tried to reason with it?" some lady asked.

Those of us hiding behind a Dumpster admitted that, no, to the best of our knowledge, nobody had.

"Does anybody know his name?" She looked at me. "Aren't you the guy who locked him up?"

I nodded. "Yeah, but I don't remember his name."

"Well, maybe that's the whole problem!"

"Could be."

So we all started shouting at the vampire, asking personal questions to show that we cared about him, and offering a sympathetic ear if he wanted to discuss his troubles. Didn't do any good, though. I don't think he even heard us.

The vampire's rampage went long into the night. By the end, I don't think there were more than three or four structures that hadn't been demolished. (It's not that I don't know the difference between "three" and "four," it's that I'm not sure whether the damage to Sammy's Toy Emporium counts as demolished or not, since two of the walls were still standing.)

Then the sun began to rise. The vampire gasped and looked around, most likely seeking an oversized coffin. But there wasn't one, of course, and as soon as those rays of sunlight hit him, the vampire's skin started turning all black and crumbly. He started running, as if to outrun the sun, but any respectable scientist will tell you that you can't outrun the sun, and within a couple of minutes that vampire was just a big pile of bones. And then those bones were just a big pile of ashes.

"Who's gonna clean up those ashes?" somebody asked. I think they meant it ironically, considering how much destruction there was to clean up. And so those of us remaining were saved.

Here's the twist ending.

You see, I didn't lock that vampire up in his cell right away. I told him that immortality sounded pretty good to me, even with the downside of having to drink blood and fear daylight, so I asked him to bite me on the neck. And he did.

Yep, I was a vampire the whole time. Remember when we were discussing ways to kill vampires? They could've used those very same methods to kill me, although I don't think the running water one was accurate. I guess it makes me kind of a hypocrite to have tried to dispatch the vampire when I was one myself, but that's just something I'll have to learn to live with.

Anyway, when the sunlight got him, I was peeking through a little slit in the closed lid of the Dumpster, glad that I wasn't the specific vampire being fried in the light.

And when darkness falls once again, I'm going to walk right up to that nuclear power plant (which he didn't step on, probably figuring that it would burn his toes) and turn myself into an even bigger vampire. Because that rampage looked fun.

Okay, it's just occurred to me that the flaw in my plan is that if anybody opens the lid to this Dumpster before nighttime, I'm dead. Hmmmm. That could be problematic. Of course, with all the destruction around, what are the odds that somebody will open a Dumpster?

I hope nobody has to throw anything away.

Anyway, I'm going to go to sleep now, little Dumpster rat, but gnaw on my hand if you hear anybody coming.

SPECIMEN 313

Max, whose real name was Specimen 278, tried to be happy as he digested the arm. It had been a delicious meal for sure (he didn't get to eat humans very often, so it was always a special treat) but he felt somehow unsatisfied. Not hungry, necessarily, just sort of . . . unfulfilled.

He shifted in his dirt a bit. Almost watering time. Maybe that was the problem — his soil was too dry, and it was keeping him from enjoying his dinner.

Could be.

Probably not.

He'd actually felt this way for the past couple of days. Kind of bored. Kind of sad. There were plenty of things going on in the greenhouse laboratory for him to watch, including a minor rampage by Specimen 201 that ended with the unfortunate plant being clipped to shreds with a pair of garden shears, but none of them captured his interest the way they had in the past.

He wished he had a means to communicate with humans. It would be nice to be able to ask Dr. Prethorius about why he might be feeling this way. He hoped he wasn't sick.

Dr. Prethorius certainly wasn't down in the dumps. The scientist had let out his usual high-pitched cackle when Max's powerful leaves slammed shut over the vagrant's arm, severing it at the shoulder, and he'd laughed so hard that tears flowed down his cheeks as he used a shovel to deliver more blows to the head than were probably necessary.

"One for you, and one for you, and one for you," he'd said, tossing pieces of the vagrant to the hungry plants. "And one for you, and one for me . . . no, just kidding . . . and one for you."

Max had been very proud at that moment. After all, most of the specimens couldn't even bite off a finger, much less an entire arm. Of the last five hobos who'd perished in the greenhouse, Dr. Prethorius had seen fit to lure three of them to Max's area. Max wasn't the biggest plant in the lab--in fact, he wasn't even the biggest of the gene-spliced Venus Flytraps — but he was the deadliest.

Normally that made him feel great.

Not now.

If he could have let out a deep, sad sigh, he would have. But he couldn't. All he could do is wait and hope that he'd feel better soon.

* * *

Transplant day . . . ?

There was no more frightening sight in the greenhouse than Dr. Prethorius picking up the large shovel that rested against the far wall. Sometimes it simply meant that a plant was being moved to a new spot, but more often it meant that a particular experiment was over.

"Hello, hello," said the doctor, walking straight toward Max. His eyes were red and glassy but he wore his usual smile. "Need to get a bigger greenhouse, yes I do. Hate to see plants go to waste. But, try as I might, I can't seem to make a tree that grows money!"

He laughed at his joke, which he'd used before, and then regarded Specimen 47, Charlie, who had been planted to Max's right for as long as he could remember. Charlie was non-carnivorous and covered with pretty red and yellow petals, and was always pleasant if not particularly fascinating.

Max's leaves stiffened as Dr. Prethorius plunged the shovel into the dirt.

"Time to go, time to go," said the doctor in a singsong voice. "Out with the old, in with the new, it's good for me, too bad for you."

Max watched in horror as the doctor scooped out shovelful after shovelful of dirt. He hadn't forgotten what had happened to Specimen 159, who'd been dug up and discarded — thrown into a corner. It took the plant several agonizing days to dry up and starve to death.

After a few minutes of work, the doctor wrapped his arms around Charlie and pulled him out by the roots. He dragged the plant away, leaving a trail of red and yellow flowers.

Poor Charlie.

Max tried to use Charlie's fate to make himself feel better. After all, he was unhappy, but at least he was still firmly planted in the dirt.

It didn't work. He was sadder than ever.

* * *

When Max uncurled his leaves upon the morning light, he had a new neighbor. Another Venus flytrap. The new plant was a darker shade of green than Max, and about a foot shorter, with leaves that were narrower.

Max was surprised. Usually the new plants were bigger than the old ones. What made her so special?

Oh. That was it. His new neighbor was a "she."

Max's mood suddenly improved. He twitched his front leaves. Hello, there.

Hi.

I'm Max.

I think I'm Specimen 313.

Glad to meet you. You'll like it here.

I don't think I will.

It's really not that bad. Once you get used to it you'll be fine, I promise.

I don't feel like talking now, if that's okay.

Max stopped twitching his leaves. He didn't blame her. The greenhouse was not as comfortable as the garden where he'd grown up (had she grown up there too?). There he got to be outside and see the real sun instead of just light through the ceiling, and he got to feel a breeze sometimes, and though he couldn't actually go anyplace else, he felt like he could leave if he wanted.

So if Specimen 313 had been in the garden yesterday and was moved to the greenhouse today, he completely understood if she didn't want to talk. That was fine. He'd just wait for something to happen, like he always did.

About an hour later, Dr. Prethorius walked over with his plastic watering can. The greenhouse had an automated sprinkler system, but the doctor still used the watering can every once in a while. "Hello, Jenny," he said, as he watered her. "Are you adjusting to your new home? I have a guest waiting to see you, but I wanted to make sure you hadn't fallen over first!" He giggled. "I'll be right back, so don't go anywhere."

The doctor left.

I don't want to be here, said Jenny.

You'll learn to like it.

No. I won't.

She didn't say anything else. When the doctor returned, he was with an old man who had a thick beard and a dirty jacket. The old man looked around at the other plants, mouth slightly ajar, and almost tripped over a hose.

"Careful, now. Careful," said the doctor. He gestured to Jenny. "And here it is. The prize of my collection. Specimen 313."

The old man wiped his nose on his sleeve. "That's a pretty big plant."

"Indeed it is."

"That one of those fly-eating ones? Those trap ones? You know, that . . ." He moved his hands together to mime a closing trap.

"Again, you are correct. How does somebody with your level of intellect end up living out of a cardboard box?"

The old man lowered his eyes. "Bad luck, I guess."

"I certainly hope you weren't naughty with the crack cocaine. So do you like my plant?"

"Yeah, it's kind of neat. Did I look at it long enough? Do I get my twenty bucks now?"

Max realized that he was not jealous at all that Jenny was going to get to eat the old man. Normally he was a little bit jealous — not a lot, just a bit — but with Jenny, he only hoped that it would make her feel better. When she had chunks of that old man digesting inside of her, she'd know that this was a welcoming place.

"Almost, almost, not quite yet," said Dr. Prethorius. "Just a couple more minutes. It took a great deal of cross-breeding to create such an impressive specimen, and I want to make sure you take in the details."

"So . . . why me?" asked the old man. "I ain't got no appreciation for plants. Shouldn't you have those people from that Nobel prize thing here?"

"They don't appreciate true invention. Those cowards are just as likely to contact the authorities as they are to bestow a prize. That's why I need you. Somebody simpler of mind. Somebody who makes a good . . . fly."

Jenny suddenly bent forward, leaves wide open. The old man let out a quick shriek that was cut off as her leaves closed over the top half of his body with a loud crunch.

Max had never seen anything like that!

The old man's legs and waist dropped to the ground. Some blood trickled from between Jenny's leaves as she . . . was she actually chewing?

Incredible.

Dr. Prethorius squealed with laughter and danced in a merry circle. "It worked! It worked! I never imagined that it could work so well!"

Jenny opened up her leaves, revealing a skull and ribcage, then bent down and gobbled up the lower half of the man's body.

Dr. Prethorius laughed even louder. "Shoes and all! She ate him shoes and all! They all ridiculed me, but now it is I who will be administering the ridicule! And she hasn't even displayed her full potential! We'll see who's not a genius!"

He laughed for a while longer and then left.

Max twitched his leaves. How was he?

Not bad. His beard was awful. It tasted like smoke.

I liked the way you did that.

Thank you. Jenny seemed genuinely pleased.

Had you planned to do it exactly when the doctor told him he needed somebody who made a good fly?

I didn't know what the doctor was going to say. It just felt like the right moment.

It was.

Thank you.

Had you ever eaten any humans before?

Not whole.

So never live ones?

Oh, I've eaten them alive. The doctor removed somebody's arms and legs and fed me his torso.

Nice.

He screamed a lot.

That's understandable.

Want to hear something weird?

Of course.

The doctor looked around to make sure nobody was watching — I guess we don't count — and then he bit off one of the toes.

Seriously?

Yeah. He spat it out quickly, though.

He must not appreciate the finer things in life.

Hey, Max?

Yes?

Thanks for being nice to me.

No problem.

* * *

"I said, walk over to the plant!" said Dr. Prethorius, jabbing the barrel of the revolver into the young woman's back. She sobbed and pleaded incoherently and fell to her knees.

"Get up! I said, get up!"

"Please!" she wailed.

Dr. Prethorius kicked her. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that what you want? Get up and go see the plant!"

"Please! I have a baby at home!"

Dr. Prethorius kicked her again. "Get up! Get up! Get up! It's not that hard! Just get up and . . . you know what? Fine. Don't."

He shot the woman in the back of the head. Her entire body went limp.

Dr. Prethorius crouched down next to her. He stared at her for so long that Max thought he might have become one of those zombies he occasionally experimented with creating, but finally he sprung back to life. "Well, that was no good. Shouldn't have let that happen. Not scientific at all."

He took her by the hands and dragged her along the path. He stopped in front of Jenny, regarded her for a moment, and then shrugged and looked back at Max. "You might as well have this one. Such a waste."

Max happily opened his leaves. The doctor pulled the woman to her feet and held her so that her arm was right next to Max's leaves. He bit it off. The doctor repeated the process with the other arm, and then he let the woman's body fall to the ground again.

"Maybe I'll grind up the rest of her and mix her into the soil," he said, stroking his chin. "I haven't used my meat grinder in a while. The gears might be rusty. I don't know how well it will do on a big-boned girl like her, but the worst that can happen is my meat grinder gets jammed, and that's really not such a big deal, now is it?"

Dr. Prethorius walked away, leaving the armless corpse between Max and Jenny. Max wasn't disappointed that his meal had been cut short; after all, two arms was still a feast, even if he would have rather eaten her legs, given the choice. If the doctor ground her into fertilizer, then everybody could enjoy her, including the daffodils — Specimens 195 and 196 — who had probably never tasted a drop of blood in their lives.

But what did he mean by "You might as well have this one?"

Might as well?

Max couldn't bend forward and snatch prey like Jenny, but he was far from obsolete, right? He could still bite arms off, or heads, or whatever parts the good doctor wanted bit off. Perhaps he couldn't bite somebody completely in half or swallow them whole, but why would you even need that skill?

He was still one of the most vicious plants in the greenhouse. By far.

Sorry you didn't get any, he told Jenny. He usually shares better.

It's okay. I'm not that hungry.

The pool of blood is getting close. You might be able to bend over and slurp it up.

Thanks, but I don't need leftovers.

What do you mean?

I'm sorry. That was rude. I didn't mean anything by it. Jenny bent all the way down to the ground, stayed there for a few seconds, and then sprung back to an upright position. I can't reach the blood yet.

It's still moving. It'll get there soon.

I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean that your half-eaten meals were leftovers. I'd like to share. Really.

I know what you meant. I totally understand.

* * *

Specimen 90 was dug up and discarded the next morning. He hadn't come out of the ground easily, and finally the doctor had taken an axe to his roots. Most of the specimens perished fairly quietly, but not Specimen 90. He called them all monsters for just watching him die. Said he hoped that the greenhouse caught fire and that they all burnt to death.

Max felt sorry for him, truly he did, but there was nothing any of the others could do. Getting to spend time around Jenny had brought some of the pleasure back to Max's life, and he was secretly relieved when Specimen 90 died after only one night out of the dirt.

* * *

The day after that, Dr. Prethorius walked through the greenhouse with a baby. All of the plants grew extremely excited, and Jenny stretched forward as far as she could, but the doctor walked around the entire lab without offering the baby to anybody. He manipulated the baby's hand to wave goodbye and then left.

I think that was his grandson, said Max. He's mentioned him before.

Oh well. We can't expect him to feed us his grandson.

Nope.

* * *

Are you feeling okay? asked Jenny.

Why?

Your leaves are lighter today.

No, I feel fine.

Good.

* * *

"Hmmmmm," said Dr. Prethorius, plucking off one of Max's leaves--a small one near the bottom. He turned the leaf around, looking at it from a few different angles, and frowned. "Hmmmmm."

* * *

I'm scared.

You'll be fine, Max.

What do you think he's going to do to me?

He's not going to do anything to you. One vagrant in your trap and you'll be good as new, I promise.

No. I don't need human flesh to survive. It's just a treat. There's something else wrong with me.

Maybe your dietary needs have changed. It happens all the time. You need to stop worrying.

I don't want to die.

You won't.

I love you, Jenny.

What?

Max hadn't actually meant to say that. He tried to decide if it would be better to take it back and pretend that she'd misunderstood him, or leave it out there.

If he was going to die, he wanted to die happy.

I love you, he repeated.

Oh.

Oh?

What do you want me to say?

I don't know.

I like you a lot, Max. I like you better than anybody else in the whole greenhouse, even the sunflower. You're my best friend. I just don't see you in that way.

Okay.

Don't be mad.

I'm not mad.

Don't be sad, either.

I can be a little sad, right? It's okay. I understand. I can't devour victims as well as you. You need somebody who can be more ferocious.

It's not that at all. I'm just not looking for anything like that right now. This is all still new to me.

All right.

Promise me that you're okay.

I'm okay.

Promise me.

I promise.

* * *

Dr. Prethorius dragged the shovel along the path, whistling a happy tune.

"Life," he said, stopping in front of Max. "It's so filled with unexpected twists and turns. One minute you're happily planted in the ground, and the next minute you're tossed aside, ready to make way for Specimen 314."

No! This couldn't happen! There were dozens of other plants that were much less advanced than him! He wasn't that sick. Why would the doctor kill him instead of one of the lesser specimens? It wasn't fair!

"Of course, that won't happen to you," said Dr. Prethorius. "The discarding, I mean. I've invented a new acid test, and you'll be perfect for it!" He giggled. "Acid on the leaves, acid on the leaves, watch them sizzle, watch them fizzle!"

He pressed the shovel into the dirt, and then stomped on it. As he scooped out the first shovelful of soil, Max frantically opened and closed his leaves.

"Trying to bite my face off, huh? Naughty, naughty. What am I to do with such a misbehaving plant? Oh, I know. Acid on the leaves, acid on the leaves, watch them disintegrate, watch them . . ."

He spun around. Jenny sprung back up to her normal position.

"Trying to eat your master, are you? We can't have that. Oh, no, we can't have that at all. I realize that I bred you specifically to hunger for human flesh, but you're not supposed to crave my human flesh, oh, no, that's not right!"

He pulled the shovel back, preparing for a powerful swing, and then bashed it into Jenny. She bent backwards, bounced back up, and then took a second hit with the shovel.

This time she stayed down.

No!

"It's sad times for the world of science when one's own creations try to attack him," Dr. Prethorius muttered. "Sad times indeed. I had such high hopes for Specimen 313. Oh well. Plenty of acid to go around."

He returned his attention to Max and began to dig out more shovelfuls of soil. His eyes were wild, and he flung each scoop of dirt as far as he could, hitting several of the other specimens.

Max had never been so terrified. He opened and closed his leaves, figuring that at this point it didn't really matter if Dr. Prethorius got mad at him, but the doctor kept himself well out of harm's way.

Behind him, Jenny lay on the ground, unmoving.

"They all laughed at me, you know," said the doctor. "When I grew the world's largest pumpkin, oh, they were filled with praise, but when I carved it into the world's largest jack-o-lantern, they called me mad! I ask you, would a madman create a cherry tree with fruits that ooze deadly poison? Would a madman develop blades of grass sharp enough to slice off your fingers?" His digging became even more frantic.

Poor, poor Jenny. She shouldn't have tried to save him.

Max tilted forward as the next scoop of dirt came from underneath his roots. And then he realized that Jenny was slowly rising up again.

Don't do it! he said. He'll kill you! It's too late for me!

Jenny straightened up completely, but did not bend forward. Yet she continued to strain at something.

What are you doing?

Be quiet. I can't concentrate.

Don't do anything!

Be quiet!

With the next scoop of dirt, Max tilted forward even further, at about a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He wondered how it felt to have acid burn through him.

All of Jenny's leaves were pressed tightly against her stalk as she strained, strained, strained . . .

One of her roots popped out of the ground.

And then another.

Then a third.

Max's amazement overshadowed his terror as Jenny pulled herself out of the ground and took an actual step forward.

With the next shovelful of dirt, Max fell forward and almost smacked against the ground.

"What should I use?" asked Dr. Prethorius. "A few drops of acid to make it last, or should I just pour the whole bottle right on--" He let out a yelp and dropped his shovel as Jenny's leaves clamped down upon his leg.

She straightened again. The doctor dangled upside-down from her trap, struggling desperately but unable to escape.

"Let me go!" he screamed. "I'm your master! Let me go! Please, please, please, let me go!"

Should I let him go? Jenny asked.

I don't think so.

Me either.

I love you, Jenny.

You're a good friend, Max. Would you like to share?

Yes.

She slammed the shrieking doctor against the ground, which did not shut him up, and then dragged him to the side. His arm slid underneath Max's leaves. Max bit down.

Try to get his head, too, said Jenny, stepping forward.

Max did. Dr. Prethorius stopped screaming as they pulled him in two.

Thank you, said Max.

They ate without speaking for a while.

What's wrong? Max asked.

I don't think I can replant you.

Oh.

I'm sorry.

That's okay.

But I can bring humans to you. I'll leave the greenhouse and get them, as many as you want. You'll eat and eat and eat until you get healthy again.

That would be nice.

They continued to enjoy their meal. The doctor tasted better than the other humans he'd eaten. Perhaps insanity made meat more tender.

Maybe he didn't have a lover, but Max had a friend, and he knew that he could be happy for a long, long time.

WE BELIEVE

I don't care what the novelty songs say — losing your grandmother in a reindeer-related accident is no laughing matter.

I used to love Christmas. Presents, food, and a house full of relatives. I'd always wear my "Take Me To Your Mistletoe!" shirt and everybody would laugh and laugh. Momma would cook up a turkey, and she and Dad would break the wishbone, and Momma would say "Make a wish!" and every year Dad would hold his end and say "I wish I hadn't eaten so damn much turkey!" Uncle Herb would bend spoons with his mind. 'Course, he wasn't really bending spoons with his mind, he was whacking them across his forehead, but we all enjoyed the trick anyway.

We'd all sing Christmas carols, and we'd do that wacky version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" where we'd sing ". . . had a very shiny nose" and a few of us would shout "Like an alcoholic!" My cousin Joey Jr. was always in favor of "Like a mutant!" but you couldn't hear him over the rest of us. Then Aunt Becky would do that thing with her arms that always made us uncomfortable but was a family tradition, and everybody would go home.

Grandma and Grandpa lived close, just at the end of the block, but of course I wasn't going to send them walking down the icy road at night on Christmas Eve, especially not with all the egg nog Grandma had consumed. I took her by the arm, and we walked toward their house, talking about how much fun the evening had been. Grandpa laughed again at my shirt. Off in the distance, I heard the sound of bells ringing, which put me in an even merrier mood.

The bells got louder, as if they were moving toward us at a rapid velocity. I turned around and saw a bright red shining point of light, coming at us so fast that —

The reindeer's front hooves slammed into Grandma's back. A gout of blood sprayed from her mouth, steaming in the cold air, accompanied by a hideous crack. Her arm popped free of my grip as she slammed face-first onto the ice. The rear set of hooves crushed into the back of her neck, leaving a ghastly red imprint.

But it wasn't just one reindeer. Oh no. No sooner had the first one removed its bloody hooves from my dear grandmother than the second one struck her. Its front hoof hit the base of her skull. Its rear hoof landed in the exact same spot, breaking entirely through the bone and becoming lodged there. Grandma slid across the ice several feet, imbedded, leaving a gruesome crimson streak on the road.

She came free, leaving her blue and silver wig behind, only to have her skull shattered completely by the third reindeer. Glistening grey matter stuck to the reindeer's hooves after it passed over her. The fourth reindeer — the last in its row — trampled her legs and back, which was not quite as disturbing as the splattering of her brain, but was nevertheless unpleasant.

And then the sleigh. Oh, God, the sleigh.

The runners, sharp as a razor, sliced Grandma in half. Contents that I didn't even know existed inside the human body spilled out. I've got to be honest; I'd always thought of Grandma as rather dry and brittle, so the sheer gushing surprised me.

And, almost as soon as it appeared, the sleigh was gone. Grandpa cried out in horror and dropped to his knees beside his departed wife, as I frantically dug through the pockets of my winter jacket in search of my cell phone.

"No . . . please, no . . ." Grandpa wailed. He threw back his head and howled in primal anguish. Tears ran down my cheeks, freezing against my skin, and I knew that Christmas would never again be the joyous holiday we'd celebrated for so many years. Grandma lay in a growing pool of blood. The stroke hadn't killed her. The diabetes hadn't killed her. But never in a hundred years would I have thought that we had to worry about magical reindeer.

I don't place blame. When you have to deliver that many presents to the world in such a short timeframe, certain safety precautions will be compromised. Millions of families were filled with delight that frosty eve, and if there were victims along the way . . . well, they were acceptable losses.

You may say there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.

Oh, yes. We believe.

POOR CAREER CHOICE

If you're like me, you spend a lot of time trying to joke your way out of socially awkward and/or potentially fatal situations. A good example of this took place one summer evening when I was relaxing in my recliner with the novel Whose Blood Is In My Popcorn?, which I'd been reading off and on for the past four years. I'm not an ambitious reader.

I looked across the living room into the kitchen and saw an extremely large man holding an extremely large knife. He had long greasy hair, was wearing a black leather jacket that had metal spikes around the wrists, and I sort of got the impression that he had broken into my home to kill me.

By "broken into," of course, I mean that he'd probably just casually walked in through the door in the kitchen that my wife, Helen, was always reminding me not to leave unlocked. She'd never specifically used a man with a knife as an example, but I'm pretty sure this is the kind of thing she was referring to.

"Are you here about the leaky faucet?" I asked.

Not my all-time funniest comment, I'll admit. That particular honor goes to "What if we used two cows?" (which loses something out of context, but trust me when I say that it was very, very, very amusing). Still, when you consider that I said it to a huge guy with a knife and a homicidal glimmer in his eye, it was a more than passable effort.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not."

"Oh."

I considered my options. The only weapons I had readily available were the dog-eared paperback and a grape juice box. I'd already drank most of the juice, so the box probably wouldn't even carry all the way across the living room if I threw it. However, the straw provided a defensive possibility.

I considered making a run for it. But when I say that the man was "extremely large," I don't mean that he was an obese gentleman who would chase after me in a labored waddle. Though it was hard to tell under the jacket, he looked to be all muscle. And as he walked toward me, he moved with a grace and efficiency of motion that gave the impression that he could have me tackled to the ground and nicely decapitated before I even made it to the stairway.

But maybe not. After all, I'm rather nimble myself. I decided to let this one play out and wait for the precise moment to act.

"Are you Andrew Mayhem?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, a split-second before I realized that the more intelligent answer would be "No."

He stood in front of me and held up the knife. "I've been hired to kill you, Mr. Mayhem."

I lowered the recliner's footrest. "By who?"

"I can't say."

"You can say if you're going to kill me, right? I promise not to scrawl the name in my own blood on the carpet."

He shook his head. "No, I'd get in trouble."

"If you're going to kill me, you've at least got to let me know who wants me dead. Give my ghost something to avenge."

"I don't know . . ."

"It's the least you could do."

"Hey, I waited two weeks for you to be alone in the house. I could've done this while your wife and kids were home. Would you want your wife and kids to see you die? Would you?"

"Helen would kick your ass."

Uh, maybe you should try not to anger the nice assassin, I told myself. Using humor to buy myself time to get out of this situation was fine. Insults were uncool.

The hit man smiled. "She sure puts you in your place. Damn, but you're whipped."

"Not whipped. Henpecked."

"Whatever."

"Y'know, you may be here to kill me, but you're still a guest in my home. Let's be respectful, okay?"

"Fine with me. I'm not here to talk. I'm here to cut myself a slice of bitch."

I stared at him for a long moment.

"Did you just say you're here to cut yourself a slice of bitch?"

He nodded.

"Was that, like, a planned comment? Did you actually come in here with the intention of speaking those exact words?"

"What's wrong with them?"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that you're a bitch, and I'm here to cut a slice of you."

"No, no, no, no, no, that doesn't work at all. Trust me on this. Have you really said that to other human beings? What was their reaction?"

"I haven't said it to anybody else."

"Good. Don't. What do you usually say in this situation?"

The assassin looked a bit sheepish. "Actually, you're my first hit."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well, that explains it. I know that you were trying to sound all cold-blooded and stuff, but the only reaction you're going to get is 'Oh, crap, I'm gonna be murdered by a doofus.' What's your name?"

"Victor."

"Hi, Victor." I extended my hand politely. He didn't shake it. I figured I probably should have seen that bit of rudeness coming and placed my hand back on my lap. "Listen, you need a catch phrase that doesn't make you sound like a street punk. Something sinister but classy. Because I'll be honest with you, right now I should be so scared that I can barely keep my urine on the inside, and I'm just not feeling it."

"I bet you'd feel it if I stuck this knife in you."

"I'm sure I would. But if you're an assassin, you need to be memorable. You need to be stylish. I mean, any common hooligan can run somebody over with a car, but you, you're the kind of guy who gets up close and personal with a knife. It's all about the presentation. You need to leave a lasting impression."

Victor nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he were considering my advice. Then he scowled as if suddenly realizing that he'd become the kind of assassin who listened to helpful hints from people he was supposed to kill. "No, I don't. You'll be dead!"

"Yeah, but this isn't about me. It's about you. I might be dead either way, but how would you feel if I died thinking that your hit man persona was sub-par?"

Victor shrugged. "I get paid either way."

"Is it just about the money, though?"

"Sure."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I kill for money. That's what an assassin does. When I slit your throat, I won't feel a thing."

I wasn't happy that the conversation had turned to slit throats, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "How many people have you killed?"

"I told you, you're my first."

"You haven't killed anybody? Not even for recreation?"

He shook his head.

"What about animals?"

"No animals."

"Have you ever flushed a goldfish?"

"Look, I don't need to have dozens of corpses stacked in my closet to deal with somebody like you. One slice and you'll be on the floor gargling your own blood, and let me tell you, I'm going to have a good long laugh about it."

"I'm not trying to be a pain here," I insisted. "I'm just wondering how you got the gig of terminating me without any previous murder credits."

"I sorta fell into the job. You know how it goes."

"You padded your resume, didn't you?"

"That's none of your concern."

"You did! You lied about your experience! What are you going to do if your boss finds out?"

"I didn't lie about anything."

I shook my head and made a tsk-tsk sound. "Lying by omission is still a lie."

"You know what? I've had way more than enough of you." Victor pointed the knife at my throat. "Got anything else to say before I gut you?"

"That's not where the knife should be pointed if you're planning to gut me."

"Don't tell me how to do my job."

"I'm just saying. Not many guts in my neck."

"Sure there are."

"Do you even know what a gut is?"

"That's it. You're dead, Mayhem."

"My name's not Mayhem."

He blinked. "What?"

"Are you looking for Andrew Mayhem? He lives next door. Shorter guy, glasses . . ."

"You said you were Andrew Mayhem."

"Your knife made me nervous. I wasn't thinking."

He looked at me for about three seconds as if trying to decide if I was lying, and then clearly decided that I was, in fact, lying. "You know what? I'd kill you for free," he said.

"How much are you getting paid?"

"None of your business."

"Of course it's my business! I have a right to know my market value. How much?"

"I don't discuss salary with anybody. And it's time for you to die."

"You keep saying that, and yet my guts are still sealed up in my neck."

Victor looked so angry and frustrated that I thought he might scream. I used the opportunity to strike.

"Did you just throw a fucking juice box at me?" he asked, rubbing his forehead.

"I did."

"You . . . you . . . there's something wrong with you, man! How can nobody else have murdered you yet?"

"See, Victor, you're not listening. This isn't about me. It's about —"

He began to pace around my living room, wildly swinging the knife. "You know what, I didn't even want this crappy job! I was happy at the Wal-Mart! I'm just trying to earn enough money to go back to school! I didn't ask to get hit in the head by a goddamn juice box!"

I noticed to my horror that the juice box, which lay on its side, had leaked some grape juice onto the carpet. Helen was going to go ballistic when she got home. The juice boxes were never, ever to be consumed in the living room. Granted, the rule was intended for my children, Theresa and Kyle, but I'd get in just as much trouble. Damn.

Victor continued pacing back and forth across my floor, alternating between shouting in frustration and muttering silently. I kind of felt sorry for him. I still held the straw and tried to figure out how good my chances were of plunging it into his eye when he wasn't looking.

Suddenly he turned to me, eyes wide with fury, raised the knife over his head, and brought it down toward my face —

— stopping a few inches from my nose.

It occurred to me that a substantial portion of my plan had revolved around the idea that I would break out my lightning-fast reflexes to escape from danger at the exact moment when Victor finally snapped. But if Victor hadn't stopped the knife's downward trajectory by his own choice, I would probably have a blade sticking deep into my face. T'was not a pleasant thought.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Victor lowered the knife. "This job sucks," he said.

"Most jobs do."

I realized that my palms were sweating profusely now that I'd come so close to being stabbed in the nostrils, and my stomach kind of hurt. What had happened to my lightning fast reflexes? The knife could have gone all the way through my nose and up into my brain! I'd be dead! And then Victor would collect his paycheck even though he was a below-average assassin!

I wiped my palms off on my jeans, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Did I scare you?" he asked.

"No."

"I bet I did."

"Okay, yeah, you did, but that knife looks sharp, all right? You can't expect me not to be a little uncomfortable when you're trying to stab me with it."

"I bet you almost wet your pants."

"Would it make you feel better if I had?"

He shook his head. "That would probably be awkward."

"Yeah, for me too."

He sighed. I sighed back.

"Why didn't you finish stabbing me?" I asked.

"Dunno."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"Maybe. I just . . . do you ever feel like you're playing a part that isn't really you? I mean, I feel ridiculous in this spiked jacket. What do you think?"

"Honestly, I thought the jacket was pretty cool."

"It's too hot. And it doesn't fit right in the back. And these spiky things keep scraping on furniture and stuff. I wonder if I should just give up the whole idea of killing people for a living. I don't think I'm cut out for it. I like being the lovable guy. I like being cuddly."

"Cuddly is good. So how much trouble will you get in if you don't kill me?"

"I'm not sure. Not too much. He was only paying me fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks? Fifty?"

"Yeah."

"My life is only worth fifty dollars? Are you kidding me?"

"Is that low?"

"Of course it's low! Holy crap, I was thinking you were making at least five figures, probably six!"

"I made seven dollars an hour at Wal-Mart."

"I can't believe you would kill me for fifty bucks. That's just insulting. Who hired you?"

"Todd McBride."

"I don't even know him. But people try to kill me every once in a while. It's just part of being me. But . . . fifty bucks? You'd pay an exterminator more than that to kill some bugs! Perhaps you should leave."

"Yeah."

"Sorry this didn't work out."

"Me too. I'll resign in the morning. I didn't really want to see sliced flesh anyway. Do you have any of those juice boxes left?"

"I think there's one in the fridge."

"Thanks."

"Don't take the cherry one."

"Okay."

Victor wandered into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator. I heard him leave, and I sat on the recliner for a while, more than a little annoyed. I couldn't even get back into my book.

Still, at least I was alive. And I'd helped Victor realize that the life of a killer-for-hire wasn't for just anybody with access to a bladed weapon. So the evening wasn't a total loss. In fact, since I now knew that my lightning fast reflexes needed to be honed, I had fodder for self-improvement.

If you really thought about it, it was a very worthwhile experience.

I returned to the novel, feeling good.

Then Helen came home and I got in trouble because I forgot to clean up the grape juice on the carpet. So the rest of the night sucked.

TRUE HERO

"You're a true hero," said the reporter in the blue suit, and everybody else at the press conference nodded.

Ted scratched at the bandage on his cheek. There would definitely be a scar, though not as bad as the anticipated scars on his chest and arms. The killer had been nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil by the media; he didn't actually spin in circles, but he attacked his victims with the berserk nature of the cartoon character. Ted had been cut six times, twenty-eight stitches' worth, before he knocked the knife out of the killer's hand.

Then he'd bashed the Tasmanian Devil's head against a tree, twice. As the killer of six (that they knew of so far) fell to the ground, Ted felt the moment where, if this were a horror film, the audience would be shouting, "Kill him! Kill him!" at the screen.

Ted hadn't killed him. This not only gave him a clear conscience for not having taken the life of a fellow human being, no matter how wretched, but also allowed the police to save another little girl who was still in the Tasmanian Devil's basement.

"So what were you thinking when you saw him abduct Millie?"

"You know, it's kind of weird," Ted told the reporter. "She wasn't screaming or pulling away or anything." The Tasmanian Devil had told six-year-old Millie that her parents were in a car accident and that he was a police officer here to take her to the hospital. He had done this in the "only a few seconds," that Millie's babysitter claimed to have been distracted, flirting with a boy at the park. "It just felt wrong. I didn't see any harm in following the car, maybe for a few blocks or so."

He had, in fact, followed the car onto the freeway and tailed it for about ten minutes before deciding to make a call. "I still really didn't think anything was wrong, but I figured, what was the worst case scenario? A 911 dispatcher gets mad at me for wasting a few minutes of his time? So I called the cops."

When he found out that a young girl matching her exact description had just been reported missing from the park where he'd seen her, Ted had almost rear-ended the kidnapper's gray sedan in his effort not to lose it. He followed him off the next exit ramp, and followed him closely through several more turns, taking them further and further from anyplace Ted was likely to receive help.

The kidnapper knew he was being followed, no question, but if Ted tried to be discrete about the pursuit, he might lose him.

Finally, the Tasmanian Devil pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the car to see what the hell Ted wanted. Though Ted couldn't deny that there was a slight urge to lock himself in his own vehicle and hope that the police showed up soon, he immediately worked up his courage and got out of the car to confront the kidnapper. If he'd known that the man was also a serial killer, he might not have done this.

Or he might have. There was no way to know for sure.

The kidnapper let out a terrifying howl and then charged at him, knife raised. Before Ted could really even process what was happening he'd received a vicious slice across the chest, and he got several more slashes as he raised his arms to defend himself.

Ted felt the fear but not the pain, and somehow he got in a punch that struck the killer's wrist, making him drop the knife. Two adrenaline-fueled bashes against a tree later, and the killer was no longer a problem.

"That's amazing," said the reporter.

"Thanks."

"I mean, you put yourself in the path of a knife-wielding maniac to rescue a girl you didn't even know. What kind of upbringing did you have to make you so selfless and heroic?"

Ted chuckled. "I appreciate the compliment, but really, anybody would have done what I did."

The room full of reporters considered that.

"You know," said a blonde female reporter in the front row, "he may be right. A little girl driven away by a psycho killer? Would anybody really just let her go and not do anything?"

"I wouldn't," said another reporter.

"I wouldn't, either," said a third.

"It was brave, for sure," said the blonde reporter, "but I tend to agree with Ted: in this situation, I don't think many people would just shrug their shoulders and let Millie be taken off to be butchered. It was a fine thing he did, an honorable thing, but probably not too far out of line with what anybody else would have done in those circumstances."

"I hadn't really thought about that," said the reporter who'd called Ted selfless and heroic. "Still, yeah, I can see your point. I'm sitting here thinking 'What would I have done if I were Ted?' and the answer is 'Well, I would have followed the car.' Who wouldn't? I wasn't sure about whether I would have actually gotten out of the car, but what would have been the alternative? Would I have just sat there watching him kill her?

Of course not. I would have gotten out just like Ted did and gone over there to stop him. Unless you're a total piece of crap, it's the only choice."

"When you really think about it," said the blonde reporter, "it's all about being in the right place at the right time. In just the same way that anybody could die a tragic death by standing underneath a falling safe at the wrong time, anybody could save the life of a little girl by being near a park at the right time."

Ted cleared his throat. "Yes. There's lots of potential bravery in the world. It was a pretty big knife, though."

"It's almost like he got lucky," said the reporter in the blue suit. "I wouldn't mind standing up there where Ted is, having everybody tell me how great I am. It's not my fault that I don't drive near parks where serial killers do their hunting."

"I disagree," said an elderly reporter. "It's possible that you drive past serial killers all the time, and you just don't notice. Let's not forget that it was Ted's gut instinct that led him to follow the vehicle. I'm not sure I agree that everybody else would have done that. I think most people would have said 'Oh, that must be her uncle,' and gone on with their day."

"Thank you," said Ted.

"But I still think there's a pretty big element of luck in there," said the blue-suited reporter. "I see kids getting picked up by their parents every day. I bet Ted does, too. If we stopped to follow every one of those cars, we'd never get anything done. He said himself that he only called the police because he figured, worst-case scenario, the 911 dispatcher would be pissed. He made the right decision, and more power to him, but if everybody called 911 every time they had a hint of an uneasy feeling, the lines would be jammed and people's homes would burn down because they couldn't get through in real emergencies."

"Oh, now you're just being ridiculous," said the elderly reporter. "Are you really accusing this heroic man of preventing firemen from saving homes?"

"No, I guess not. I apologize. I spent the morning interviewing doctors at the burn ward, and it bummed me out. Have you ever been to a burn ward?"

The elderly reporter shook his head.

"Don't go. I mean, if you have relatives who get severely burned, you should definitely go visit them, of course, but don't go just to do a news story, because it's really horrific and depressing."

"Noted," said the elderly reporter.

"I think we're getting off-topic," said the blonde reporter. "What we're supposed to be discussing is the fact that, like Ted said, anybody would have taken down the Tasmanian Devil given the opportunity."

"I'm not sure I agree with that," said Ted.

"It's what you said."

"I know, but I didn't mean it quite like that. He did slash me with a knife. Several times."

"Which I guess brings up another question," said the blonde reporter. "Should we hold people in high regard just because they don't bleed to death as quickly as other people? I can say with no shame whatsoever that if you cut me six times, and cut Ted six times, I'd die first. Does that make me a less admirable person? Sure, Ted subdued him while I probably would have been stabbed to death, but does that make Ted more of a hero?"

"Well, yeah, sort of," said Ted. "Traditionally, the person who stops a killer is considered more of a hero than the person who gets murdered by one."

"But is that fair? You have a clear size advantage over me. That isn't my fault."

"No, it's not, but that shouldn't be held against me."

"Nobody is holding anything against you, Ted. I don't see why you're suddenly being so defensive. Not one of us has said that you're a bad person."

Ted pointed at the reporter in the blue suit. "He accused me of clogging up 911 lines!"

"No, no, no, that's not what I said. I said that your behavior, multiplied, could lead to that. I didn't accuse you of doing it, personally."

"Why are we demonizing this man?" asked the elderly reporter. "We hold sports figures like Babe Ruth and O.J. Simpson up as heroes — not so much O.J. Simpson anymore, so I withdraw that example — for being in prime physical condition. Is Michael Vick less of a hero because he's a strong guy? What about Lance Armstrong? You say that anybody would have saved Millie from the Tasmanian Devil, but I counter that anybody would become a sports star, given the opportunity."

"That's dumb," said another, non-descript reporter. "It takes years of training to become a professional athlete of that caliber. It doesn't take years of training to stop a serial killer."

"Unless you're in the FBI," said the blonde reporter. "Then it does."

"Is FBI training really years? I thought it was more like months."

"Twenty weeks at the academy," said the blue-suited reporter.

"Oh," said the blonde reporter. "I was thinking of field experience, though I guess technically we're always learning, all the time, no matter what our job."

"I bashed a goddamn serial killer against a tree!" said Ted.

"If there had been trees handily available to his victims, perhaps Ted would never have been given the opportunity to demonstrate his quote unquote heroism."

"No, that's not right at all," Ted insisted. "He was a madman who preyed upon innocent little girls! They couldn't have stopped him! Millie was six years old! She wasn't going to be bashing any psycho killers into any frickin' trees!"

The blonde reporter shrugged. "So we should be kissing up to you for not being a six-year-old girl?"

"No, but what I did was a truly heroic act, and though I sure don't need your adoration, I'd at least like some respect!"

"But you said, right there, in front of everybody, that anybody would have done the same thing. All we've done is agree with you! Show of hands: anybody who would have let Millie be horribly slaughtered by a depraved sociopath, raise your hand."

None of the reporters raised their hands.

"See? It's the truth. People are fundamentally good at heart, and you just did what anybody else would have done. Nothing wrong with that. It only becomes a problem when you're leeching time away from us that we could be using to write about truly important subjects like politics or economics."

"You know what?" said Ted. "Screw you. Screw each and every one of you." He gave the entire room the finger, then stormed away from the podium, as pictures flashed.

"What a dick," muttered the blonde reporter. "Oh well. I guess I've got an angle for my story."

CHOMP (A CAUTIONARY TALE)

"Only he who lives a life of goodness and has great strength in his heart may retrieve the sacred Jewel of Ankiorth. All others shall . . . aw, crap."

"What's wrong?" asked Bernard, adjusting his glasses and leaning closer to the golden tablet.

"It says that the dragon's head will bite your frickin' arm off! Nobody said anything about this part!" Terrance threw down his backpack in frustration. "How is it possible that we spent three years trying to find this thing and never knew about the biting?"

"That one elder did say there would be a test."

"Sure, a test, but not one where you can lose an arm, for God's sake!"

The dragon's head was carved into the side of the mountain. Each sharp stone tooth was the size of a butcher knife. There was just enough room for somebody to slide his arm into the darkness between the teeth.

Bernard read the golden tablet silently to himself. "Technically, if we've lived a life of goodness and have great strength in our heart, we don't have anything to worry about."

"Oh, well, gee, that would be awesome if we hadn't killed all of those natives, or financed this whole expedition with stolen drug money. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling particularly strong of heart at the moment."

"Now, now, let's not get bent out of shape." Bernard looked back at their three hired hands, Rusty, Juan, and Dominick. "We need a flashlight."

Rusty took a flashlight out of his backpack and handed it to Terrance, who turned it on and shone the beam into the dragon's mouth. "It curves down," he said. "I can't see anything."

"Any sparkles from the jewel?"

"No. This is bullshit."

Bernard made a fist and rapped on the stone head with his knuckles. "Feels pretty solid. I don't see any hinges on the mouth. I very much doubt that anything is going to bite our arm off if we stick it in there."

"That's it? You're going to base this opinion on the lack of hinges? Do you really care so little for your arm?"

"There's also no dried blood. If this dragon's head was biting off people's arms, wouldn't there be some blood?"

"Maybe somebody cleans it off! For all we know, some minimum wage laborer comes around every couple of months and hoses the damn thing down. We set fire to a church, Bernard! The dragon head is going to judge us harshly!"

"I am a man of science," said Bernard. "I do not believe in the ability of ancient carvings to gaze into my soul. The keeper of the jewel placed that tablet there to ward off the superstitious."

"Then you're welcome to reach on down in there," said Terrance. "People who've had their arms bitten off probably exaggerate the pain just to get attention."

Bernard hesitated. "This is absurd. I see no possible mechanism that would allow this mouth to move. It's clearly an ancient ruse, and the longer we stand here, the longer we wallow in foolishness."

"Good. I'm glad you're confident. That's what I like about you. Have at it."

Bernard turned around and gestured. "Rusty, a great honor is about to be presented to you."

"Thanks, but no."

"This is not an honor to be cast away lightly. When the history books are written, it is he who first touches the jewel who will become the name of legend."

"Sir, I was standing four feet away. I heard the whole arm-biting conversation."

"It's not going to bite anybody. That's nonsense. We have evolved far too long as a species to let such treasures elude us because of ridiculous fears."

Rusty shook his head. "Not gonna do it."

"We'll double your share."

"Let me see, zero times two is . . . ?"

"Okay, we'll give you a share. A full share of a priceless treasure."

Dominick raised his hand. "Hell, I'll do it for a share."

"Excellent. Dominick, step forward. Rusty, step back and feel ashamed."

Rusty shrugged and stepped out of the way. Dominick walked up to the dragon head.

"So I just reach in there and grab it?"

"Yes. There is nothing to fear."

"Can one of you take a picture to make sure everybody knows I'm the one who first touched the jewel?"

"We're keeping very careful notes," Bernard assured him.

Dominick cracked his knuckles, and then slowly slid his arm between the stone teeth. He slid in past his elbow and moved back and forth. "Can't feel anything yet."

"Keep going."

He slid his arm in all the way to the shoulder. "I don't feel somebody else's arm, so that's a good sign."

"This is no laughing matter," said Bernard. "Just keep searching."

"That wasn't supposed to be a joke. If I touched a severed arm, that would be pretty solid evidence that somebody else had lost an arm in here, right? Aren't you always saying we should base our actions on physical, substantiated data? Are you saying that if you were in my place, brushing your fingers against a bony arm would have no impact on your future decisions? The only reason you're not doing this yourself is because you're concerned about the potential for the dragon head to bite down, and if I'd discovered empirical evidence that it did bite down, then —"

"All right, all right. I apologize. Do you feel anything yet?"

"Not yet. Just stone. Kind of rough and gritty. Oh, wait . . ."

"What? What is it?"

Dominick's eyes widened. "I think this is it! I think I've found the jewel!"

The dragon's mouth slammed shut with a thud, its teeth perfectly interlocking. Dominick shrieked and pulled away, blood spraying from the wiggling stump where his arm used to be.

"My arm!" he shouted. "My arm!"

He shouted several more times, all of his shouted comments in direct reference to his arm. Rusty and Juan stepped back in horror, while Bernard tried to calm Dominick down and Terrance regurgitated.

"My arm . . . hurts . . ." said Dominick, before falling to the ground.

"Should we put him out of his misery?" asked Bernard.

"Out of his misery? It's an arm. It's not like he lost a head."

"Well, sure, I guess, but then we have to mess with the whole tourniquet thing, and he'll get blood on the gear, and you just know he's not going to suffer in silence. Would you want to live with only one arm?"

Terrance nodded. "Hell yeah, I would!"

"Okay, fair enough, but what if your life was unfulfilling to start with?"

"I still wouldn't want to be put out of my misery!"

"Really? Even if it was excruciating pain, and you knew you'd be a burden on everybody else?"

"Listen, Bernard, if you want to kill him to make him stop screaming, that's fine, but at least admit it. Don't go trying to pretend that it's something he'd want."

Bernard's jaw dropped. "Why, I've never heard such an offensive . . . okay, yes, I'd really like for him to shut up. Is that so wrong? He has been judged by the stone dragon and found to be lacking, so it's not like we'd be killing the next Gandhi."

Terrance sighed. "We should ask him what he wants."

"What do you want?" Bernard asked, as Dominick thrashed around on the ground.

"I want my arm back!"

"He's clearly delusional," Bernard told Terrance. "He could pose a danger to all of us."

Terrance sighed. "You're right. Damn it, you're right. Go on . . . we'll all turn our backs while you put a mercy bullet in his head."

"Shooting him would be cruel, noisy, and wasteful," said Bernard. "I was thinking more along the lines of just rolling him off the mountain."

"Are you insane? What if he gets caught on a ledge? He could lie there for days, slowly bleeding to death!"

"Oh, that's ridiculous. Look how fast his blood is coming out."

"But the flow of blood will slow down. Surely you know that! He's not some foreign-born peasant we can slaughter for sport — he's an employee!"

"All right, hear me out. What if we pushed him over the side of the mountain, but watched him fall all the way down. If he hits a ledge, I'll shoot him from here. Fair?"

"Has your aim improved since last time?"

"That was a completely different situation. My aim is fine."

"I don't know . . ."

"While you stand there, slack-jawed with indecision, a man is in severe agony. Do you not care? Are you cheered by the idea of his pain? Does it make you jolly? Are you only pretending to feel human emotions, while inside you are nothing but a burnt shell?"

"Fine. Kick him over the side of the mountain. But I'm not going to do it! When he plummets and strikes the rocky bottom, it's going to be on your conscience, not mine!"

"I wasn't going to kick him, you barbarian. Just a gentle foot roll."

"I don't care. I'm not doing it."

"Nobody is asking you to. Rusty, Juan, come over here and roll him off the mountain, will you?"

Though Dominick still had plenty of appendages with which to struggle, he was no match for the other two men's legs, and with great efficiency they rolled him off the side of the mountain. He did not strike a ledge, and plummeted the entire two thousand, six hundred and thirty feet without delay.

The screaming stopped.

"This leaves us with an important question," said Bernard. "Will the dragon head bite off two arms in a row?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't."

"It might jam up the mechanism. Of course, that could also be why the mouth hasn't reopened. We may have to pry those fearsome jaws apart."

As if on cue, the dragon's mouth slowly opened with a menacing creak. Bernard peered inside.

"His arm is gone. Almost as if it's been . . . swallowed."

"Well, not really. You can still see the fingers sticking up."

Bernard's expression was solemn. "That's not the direction the arm was facing when it was bitten off. We should see a stump, not fingers. A beguiling mystery indeed."

Terrance shrugged. "I suppose. That's pretty low on my list of interests right now."

"Anyway, let us analyze what we've learned thus far. The dragon mouth was not, in fact, any sort of ruse and does, in fact, bite. Therefore, we must focus on the life of goodness and inner strength." He looked over at Rusty and Juan. "Which one of you has lived more of a life of goodness?"

"I'm not putting my hand in there," said Rusty.

"That wasn't my question."

"I'm just saying, if you're trying to narrow down your choices, narrow me right the hell out of the equation."

"I would have suspected as much from you," said Bernard. "Your forehead reeks of the perspiration of cowardice. What about you, Juan? Do you also whimper like a frightened baboon at the thought of being judged by the dragon head?"

"I want half," said Juan.

"Half a share?"

"Don't play 'dumb and drunk American hillbilly' with me, Professor. I want half of the jewel."

"But —"

"And don't pretend that you thought I meant we should take out a saw and cut it in half. You know perfectly well that what I'm saying is that after you sell it, I want half of the money."

"That's preposterous! But I have no choice. I accept your offer."

Juan smiled and then flexed his fingers. "I have done no wrong in my life, and do not fear the judgment of the dragon." His smile faded. "You agreed to that pretty quickly. You're not planning to dispose of me before you have to pay, are you?"

"Certainly not."

"Why is your gun out?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, actually. I thought I heard a bear."

"There are no bears on this mountain."

"Incorrect. There's one behind you right now."

As Juan turned to look, Bernard shot him in the back. Juan cried out and fell to the ground.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Terrance demanded.

"He was on to our plan!"

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have shot him at some point, but why would you do it now? Why not force him at gunpoint to get the jewel? What good does he do us lying there dead?"

Bernard considered that. "Well, I didn't see you do anything!"

"That's because there was nothing to do! He was all set to put his arm in there! This was a moment where a lack of action was appropriate, not vice-versa!"

Bernard nodded. "I am a man who can admit his own mistakes, and I will not attempt to deny that shooting Juan in the back was a poor decision, one made on the spur of the moment with no pre-planning or foresight or discussion, and if I had the ability to rewind time by a few moments to undo a crucial mistake, I would cheerfully do so and un-shoot him."

"Please," Juan gasped. "I need medical attention."

"Over the mountain with him?" Bernard asked.

"No, no, no. His back has a large hole, but his arm is still fine. He can still serve our purpose. Rusty, come over here and help us."

Rusty shook his head. "I will be a silent witness to your evil but not a participant."

Bernard pointed his gun at Rusty, but Terrance gave him a "thumbs-down" sign and Bernard put the gun away. "Very well. We will accept your decision even if we do not accept it. After all, it takes only two men to force a man's arm into a crevice against his will."

Juan struggled much more violently than Dominick had, and Bernard was not really doing his share of the physical labor. After a good five minutes, they were nowhere close to having Juan's arm inside the dragon mouth, and everybody involved was becoming quite frustrated.

"He should really be unconscious," Bernard noted.

"Can the dragon gaze into his soul if he isn't awake?"

"That's like asking if somebody can ascend to heaven if they die in their sleep."

"Can somebody ascend to heaven if they die in their sleep? My grandmother died in her sleep. Oh, dear God . . ."

"Let's just bash his head against the side of the mountain. Pretend that he's a battering ram and the mountain is a door that we're trying to break open, but let's be mindful of the fact that his head is not an actual battering ram and will shatter if it strikes rock at the force typically associated with a battering ram, and lessen our velocity accordingly."

Bernard and Terrance counted to three, and then smacked Juan's head against the rock.

"Obviously, that was much too hard," Bernard noted.

"Yes," said Terrance.

"So the question now becomes, can the dragon judge the goodness in somebody's heart if that heart is no longer beating?"

"No, actually that's not the question at all," said Bernard. "The question is, what good does it do to shove a dead man's arm in there to retrieve a jewel when the goddamn arm can no longer grip things?"

"You know, that seems like something I would have considered," said Terrance. "I guess both of us have displayed poor judgment this day."

Bernard nodded. "Yes, neither of us is at our best. It's hard to believe that we've achieved such respect and recognition in our field. It's almost amusing, in fact." Bernard chuckled. "Don't you think it's amusing?"

"Was that chuckle the onset of a descent into madness?"

"No, just a chuckle."

"Good. I, for one, do not enjoy having the physical evidence of our lapse of intelligence lying here right before our eyes. Off the mountain?"

"Yes, all right."

Bernard and Terrance hoisted Juan by the feet and shoulders and tossed him off the side of the mountain.

"Damn," said Bernard. "He hit a ledge."

"Don't worry about it. But now that Dominick and Juan are dead, what else can we do?"

They turned to look at Rusty.

"Fuck you both," said Rusty.

Bernard pointed the gun at him. "It appears that there has been a third lapse in judgment," he said. "You really should have seen this coming."

"Agreed," said Rusty.

"So, you will slide your arm into the dragon's mouth, and you will think very intently about the goodness in your heart while you do it, and you will come out with the jewel. Do you understand?"

"You'll shoot me either way."

"I can see why you might come to that conclusion," Bernard admitted. "If I had just watched us murder two people of the same importance as you, I'd think the same thing. I have to admit, if I were in your position I'd probably fling myself off the mountain and hope for the best, or make a sudden attack and try to wrestle the gun away from me, but that's just me, and my recommendation for you is to try to get the jewel."

"I want six shares," said Rusty.

"Six!"

"You can't offer six when I asked for six. That's not how negotiations work."

"No, that wasn't a counter-offer, that was an expression of surprise at your nerve."

Rusty folded his arms over his chest. "Six shares, or I jump off the mountain or possibly go for your gun."

"Damn you! Very well. I accept these conditions. Now reach in there and grab the jewel!"

"I need to clench my teeth and grunt for a few moments to work myself up," said Rusty. "Don't be alarmed."

Rusty clenched his teeth and grunted for a few moments. Despite the warning, Bernard was a bit alarmed, since he was not used to being in an environment where men did much grunting. And then, without warning, Rusty thrust his arm deep into the dragon's mouth.

"I've got it!" he shouted.

The dragon's mouth bit his arm off.

"The pain!" Rusty shrieked. "The pain is worse than I would have imagined it would be to have two arms bitten off!" He cradled his bleeding stump, which of course was woefully insufficient for holding the jewel.

"Try your other arm!" said Bernard. "Quickly!"

Bernard didn't think he'd really do it, and so he was pleasantly surprised when a clearly deranged Rusty reached into the mouth again. The goodness in his heart had apparently not changed in the past few seconds, though, because the dragon mouth bit off his other arm.

Rusty screamed and shrieked and yelled and hollered and cried and may have even briefly spoken in tongues. Then he ran off, which was a good decision if he wished to run off the side of the mountain and a poor decision if he did not. He plummeted to the ground and landed with a faraway thud.

"Okay," said Bernard to Terrance, "we both know where this next part is headed. Are you really going to make me point the gun at you, my long-time partner and friend, or are you going to spare us the awkward moment and just reach in there of your own free will?"

Terrance sighed. "You know what? I'm not even going to feign outrage. I'd do the same thing if I had a gun . . . which I do!"

"So, uh, where is it?"

"Backpack."

"Doesn't do much good there."

"Yeah, I know. Just grasping for straws." Terrance reached into the dragon mouth. "Aw, shit, I can feel Rusty's arm! That's awful. Wait a minute, I think I've . . . I think . . . maybe . . . I've got it! I've got the jewel!"

"Pull it out! Pull it out!"

Terrance removed his arm from the dragon's mouth and gasped in astonishment. He held the glistening bloody jewel above his head and let out a primal cry of victory.

"How the hell are you more good-hearted than the other three guys?" asked Bernard.

"Well, there was that one thing they did while we were burning the church. The thing of which we promised never to speak."

"Oh, yeah. That was pretty nasty." Terrance wiped some blood off the jewel. "We're rich, Bernard! Richer than we could have ever dreamed! Richer than —"

"That's one crappy jewel," said Bernard.

"What?"

"Look at it. It sucks. That can't be the thing we've been seeking all this time. It looks like plastic."

Terrance looked at the jewel more closely. It was indeed plastic. "Son of a bitch!"

"Now what?"

Terrance wasted no time in answering the question. Though the jewel was nothing more than cheap plastic, it still had sufficient weight and density to use to beat somebody to death.

After Bernard lay dead at his feet, Terrance wondered if the real jewel was still hidden within the stone dragon. But he wasn't going to risk his arm to find out. Instead, he left his deceased comrade and headed back down the mountain trail.

Before he reached the bottom, he starved to death.

Buzzards ate him.

The Ancient Stone Dragon of Ankiorth laughed and laughed. Nobody even knew it could laugh, because it only did it when everybody in the general vicinity was dead, but oh, how it laughed!

The lesson to be found in this tale is, essentially, "Don't be a murderous treasure hunting dick." If you keep that in mind, there are no promises that you'll acquire wealth, fame, and happiness, but you probably won't get your arm bitten off by a stone dragon mouth.

Though you might, so be ever wary.

THE SEVERED NOSE

When you kill people for a living, you get used to finding the occasional body part lying around your home. I do not kill people for a living, and so I freaked.

I have to confess, it wasn't a severed head or even an arm. It was a nose. Still, a severed nose can be extremely upsetting when you aren't used to seeing them, and I let out a loud gasp and dropped my can of root beer onto the floor.

After I got over the initial shock, I decided that the first obvious step was to inspect the nose, which rested on an otherwise empty plate on my dining room table. Though it was an alarming situation either way, my level of concern would be dramatically reduced if it were a rubber nose instead of a real one.

I walked around the table, staring at the nose from different angles. It certainly looked real. If it were fake, the perpetrators deserved credit for attention to detail. It had a few nose hairs and even a small pimple. It was lying on its . . . back? Side? However you'd describe it if it looked like the plate had a nose.

So, visually it was entirely convincing. That still didn't mean it was real. After all, if you buy it from the right magic shop, phony vomit can present a flawless facsimile of somebody having thrown up on your couch, an illusion that isn't dispelled until you try to wipe it up with a wet rag and everybody has a good laugh at your gullibility.

I needed to touch it. But I didn't want to touch it. Because then I'd have touched a severed body part, something I'd avoided for all forty-seven years of my life. What if it was the most horrific, disturbing experience imaginable? What if I woke up screaming from ghastly dreams of being inhaled? Or what if it unlocked a fetish for severed body parts, and I became some kind of severed-body-part-fondling maniac?

I really didn't want to touch it.

And I couldn't call the police. Sure, I was a law-abiding citizen, but the local police department was doing a charity drive last year, and they called me during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition — right at a highly emotional moment — and I said, no, I wasn't interested in donating, and the cop said "Don't you care about the abused children in our community?" and without even thinking about it I hung up on him. And then I couldn't even enjoy the rest of the episode, because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to hang up on a cop.

Don't get me wrong, I'd call the cops if there were some sort of emergency, but for a severed nose, I'd handle it myself. Especially if it was a fake nose. I would look like quite the idiot if I called the police over a piece of plastic. They'd probably beat me unconscious with their billy clubs.

So, I quickly touched the nose, then touched my own nose by way of comparison. They both felt real.

I touched the severed nose again, holding my index finger on the tip for two seconds rather than one. Still felt real.

That was a legitimate nose on my dining room table.

Having confirmed its authenticity, I now had four different questions to answer: Whose nose was it, who put it there, why would they do such a bizarre thing, and what should I do with it?

The first question would be simple enough to answer. I couldn't remember ever having seen a noseless person walking around the city, and so if I saw one within, say, the next two weeks, I could be pretty much assured that he or she was the previous owner.

The second question was somewhat more challenging. I knew that the general answer to who'd left the nose was "a sociopath," but I wasn't on speaking terms with any sociopaths that I knew about. I mentally ran down my list of acquaintances and couldn't think of any who seemed capable of mutilation. I had an uneasy relationship with Preston, who lived in the apartment directly below me, yet his crimes were limited to stealing my mail and cheating at Scrabble, Monopoly, and Pictionary.

Third question: why would they do such a bizarre thing? I had no idea. Prior head injury?

The most important question was, what to do with it? I certainly wasn't going to leave it on my dining room table. My first instinct was to just throw it away, but what if I needed it as evidence later? Or what if the sociopath was enraged that I'd rejected his or her gift? It had to have been left on my best plate for a reason, and until I knew what that was, I shouldn't be disposing of anything.

Where to put it? It would rot, right? I couldn't have a rotting nose smelling up my . . .

Smelling up. That was pretty funny. I didn't laugh, because I was still too stressed out over the situation, but I did enjoy a small inner chuckle.

Obviously, it had to go in my refrigerator. I wasn't very comfortable with the idea of having a body part next to my food and drink, yet what else could I do? Purchase a small refrigerator specifically for this purpose? That would be madness. Unless the motive for this whole scheme was to sell portable refrigerators, which I very much doubted, there'd be nothing to gain from spending the money.

I'd simply have to make sure it was securely wrapped and didn't come into contact with my edibles. Everything would be okay. It wasn't as if I ever staggered into the kitchen in the middle of the night and popped a random object into my mouth.

Good lord, what if I was meant to eat the — no, no, that was ridiculous.

I needed to get it out of my sight. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and unspooled about a dozen sheets. I picked up the nose with the towel, rolled it up tight, stuffed the whole wad of paper towel into a plastic baggie, sealed it up, and put it in the crisper of my refrigerator.

Done.

I spent the rest of the evening sitting in my easy chair, lost in thought, but the mysteries of the day remained riddles wrapped in enigmas garnished with puzzles when I fell asleep.

* * *

When I returned home from work the next day, there was a severed ear on my table.

A left ear, not that it mattered.

This was even more distressing. Not necessarily because an ear was more upsetting than a nose, but rather due to the cumulative effect of finding a second body part so soon after the first. I paced around my apartment, heart racing, pulse pounding, breath heaving, sweat glands spraying. I could be in mortal danger. The culprit could still be here. I had to call the police.

I picked up my phone and dialed 911, then hung up before it could connect.

Was this truly an emergency?

Yes. Yes, it was. I dialed again.

"911 emergency," the woman on the other end informed me.

"I need help," I said. "There's a severed ear on my table."

"Is it your ear, sir?"

"No. I'm not sure whose it is."

"Does it have any identifying characteristics, like an earring?"

I glanced at the ear. "It's pierced, I think, but there's no earring."

"And how long has this ear been on your table?"

"Since I got home."

"And when was that?"

"About two minutes ago."

"And your address?"

"417 Skylar Way, Apartment 230."

"Okay, sir, we'll have an officer dispatched as soon as possible. Don't touch the ear."

"I won't."

I hung up, feeling a little bit better.

I wondered if the police would question the fact that I'd put the nose in my crisper. I knew I should probably tell them about it, in case a victim turned up with a missing ear and a missing nose and the police wanted to know where the nose went, but, in retrospect, it made me look kind of ghoulish. Maybe I should take it out and drop it on the floor or something and pretend that I hadn't noticed it.

Maybe calling the police was a mistake. Maybe I should call them back and explain that I'd been mistaken, that it was just an ear-shaped piece of pizza crust.

No. I'd done nothing wrong. Or nothing illegal, anyway. Not letting the police investigate was a good way for this situation to spiral out of control into a web of insanity, and I didn't need any webs of insanity in my life right now. I'd let the police come, explain what happened, and hope for the best.

I did a thorough search of my apartment and was pleased to find it devoid of sociopaths.

Three hours later, the police still hadn't arrived.

I didn't want to disturb them if they were out catching stabbers or something, but I didn't think my problem was that insignificant. I decided to call them back.

"911 emergency."

"Hi. I called about the cut-off ear earlier."

"Yes, sir. You're in the queue."

"Is there a lot going on tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh. Thank you, then."

I hung up. I guessed I couldn't expect this to be a top priority. For all I knew, somebody else found a pair of severed legs in their washing machine.

By bedtime, the police still hadn't arrived.

I decided that if the authorities weren't overly concerned, then I shouldn't be, either. I put the ear in the same baggie as the nose, then went to bed and drifted into a restful slumber.

* * *

When I returned home from work the next evening, there were no new surprises waiting on my dining room table. I have to admit that I was almost a little disappointed. There wasn't much going on in my life, and at least these body parts gave me something to ponder.

Was the culprit taking a vacation day, or had I seen the last of his efforts?

Most curious indeed. I'd just have to wait and see.

* * *

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

It was not, however, the police, unless the police had taken to dressing like shady individuals. I couldn't recall ever having seen a pair of men who looked quite that sinister, and this was through the peephole. You have to be extremely sinister to look sinister through a peephole.

They were both tall and wore black leather jackets. One was completely bald, while the other had long brown hair that hung past his shoulders. I couldn't see if they were carrying guns, but they seemed like the kind of people who would be.

The bald one knocked again.

"We know you're there," he said, softly enough that I knew he meant "right there on the other side of the door" and not "in the apartment in general."

I wasn't very much inclined to let them in, but they'd already demonstrated that they could get into my apartment without my permission, so it was probably best not to give them reason to look even more sinister.

I opened the door. The men rudely pushed the door open the rest of the way, and the non-bald one shoved me to the floor. The bald one shut the door and locked it.

Both of them took guns out of their inside jacket pockets and pointed them at me. I cringed and tried not to scream.

"Where's the money?" the bald one asked.

"What money?"

He crouched down next to me and tapped me on the knee with the barrel of his gun. "Are we playing stupid? Is that today's game?"

"I swear, I don't know what money you're talking about," I insisted. "I have seventeen dollars in my wallet! Is that good enough?"

"We're here for the ransom," the bald one said.

"I don't have anything up for ransom."

The bald intruder tapped my knee with the revolver. "I don't like stupid people, and I don't like smart people pretending to be stupid."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Don't lie to us. We told you what would happen if you didn't pay. Didn't it bother you to find your brother's nose on a plate? Did you think we were kidding?"

"I don't have a brother."

The bald man stared at me. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't have a brother."

"There really isn't much of a family resemblance," his partner noted.

"Is this 417 Skylar Way?"

"Yes."

"Apartment 230?"

"Yes."

"Are you Josh White?"

"Yes."

"And you have no brother?"

"No."

"Dammit!" the bald man shouted. "I can't believe this! He did it to us again! This is a bunch of crap. Crap! I will not continue to work under these conditions. He thinks I won't walk? I will so walk. And I'll tell him why to his face. I'll tell him that this is a bunch of crap. I may yank that cigar out of his mouth before I do it, too. I'll march right in there, pluck that cigar right out from between his lips, and tell him that this is a bunch of crap. Then I'll walk."

"He'll kill you," his partner said.

"Yeah? I'd like to see him try."

"He'll do more than try. He'll shoot you right in the forehead and make me dispose of your body."

"I know, I know. But you agree that this is crap, right?"

"Yep."

The bald man sighed. "I need to change direction in my life. College or tech school . . . I dunno, I'll look into taking night classes somewhere."

His partner gestured at me with his gun. "What should we do with him?"

"I don't know. Cap him, I guess."

I wondered if I could attack unexpectedly and subdue my opponents. But then I remembered something my mother told me: "Son, don't be a hero." Of course, that was moments after my dad died trying to be a hero. He didn't even save the hamster. That said, anything I did now would be more about self-preservation than heroism, so I didn't think my mom's advice was applicable.

If nothing else, this seemed like an appropriate time to speak up. "Look, that couldn't be less necessary. I'd never call the cops on you guys."

"Oh, really? Why is that?"

"Because I've . . . I've got bodies hidden everywhere. I wouldn't want anybody poking around my place."

The men exchanged a look. I was relatively certain they didn't believe me. I didn't make any effort to insist that my story was true, since it would be pretty easy to verify the lack of bodies.

"That," said the bald man, "is the most ridiculous lie I've ever heard from someone facing death. But I'm entertained by it."

"That was my intent," I said. It wasn't, of course, but I was willing to try anything to stay on his good side.

"We probably shouldn't kill you now, anyway," said the bald man, though he continued to point his gun at me in a potentially killing manner. "We'll take you to see the boss. Find out what he wants to do with you."

I nodded politely. "Thank you."

The bald man grinned. "You do realize that we were going to give you a merciful shot to the head, while the boss might have you slowly tortured to death, right?"

"No, I did not realize that."

"Now you do. Sucks to be you."

* * *

I sat in the back seat of their car, planning my daring escape. The plan currently involved us being struck by another car, spinning out of control, and my captors being knocked unconscious or dead against the dashboard, leaving me free to vacate the vehicle. Admittedly, there was a strong element of luck required for this plan to come to fruition, and I was seeking other options.

"What are your names?" I asked.

The bald man, who was not driving, turned around to look at me. "None of your business."

Fine. I'd think of him as Baldy. Served him right. Baldy and Hairy.

The driver glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. "I'm Harry," he said.

I was too scared to chuckle at the coincidence, but I did note it with silent amusement.

"Why'd you tell him that?" asked Baldy.

"What's he going to do with that information? He's probably going to be dead in an hour."

"You're kidding, right? An hour from now he'll still be in the knives-under-toenails stage."

"I mean . . . you know what I mean. He'll be on his way to death in an hour."

"And what if the boss wants to let him go?"

"Then he knows my name is Harry. Big deal. It's not like my name is Snorky McDorkel."

Baldy nodded. "Yeah, I see your point."

He still didn't introduce himself, but I chose to focus instead on the "knives-under-toenails" portion of the conversation. "He won't really torture me, will he?" I asked.

"Sure he will," said Baldy. "Why wouldn't he?"

"I haven't done anything wrong."

"You can try explaining that to him, but you'll still end up tortured to death."

"You'll put in a good word for me, won't you?"

"Unlikely."

Though I'm not what you would call a complainer, I was very tempted to let Baldy and Harry know how upset I was with my current predicament. However, I also wanted to avoid a situation where either or both of them recommended to the boss that I be put to death. So I settled for sitting quietly in the back seat, thinking complaining thoughts about my current predicament.

About fifteen minutes later, they blindfolded me. It was either that or ride in the trunk. I'd ridden in a car trunk once, when some friends tried to get me into a drive-in movie for free, and they decided that it would be funny just to leave me in there during the double feature. When they finally opened the trunk, I pretended to be dead, which would have been hilarious revenge, except that I oversold the illusion (having my tongue lolling out of my mouth was an unnecessary detail) and my friends decided to disprove my fatality by throwing a milkshake on me.

I sat there wearing the blindfold, listening carefully for any details that might reveal my location. I knew the car was in motion, so that might prove helpful. They made a lot of turns. At one point they may have struck a small animal. Finally we arrived at our destination, and they helped me out of the car and led me indoors.

They sat me down and removed the blindfold. I'm not sure if the room I was in had an official name, but if it did, I assume it was The Scary Room of Horrible Awful Painful Death. Everywhere you looked, there was something that could hurt or kill you. And I'm not talking about multi-purpose objects, such as, say, a corkscrew, which could be used as an implement of torture but might be justified simply as a way to get a cork out. The objects in this room seemed specifically designed to cause pain or end lives. The room had metal walls and a metal floor, presumably for easy cleanup.

A very large gentleman sat in front of me, smoking a cigar. I use the word "large" to be polite, but your own mental image is welcome to be much less polite. Though I'll admit that he carried his weight well, there was a lot of it. He had a neatly trimmed grey mustache and goatee, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked at me. I was pretty sure he was the aforementioned boss.

"Are you Josh White?" he asked me.

"Yes."

"731 Skylar Way, Apartment 230?"

"Yes."

"And you don't have a brother?"

"No."

The boss snapped his fingers. "Bring me the brother."

Baldy and Harry hurried out of the room. The boss just sat and stared at me as he smoked. I tried not to fidget.

They returned a moment later, pushing in a steel cage on wheels. A man about my age was crouched inside. His mouth was gagged, he had barely any room to move, and he was covered with perspiration. He also had bloody gauze stuck to his face in the nasal area and left-ear area.

The boss looked back and forth between the two of us.

"You're right," he finally said. "They're not related. We've got the wrong guy."

"Do we cap him?" Baldy asked.

The boss stroked his goatee some more. "When you snatched him from his apartment, did he say anything objectionable?"

"No," said Harry. "Actually, he was very cooperative. And not in a spineless pathetic way. I hate when they start begging and blubbering, but he didn't do any of that. It was more like his attitude was that he didn't want to come with us — which is only to be expected — but he didn't want to create unnecessary hardship."

"I'd agree with that," said Baldy.

"Hmmm." The boss considered that information. "You know what? Variety is the spice of life. Let's set him free."

I let out a sigh of relief.

"However," the boss said, causing me to suck the sigh back in, "we need to make sure he won't go to the cops."

"I won't go to the cops," I assured him. "We even talked about that earlier, back at my place."

"If you get the law involved, I will use no fewer than twelve of the tools in this room on you. Twelve. You may think that doesn't sound like many, but trust me, it's a lot."

"I trust you."

"Also," he said, causing me to suck in a second sigh, "we need to make sure you remember us. So I'm going to sever a body part. Your choice."

Baldy grinned at me. "You should choose your head."

"You think this is funny?" The boss stood up and smacked Baldy across the face. "A human being is about to lose a body part! Show some respect!"

Baldy rubbed his cheek and nodded. "Sorry."

The boss returned his attention to me. "Like I said, you pick the part. The obvious selection is your little toe, but I'll leave it up to you."

I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. "I, uh . . . when do I have to make a decision?"

"Right now."

"I can't . . . uh, I'm not . . . uh, I don't . . . does hair count?"

The boss shook his head.

"Not even eyebrows?"

"No."

"What if . . . what if instead of cutting off my little toe, you sewed an extra toe onto my foot? That would still be a disfigurement, right? You could get the same point across without actually removing anything from me."

The boss, Baldy, and Harry all stared at me for a very long time.

"I'll be honest with you," said the boss. "I've never heard an alternate suggestion quite that bizarre."

"It's messing with my mind," said Harry.

The boss shrugged and tossed his cigar to the floor. "Yes. Yes, I accept your proposal." He gestured to Baldy. "Go get me a sterilized needle and some thread." He gestured to Harry and kicked the side of the cage. "Pick me out something to cut his toe off with."

My heart sank. I hadn't considered the issue of where the additional toe would come from. "I changed my mind," I quickly said.

"Oh, no, I like your idea. I may start doing that from now on."

I was torn on how to proceed. Begging for the prisoner's toe to be saved would be the same as begging for my own toe to be removed. Speaking strictly in terms of equitable treatment, he'd lost a nose and an ear, and so it was only fair that I lose the toe. Yet at the same time, if he'd already lost two body parts, why not a third, especially if it was one that was usually hidden from public view?

"Isn't there somebody you've already killed whose toe you could use?" I asked.

"Stop talking," said the boss. "Or I will take your head."

I stopped talking.

I could describe what happened next, but you probably don't want to read about somebody getting his toe sawed off. Since it was the baby toe, I would have expected it to pop right off. It didn't. It's possible that the brother in the cage was simply thrashing around too much for it to be an efficient process, but even then I was astonished at the amount of resistance that one little toe put up. Maybe the razor was dull. Maybe the boss was purposely cutting slowly to drag out the excruciating pain. Maybe he was just sawing at a particularly bony part. I don't know. Regardless, it seemed like it took forever for the boss to finally remove it. He held up the bloody toe, pinching it between his thumb and index finger.

I'm also going to make the educated guess that you don't want to read about somebody having a toe sewn to their body, especially when the only numbing involved was rubbing an ice cube on the side of my foot for about a minute. I don't think the boss cared much about the pain; he just didn't want me to squirm as much. It still hurt worse than my last eight toe-stubbings combined. I tried to imagine that I was in a special magical land where I wasn't having somebody else's toe sewn onto me, but it didn't work because my mind kept saying "Hey! You're having somebody's toe sewn onto your foot, and it hurts!" I even tried to think about how it wasn't as bad as having my toe cut off. You'd think that would be a soothing thought, wouldn't you? Not at all.

Anyway, when the process was complete, I had one foot with five toes, and one with six. The sixth toe was right next to my little toe, sort of sticking out at an angle because my foot really didn't have sufficient room for it.

The boss admired his work. "Now, I expect you to leave that toe on," he said.

"I will."

"If my men come to check on you, they'd better count eleven toes."

"They will."

"I don't want to hear excuses about how it fell off."

"You won't."

The boss seemed satisfied. "Then you are free to leave."

* * *

In the past, whenever I'd thought about having an extra toe, which wasn't often, I'd assumed that it would improve my walking skills. Not to a huge extent — I wouldn't be able to walk up walls or anything — but perhaps it would provide a bit of extra traction or something. That wasn't the case. I was practically limping as they led me out of the room in my blindfold, and when they dropped me off at my apartment I almost tripped three different times going up the stairs.

At least I was safe.

I wasn't sure what to do with the nose and ear. Best to just throw them away, I guessed. I opened the refrigerator, took out the baggie, and walked over to the garbage bin.

Then I stopped.

Back in the boss's lair, there was a man in a cage. They'd cut off his nose, ear, and toe. Once they found his real brother, they'd probably cut off more.

I couldn't just let that happen, could I?

I was no hero. Still, I knew right from wrong. And leaving that poor soul to die was wrong.

They'd told me not to call the police. But they hadn't told me that I couldn't try to rescue him myself.

I owed it to the poor disfigured man in the cage to at least try to save his life, didn't I?

But how? How could I save somebody when I didn't know where he was being held?

I closed my eyes, concentrated hard, and tried to recreate all of the car's turns in my mind. It started with a . . . left? Right?

This wasn't going to work. After returning the baggie to the refrigerator, I went into my bedroom and searched through my dresser drawers for a blindfold to help better recreate my experience. I didn't remember ever having bought one, but it wasn't necessarily a purchase that would stand out in my memory. I didn't search for very long, though, and settled for tying a black sock over my eyes, which seemed to have the same effect.

I tried again to recreate the turn schedule. The first turn had been . . . right. No. Left. Maybe it was a slight veering rather than an actual turn.

I removed the makeshift blindfold. This wasn't going to work.

What could I possibly do? I knew nothing about the man in the cage.

Except the name of his brother.

They were looking for Josh White. I was Josh White, but there could easily be more of us. I raced to the phone book and flipped through the W section. There were five Josh Whites, and long list of J Whites.

I called Josh White #1. I wondered if he had caller ID, in which case it would look like he was receiving a phone call from himself. That would be memorable.

"Hello?" a man answered after the fourth ring.

"Mr. White?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have a brother?"

"No."

"Thank you."

The second Josh White wasn't home, although his wife sounded nice. She wouldn't tell me if he had a brother. She might have been concerned that I was going to say that I was his long-lost brother and ask for money or something.

The third Josh White immediately accused me of being a telemarketer and informed me that he was on the national Do Not Call registry. He wouldn't let me explain and finally hung up on me. I decided to come back to him, time permitting.

The fourth Josh White sounded very stressed out when he answered, which was a good sign. "Do you have a brother?" I asked.

"Yes! Who is this?"

"I'm not one of the kidnappers," I said, fending off that particular question before it could arise in the conversation. "I saw your brother not too long ago."

"How is he? Is he okay?"

"He's not dead."

"Oh, thank God! Where is he?"

"I'm not completely —"

There was a knock at my door.

I froze. What if it was Baldy and/or Harry?

"Open up," said Baldy.

I cursed, which is something I rarely do, even when I'm the only one around to hear. I hung up the phone and walked over to the door, trying to assume the facial expression of somebody who hadn't just made a phone call he shouldn't have. Baldy and Harry shoved their way inside as soon as I turned the doorknob.

"We forgot about the nose and the ear," said Harry. "We can cut off another ear, obviously, but the nose can't be replaced. We're not usually this sloppy; we were just distracted by having you turn out to be the wrong person and then needing to kidnap you."

"You don't have to make excuses," said Baldy.

"I don't want him to judge us."

"Who cares if he judges us? Guy's a wiener." Baldy turned his attention to me. "Where are they?"

"They're in my refrigerator," I said.

Baldy scowled. "Are you some kind of ghoul?"

"No, no, I just thought I should keep them fresh in case you returned for them." I hurried into the kitchen.

My phone rang.

I opened the refrigerator door, opened the crisper, and removed the baggie with the nose and ear. The phone continued to ring. Unsure how to proceed, I cursed under my breath (a mild curse, acceptable for broadcast television) and dropped the baggie back into the crisper.

"Aren't you in the habit of answering your telephone?" asked Harry.

"Not when I've got guests," I said. "I'm sure it's only my mom, calling to babble about mom stuff. I cut those apron strings long ago. Most of the time I don't even —"

Baldy picked up the phone. "Yeah?" He listened for a few seconds, then broke into a grin. It was not a grin that hinted at sunnier days ahead for me.

"Well, well, well," he said. "Calling to warn him, were you?"

I shook my head. "I was calling to distract him. I figured you were on your way over there. I like to help out wherever I can."

"Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"

Clearly, there was only one politically correct answer to that one: "No."

Keeping his eyes fixed on me, Baldy spoke into the phone. "We'll be over shortly. Don't call the police or we will kill your brother. Don't leave or we will kill your brother. Don't tell anyone or we will . . . right, that's what we'll do. See you in a bit."

I feel no personal shame in admitting that at that moment, I was absolutely petrified. This evening, which had taken an upswing when the boss decided to let me go instead of kill me, had just suffered a definite drop in quality.

"So, what are we going to do about your betrayal?" Baldy asked me.

"Offer complete forgiveness and call it a learning experience?"

"In your dreams," Baldy said. "In your magical, elf-filled dreams."

"So you mean he called the real brother?" Harry asked. Baldy nodded. "Aw, man, that wasn't cool at all."

Baldy pointed his gun at my chest. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"The noise. The moral aspects. The legal aspects. The mess. The cost of the bullet. The wasted effort on the toe surgery. The —"

"Enough!"

"To be honest, that last one was a pretty good point," Harry said. "The boss was pretty proud of that extra toe surgery."

"So what? We'll have his corpse stuffed and the boss can keep it in his bedroom."

"Also, he didn't bring it up as one of his points, but we'd have to take the time to dispose of the body, or risk having it traced back to your gun. We should at least take him back to the boss and do it there."

"What, are we this guy's frickin' chauffeur now?" Baldy asked. "We can't drag him along to go see the other brother, so we'd have to make a special trip to drop him off with the boss. Let's just kill him now."

"Why can't we take him along?"

"Because that's insane!"

"I'm not saying we have to take him inside."

"You gonna ask him to patiently wait in the car while you collect a kidnapping ransom? Think before you speak, or else dumb things come out!"

"Here's the thing," said Harry. "This is all about intimidation, right? We're trying to scare the brother into paying the ransom."

"Right."

"Can you imagine if your brother got kidnapped, and the kidnappers showed up with this guy who had your brother's severed toe sewn to his foot? That would mess you up!"

Baldy considered that. "Yeah, I guess it would."

"I mean, you wouldn't know what these lunatics were capable of after seeing something that deranged. If that were me, I'd pay that ransom and then run out to an ATM machine to offer up an advance on future ransoms!"

"It's just ATM. 'Machine' is part of the acronym."

"Oh. I think I knew that."

"What if he escapes?"

"How far is he gonna get on that foot?"

Baldy sighed. "I just don't know. The more convoluted this plan gets, the more opportunity there is for things to go wrong. I'd hate for this whole scheme to crash and burn because we were trying to be inventive."

"You do have a point there," Harry admitted.

Though I wanted to protest, I had to concede that Baldy's logic was sound. It was never a good idea for these kinds of plans to get too convoluted. Simplicity was the key to success. If I were in their position, I probably would've shot me thirty seconds ago.

I'd always assumed that when the dark specter of death approached, I'd put on an almost legendary display of cowardice. Pleading, sobbing, screaming, trembling, whining — all of these elements were included in my mental picture. However, when I realized that Baldy was a mere instant from pulling the trigger, I did none of those things. Instead, to my great astonishment, I swung my fist at his gun.

There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Taking a swing at a man with a gun would seem to fall into the latter category, but my aim was true and my speed was sufficient. My knuckles smashed into the barrel of the gun, knocking its aim away from me just as Baldy fired. The bullet struck my stereo, which I'd been planning to upgrade, though not for another few months.

Trivia: punching a gun hurts.

Baldy gaped at me. I couldn't quite tell if his expression was "newfound respect" or "homicidal rage."

"Keep it down up there!" shouted my neighbor Preston, pounding on my floor from below.

Having deflected death, I now found myself unsure how to proceed. I couldn't make much of an impact by saying "Now leave my apartment immediately, lest I bat away your revolver again!" And yet I had to follow-up somehow, or he'd simply point the gun back at me and shoot a second time, thus wasting my original effort. Should I tackle him? Try my luck again and try to kick the gun out of his hand? Grab Harry and use him as a human shield? Make a run for it? (Clearly, since this remained a volatile situation, these thoughts went through my mind very, very quickly.)

I went for the tackle. This was, in retrospect, a poor choice. Baldy bashed me in the side of the head with his gun, and I dropped to the floor. Though I was in great pain, I kicked my legs out, attempting to strike him in the ankles and knock him off balance. Unfortunately, I was facing the wrong direction and this was ineffective.

"We need to go before somebody calls the cops!" said Harry.

I truly believed that Baldy was going to kill me and leave me unable to write down this narrative, although of course he didn't. "Fine, we'll bring him with us! Dammit!"

* * *

I sat in the back of their car, feeling like a child in Time Out. I'd always enjoyed Time Out when I was young, because it offered uninterrupted time for reflective thought, but now I was fidgety and uncomfortable and fearing death.

About twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of the other Josh White's house. It was a fancy two-story home in a nice suburban neighborhood — I could understand why he was the actual target of their ransom demands instead of me.

"Wait here with him," Baldy told Harry. "I'm going in."

"What if the place is crawling with cops?"

"My gut says that he won't disobey instructions. He wants his brother to live."

"What if your gut is misinformed?"

"Stop being such a weenie. I'll be back in five minutes. Don't let him get away."

Baldy got out of the car and walked up the driveway, toward the front porch. I realized that a window of opportunity had opened for me. If I were in Harry's place, I'd object quite strongly to a comment like "Don't let him get away." That wasn't necessary advice. Was Baldy trying to imply that without the benefit of his instructions, Harry would have simply let me open the door and frolic to freedom? It was insulting. I was actually kind of offended on Harry's behalf.

"He orders you around a lot," I noted.

Harry smiled. "That's the way I like it."

"Excuse me?"

"I have enough responsibilities in my social life. This is relaxing."

"Oh. But what about his tone?"

"He means well. I'd rather have him be too forceful than not forceful enough."

Some points are very difficult to argue, even if you know deep inside that you could make a strong case for your point of view. I decided to drop the matter.

The front door opened. Baldy pushed his way inside.

"He won't kill him, will he?" I asked.

"Nah. We need the ransom."

"What if he gets the ransom, and then kills him?"

"Why would he kill him if he got the ransom?"

"Evilness?"

"He's not like that. He might — might — kill somebody who refused to hand over the cash or the briefcase of jewels or whatever we were there to get, but he wouldn't just kill somebody to be mean-spirited. People don't respect that. I'm not saying he won't slice off something. Jake does like to slice off things. But as far as actually murdering him, I think you'd be surprised by how . . ." He trailed off and looked very concerned. "You won't tell him I said his name was Jake, will you?"

"Of course not," I assured him. Secretly, I knew that sharing this information at the proper moment could save my life. Sharing it at the wrong moment could also get me killed when I might not have been killed otherwise, so I had to be careful.

A gunshot went off inside the house.

"Do you think he murdered him?" I asked.

Harry shook his head. "No, no. He must've just shot the guy's finger off or something like that." He looked up and down the street nervously. "Usually he uses a knife for that kind of thing, though. I don't like this."

"Should we go in and investigate?"

"I don't want to disrupt his concentration."

We sat in the car and waited.

"How long does it take to bleed to death after your finger gets shot off?" I asked.

Harry shrugged. "I'm not sure. We've had people die after getting their fingers cut off, but not exclusively because of that. You usually follow it up with something more serious, like a slit throat. Just watching people slowly bleed to death — that's no way to spend your afternoon."

"What if you don't want them to bleed to death? What if you're only trying to send a stern message?"

"Then you break the fingers, not cut them off."

"Ah." I considered that. "What about the severed nose? Wouldn't that fall into the same category?"

"You're right, that one did veer from standard operating procedure. I was against it, to be perfectly honest, but the boss doesn't tend to give my feedback a very high priority."

The front door opened. A gentleman who was not Baldy stepped outside. He saw us and sprinted across the front lawn toward the yard next door.

"Crap!" shouted Harry, getting out of the car. He took off running after who I assumed was the other Josh White. I'd only caught a quick glimpse of his face, but even with his nose intact there was a definite resemblance between him and the man in the cage.

Josh was doing fine until he tripped over a plastic baseball bat that was lying at the edge of the neighbor's yard. His face struck the grass like a frying pan striking an unfaithful husband.

Harry pulled him to his feet, twisted his arm around his back, and hurriedly brought him back to the car. He opened the trunk, shoved him inside with moderate effort, and slammed the door shut.

"You didn't run," Harry told me, sounding surprised.

"I didn't want to make your day more difficult."

That wasn't the truth at all. I just didn't want him to shoot me in the back while I was fleeing. But, again, it was best to plant the seeds of friendship and trust and hope that I could exploit them later.

"You're really stupid," he said.

I knew his words shouldn't have stung, but they did. However, I didn't let the hurt show on my face. He would have relished it, the bastard.

"Come on," he told me. "We're going inside."

I followed him into the house. It was very tidy and well kept; apparently Josh had a housecleaning service, or knew his way around a Swiffer. Though the living room, which contained a large pool of blood and the dead body of Baldy, was somewhat less tidy.

"Dead" is probably not a strong enough word to describe Baldy/Jake's condition. "Dead" implies that perhaps there was a struggle, and the gun got twisted around, and Baldy took a bullet to the chest. That could very well be what had happened, but that scenario omits the butcher knife that protruded from Baldy's back. And the meat cleaver in his neck. And the detached left foot. And the internal organs that lay strewn on the carpet next to him.

Harry stared at the mess in shock. "How did he do this? We were only sitting in the car for a few minutes!"

I rushed down the hallway, searching for the bathroom. I found it and threw up into the toilet. I was merely thinking about not contributing to the mess, but after the first few ounces emerged I also decided that it was a good idea not to leave DNA samples.

Harry was in the doorway when I finished. Either he wanted to make sure that I didn't grab a weapon, such as the toilet plunger, or he liked witnessing regurgitation in action. Probably the former, but you never know.

We returned to the living room. This grotesque sight made the horror of finding the severed nose in my dining room seem like discovering a wad of chewing gum on the bottom of my shoe. (Admittedly, the comparison would be more apt if I'd stepped on the nose, which I hadn't.)

"I just don't understand this," said Harry. "I guess the butcher knife wouldn't take very long, and neither would the meat cleaver — it's only in there a couple of inches. But the foot? You can't just slice off somebody's foot without . . ." He stopped talking and picked up a bloody hacksaw. "Actually, this is a pretty nice saw. Yeah, with some decent elbow grease you could do it. It's also possible that some of this happened before the gunshot, which would have given him extra time. If he used this same saw on the guts, which it looks like he did — see that chunk right there on the blade? — I guess I can see him mutilating Jake's body like this before he ran outside." He nodded, satisfied.

"We're not taking it with us, are we?" I asked.

"The boss wouldn't want that mess left here."

"You don't know that. Maybe he'd be okay with the idea."

"I'm eighty percent sure that he wouldn't. Go find a garbage bag."

* * *

As we drove back to see the boss, I envied Josh for being locked in the trunk. I was in the front seat, holding a pair of garbage bags on my lap so that they wouldn't spill onto the leather interior. The contents sloshed every time the car turned or stopped at a traffic light, but had not yet leaked out of the bags.

To his credit, Harry had not forced me to handle any of Baldy's insides. I merely had to hold the bag, which I did while turning my head and squeezing my eyes shut. The main portion of Baldy's corpse was covered in multiple layers of bubble wrap that we'd found in the garage, and rested on the back seat.

Though we'd left behind a huge red stain, we'd done the best we could. Harry had sopped up most of the blood with several towels, which were now in one of the bags on my lap, and overall the mess was substantially less notable than when we'd walked inside the house.

Josh had been pounding on the inside of the trunk ever since the engine started. Harry's face had turned red and was contorted into a scowl.

"He'd better knock that off soon," he muttered. "I'm just saying."

"You can't blame him for being impatient," I said, though it was getting on my nerves, too.

"I can blame him for making me drive this car off a cliff to stop the noise."

There really weren't any cliffs around, so his comment didn't concern me. It was clearly meant to be hypothetical.

"So, when the boss sees what happened, who is he going to take his anger out on?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. Hopefully the bags."

"What if he takes it out on you?"

"He'd take it out on Josh first, at least."

"What if he's still mad after that?"

"Listen," said Harry, "if you're going to get into this business, you need to realize that sometimes jobs go bad. Obviously, you want to be as careful as possible, but this kind of thing happens, and people understand that. It's like a telephone company having a customer cancel because they couldn't get reception on their cell phone. They didn't want to lose the customer, of course, but they aren't going to throw a screaming fit over it, because that's part of the business. People are going to switch long distance providers. When you're in crime, associates are going to die. It sucks, yeah, but it's not the end of the world."

I thought about what he'd said. "Are you trying to groom me into a future partner?"

Harry looked kind of uncomfortable. "No, no, not at all. It was just a tip. Someday you might think about a career change, and it never hurts to have a broad base of knowledge, right?"

I didn't really see myself ever working for a crime lord, but he was right, it was important to keep your options open. I'd never expected to find myself in a manatee suit, either, and if it ever did happen (it hadn't yet) I'd be grateful for that lecture on manatee behavior that an elderly man had given me while waiting at the bus stop.

"You're right," I said. "Thank you."

* * *

The boss was absolutely furious.

He kicked Baldy's torso over and over. Each kick was accompanied by the crack of breaking bones and the pop of popping bubble wrap. I winced each time, even though Baldy was deceased and felt nothing.

"Stupid!" the boss said. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"

I thought he was being too hard on Baldy. There was no real evidence of stupidity. Clearly, Josh had won the fight, but that didn't mean that Baldy's loss had been the result of dumb behavior. I was much smarter than the bullies in grade school, and they won every single fight, even the one where I was (briefly) armed with a fire extinguisher. If Josh had gotten the upper hand in combat, that could have simply meant that he was faster or more agile than Baldy, not necessarily more intelligent. However, I said nothing.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"

Harry winced as well. He probably was worried that his ribs might be next.

"Bring him to me," the boss roared. Harry nodded and left the room.

The boss kicked Baldy a few more times. It seemed like a waste of good bubble wrap. I could pop that stuff for hours.

"What are you staring at?" the boss demanded.

It seemed odd that he would think that in the presence of an enraged man kicking a partially dismembered corpse, my attention might be drawn elsewhere. "I was admiring your technique," I said, thinking quickly. "I think you broke a bone with every kick."

He didn't look even the slightest bit flattered by my comment. "You trying to brownnose me?"

"No, sir."

"I hate brownnosers. They make me sick." He kicked the corpse again. This time it slid a couple of feet across the floor. "I suppose next you're going to compliment me on my sewing job?"

The thought had indeed occurred to me, but I'd discarded it as being silly. "No, sir."

"Think you're tough? Think you can take me?" He stepped over to the side of the room and picked up something that resembled a garden rake with blades on the end. "Think you can take me now? Huh?"

"No. I do not."

He swung the bladed rake at me. I tried to protect my face and three blades slashed across my forearm. The cuts weren't deep, but I wasn't used to being sliced in this manner, and I cried out in pain.

Then I got — forgive my salty language — pissed.

Anger is not one of my more common emotions. And when I did feel it, it was usually limited to trivial things like television shows being pre-empted by football games or my favorite candy being discontinued by the manufacturer. However, standing there in the Scary Room of Horrible Awful Painful Death with my arm bleeding, I felt a rage unlike anything I'd ever experienced in my life.

"You jerk," I said.

I let out a howl of fury. Not a werewolf-style "Owwooooo!" howl, but a definite howl. I don't know exactly what the boss's expectations were for this particular encounter, but they didn't include me howling at him in rage and lunging at him, my fingers curled into claws. I'm sure I would've looked and sounded kind of goofy if somebody had happened to walk by at that time. In fact, the boss's reaction may have been inspired less by fear and surprise than by the simple desire not to be touched by a ridiculous-looking guy who'd apparently lost his mind.

Either way, he did not swing the rake at me again, which would probably have cut my jugular vein and ended me. And that gave me a chance to dig my fingernail into his eye.

As soon as I did it, my emotion toggled from pure rage to disgust over the idea of scraping somebody's eyeball. Then my primary emotion switched to urgency, in a "Hey, you really should push him into that large protruding blade in the corner" manner.

I shoved him as hard as I possibly could.

He did not strike the large protruding blade. He did, however, strike this thing that looked like a giant novelty pushpin. Had he been able to foresee our conflict, he might not have placed it at neck-level. Though I didn't see it go in, I did clearly see the tip of the pin emerge from the front of his throat. The boss looked very disappointed in himself.

It's interesting when somebody you truly dislike meets with a fate like having his throat punctured. On one hand, you're happy about it because he can't swing that rake at you again. On the other hand, there's this poor gentleman grabbing at his neck and making awful noises and bleeding a lot. You want to simultaneously laugh in his face and offer him a Band-Aid.

The boss slid off the pin and fell to the floor. He wasn't entirely dead yet, but the way he was leaking I knew it would be soon.

Soon he was dead.

Though there were plenty of weapons to choose from, I picked up the rake. It was like being at a restaurant that has a vast menu loaded with delicious sounding options, yet you pick the hamburger because you know it's going to be good.

I stood next to the door and felt bad about what I had to do. I sort of believed that Harry and I had bonded during our shared experience. Not that we'd go out golfing together or feed each other ice cream or anything like that — just that we'd had some pleasant conversation and, given the choice, I thought he might vote in favor of sparing my life.

Still, he was a bad man. I knew this. He'd done many awful things and would do many more if I left him unkilled. I had to stop him. For the sake of Josh and his brother in the cage, I had to stop him.

At the same time, Josh had done pretty well for himself against Baldy. In fact, I knew that I should probably be careful when I attacked, since the next person through the doorway might very well be Josh holding Harry's severed head. I didn't think he'd appreciate the irony of surviving almost certain death only to have me whack him with a bladed rake.

Could I really kill somebody? Could I take a human life? I mean, excluding pushing the boss into the giant pin a few moments ago.

Maybe I should just hit him in the legs.

I decided against that idea. If I got killed because I was trying not to kill him, I'd feel like a complete ignoramus.

When Harry stepped through the doorway, I smacked the rake right into his chest.

Unfortunately, I didn't hit him with the bladed part — I hit him with the wooden handle right under the bladed part. It still hurt, I'm sure.

I have to admit, I'd secretly hoped that he'd react with a look of sadness and betrayal, but my hope went unfulfilled. He looked mad. Not as mad as I'd been a minute ago, though — he was probably more used to being struck with weapons.

Josh, who was clearly one to capitalize on an opponent's distraction, shoved Harry to the floor and repeatedly kicked him. While he was kicking him, he grabbed the tool out of my hand and began raking Harry like fleshy leaves.

I'd witnessed several disgusting sights recently, and the first eight or nine rakes weren't as upsetting as what had happened to Baldy. Once it got into the double digits, though, Harry really started to look bad, and I turned away in revulsion.

Once we passed the twenty mark, it seemed unnecessary to continue, but Josh didn't cease. I cleared my throat in an effort to subtly indicate that perhaps he should stop or at least slow down. He didn't.

Finally I had to speak up: "You're getting a little carried away."

Josh tossed the rake aside. If I'd known he'd listen to my advice, I would've said something sooner. "Is there anybody else?" he asked.

"Not that I've been introduced to."

"Where's Chester?"

"Your brother? I'm not sure. Close enough for them to wheel him in here in a cage."

"Then let's go find him!"

Josh did a lot of agonized wailing after we found his brother. The phrase "What have they done to you?" was used at least thrice, along with "Oh, God, how could you let this happen?" and "Nooooooo!" He also said "Those bastards will pay for this!" a couple of times before he remembered that the bastards had already paid for it.

"At least he's safe now," I said, trying to be soothing.

We couldn't find the key to the cage at first, and I thought we were headed into another wacky misadventure, but then I found it in a desk drawer. Josh unlocked the cage, let his brother out, and gave him a big hug. They both started crying, which made me feel a bit awkward. To break the tension, I was tempted to crack a joke ("You guys sure do look alike — good thing there's the missing nose and ear to tell you apart!") but did not feel it would be well received.

"Thank you for saving my life," Chester said. His voice sounded kind of odd without a nose, although to be fair I hadn't heard his voice before that. "Any chance I could get my toe back?"

I took some offense to his tone, which dripped with sarcasm and implied that I'd been the one to saw off his toe, or at least that I'd suggested it would look better on my foot. Still, he'd been through a traumatic experience, and I didn't want to be a jerk. "Sure."

It wasn't difficult to find a cutting instrument. I graciously sat down and let Josh cut away the stitches. He removed the sixth toe and handed it to his brother, who placed it in a cup of ice. After that, they discussed the topic of surgical reattachment.

"Do you still have my nose and ear?" Chester asked.

"Yes. They're at my apartment." It only then occurred to me that Baldy and Harry had forgotten to bring them along, and would have had to make yet another sheepish return to my apartment if they weren't dead. When you thought about it, they really weren't very good at their jobs.

"Let's go get them," said Chester. "And then I wouldn't mind going to the emergency room."

We all agreed that was a good idea. I offered to go get the body parts myself and meet them at the hospital, but Chester wanted to stick with me. I sort of took offense to this as well, since he was hinting that I was some creepy weirdo who'd hoard somebody else's body parts. I would do no such thing.

We stole Harry's car and drove back to my apartment. Once there I skipped the tour and headed straight for my refrigerator. I took the baggie out of the crisper and handed it to Chester.

He opened it up, removed the paper towel, and unwrapped it on my kitchen counter, which seemed unhygienic and rude.

"There's only an ear," he said. "Where's my nose?"

"It's not in the bag?"

"No. Are you sure that's where you put it?"

I tried to recreate the series of events in my mind, just in case I was misremembering, but no, I'd definitely put the nose and ear in the same plastic bag and then in the refrigerator. I would have remembered taking one of them out. And I hadn't seen either Harry or Baldy go into the kitchen.

"Hmmmmm," I said, trying to buy myself some time.

"You'd better not have lost my nose," Chester warned me.

"Let's all calm down," said Josh. "It can't have gone far."

"It didn't go anywhere!" Chester pointed at me. "He's hiding it from us!"

"Why would I do something like that?"

"I don't know! That's why the idea is so disturbing! Maybe you're going to sell it!"

"What kind of market value could it possibly have? Ten bucks, maybe? You've gone insane."

"I think you've gone insane. That would explain why you'd steal my nose! Give it back!"

"I did not steal your nose," I said. "That's ludicrous."

"Is it?" Chester asked. "Is it?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes," Josh agreed.

Chester looked at him angrily. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm on the side that doesn't involve accusations of stealing a nose." Josh pointed at me. "Look at him. Believe me, I've seen people who would steal noses. They get these weird twitches in their face, and their eyes don't move quite right, and they sometimes drool a little bit. Not a lot, not a whole flood, but they tend to have this faint little trickle coming out of one side of their mouth. And they make odd noises, almost out of normal hearing range. This guy, he doesn't do any of that."

"He's drooling right now!" Chester insisted.

"No, I'm not!"

"I saw something glisten next to his cheek! He wiped it off as soon as you started talking about drooling!"

Josh shook his head. "No, he didn't. I was watching for that kind of thing. Look, Chester, I know you've had a hard time of things recently, but we have to be logical about this. Accusing him of drooling isn't going to get your nose back."

"We'd better get it."

"We will. But we have to use our brains. Think about this."

All three of us stood there for a moment, thinking about it.

My only reasonable explanation was all of the stress had caused me to acquire a second personality. But I didn't want Josh and Chester to start thinking along those lines, so I didn't share my hypothesis. It was also possible that his nose had simply decomposed more rapidly than anticipated.

"You did check your pockets, right?" Josh asked me.

I'd never put the nose in my pocket, and would've remembered if I had, but I patted my pockets anyway. "Not there."

There was a knock at the door. I groaned. Knocks at the door had really worked out poorly for me this week.

"I'll answer it," said Chester.

"Oh, sure, let the noseless guy open the door," said Josh. "That won't freak anybody out or anything."

"I just want to start feeling normal again!"

Instead of contributing to the conversation, I walked into the living room and answered the door. Standing in the hallway was my despised downstairs neighbor Preston. As always, he had thick glasses, crooked teeth, and a bowl haircut that was unfashionable even by my standards. "Hello," he said, looking like he was trying hard not to laugh.

"May I help you?"

"You have a very thin floor. And I have a very thin ceiling. You also seem to have very thin carpet. You know what this means, right?"

I took a wild guess: "You know about the severed nose?" I'm all for playing coy, but there's also a time when you simply have to respect everybody's intelligence and get matters out into the open.

Preston nodded. "I do."

Chester pushed his way forward. "Give it back! Give it back!"

Preston gave him a serene smile. "All in due time. Your nose is safe, I assure you. It's been hidden. To find it, you'll need to decipher a series of clues, each more perplexing than the last. If you have the wits, perception, and courage to make it to the end, you'll get your precious nose back."

"We really don't have time for this," I informed him.

"Well, make time! You always thought you were so much smarter than me, didn't you? Now you can prove it!"

"I never said I was smarter than you."

"You've implied it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Yes, I've said things that are smarter than what you've said and done things that are smarter than what you've done, but I've never been condescending about it."

"Either way, I've hated you from the first — no, second — moment we laid eyes on each other. And now if you want the nose back, you'll have to prove your worth."

"How about we make a deal?" Chester asked. "Give me back my nose and I won't bite off yours?"

"Threaten me all you like. It won't do any good. I have the upper hand, and the only way you'll get what you so desperately seek is to play my little game."

Chester grabbed Preston by the collar, yanked him into my living room, then spun him around and twisted his arm up behind his back. "Give it back, geek!"

"No!"

Chester twisted his arm harder, making Preston cry out in pain. "Give it back or I'll break your arm!"

"No! You have to do the perplexing clues!"

"How many are there?"

"Three."

"That's all?"

"I didn't have a lot of time to think them up."

"Well, either way, we don't have time for this. Give me the nose or I'll break your arm."

"If you break my arm, I'll be non-communicative about the nose because I'll be too busy shrieking in pain."

"It might be worth it. I have a lot of frustration to work off."

"Oh, come on," said Preston, getting that whiny tone in his voice that always annoyed me. "At least look at the first clue. You don't have to do all three."

"No."

"How about this? I'll be with you the whole time, offering hints. That way you're guaranteed not to get stuck."

"What's the point of that?" asked Chester. "It's like playing a video game with a cheat code."

"People play video games with cheat codes all the time. They wouldn't do it if it wasn't fun."

Chester considered that. "Yeah, I suppose you're right."

"So you'll do it?"

"No!" said Chester, twisting Preston's arm back even further. "Give me back my frickin' tongue!"

"Tongue?" Josh asked.

"I meant nose! I'm stressed!"

"We should at least look at the first clue," I said.

Chester glared at me. "Nobody asked you."

"It's my apartment. And I helped save your life. And it sounds kind of fun. And there's no reason to be rude."

"He broke into your apartment and stole a body part. That's a pretty good reason to be rude."

"Everybody knock it off," said Josh. "Every second we stand here arguing, more bacteria is forming on the nose. Let's just look at the first stupid clue so we can move on with our lives."

Chester let go of Preston's arm. "Fine. Whatever."

Preston smiled and took a small white envelope out of his back pocket. He handed it to me with dramatic flourish. I tore it open and glanced at the card inside. "Oh, okay. I know where this is. We've gotta go downstairs."

Preston frowned. "You were supposed to read the clue out loud."

"I don't need to. It's at the birdfeeder."

"But . . . you were supposed to read the clue out loud. That's part of the game."

"If it's the next clue thou seek, look ye where they fill their beak. It's the birdfeeder, right?"

"Yeah." Preston looked so crestfallen that I couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"I was thinking about the birdfeeder earlier today," I explained. "Otherwise it would have taken me a while to figure it out."

"So why don't you just tell us the next clue instead of making us walk all the way downstairs?" asked Chester.

"Forget it," said Preston with a deep sigh. "Your nose is on the trophy case in my living room."

We hurried down the flight of stairs and went into Preston's apartment.

"It's in my grandfather's urn," Preston said, pointing to a silver urn resting on top of the trophy case.

Chester stopped in his tracks. "Owned by your grandfather or containing your grandfather?"

"Well, he used to be in there. After he was cremated, my mom kept him on her entertainment center, but then she moved into an apartment that was too small for the entertainment center, and the urn didn't go with any of her new furniture, so she asked me to keep it. I didn't really want to keep his ashes at my place, so I poured them out and kept the urn."

"Are you telling me that my nose is in an urn that used to contain cremated remains?" Chester asked.

"I washed it out first. I mean, jeez."

"But there used to be a dead old guy in there?"

"What if your mom gets new furniture that matches the urn?" I asked.

"I'd just burn some newspaper or something. It's not like the ashes had any identifying characteristics."

"If there are dead grandpa ashes up my nose, I'm going to kill you," said Chester. "Maybe not literally, but it'll feel like it was literally."

"Wouldn't feeling like I was literally being killed just feel like the end of pain?" asked Preston. "I would expect it to be kind of soothing."

Chester glared at him. "Don't make me beat you. I swear I'll beat you. I'll beat you like a drunken hobo. I'll beat you like a beached whale. I'll beat you like a handcuffed panda. I'll —"

"You should really just take the urn so we can get you to the hospital," said Josh.

Chester pushed Preston out of the way and walked over to the entertainment center. He picked up the urn and frowned. "You didn't put the lid on very well." As he lifted it, a roach scurried out of the urn and ran along Chester's arm. He flicked it to the floor, then hurriedly squatted down and poured the contents out onto the carpet. At least ten roaches ran off, leaving behind the nose. It looked a bit nibbled.

"I, uh, thought it had been sealed better," said Preston. "Please don't kill me."

"You let roaches eat my nose!" Chester shouted. "Do you realize how disgusting that is? Do you? Would you want roaches eating your nose?"

"Look at the bright side," I said. "They could have been munching on it while it was still attached."

Chester hit me.

"Everybody calm down," said Josh. "Preston, your careless and sloppy attitude toward my brother's nose is deplorable, but there's nothing we can do about that now."

"Oh, yes there is," said Chester. His eyes carried a spark of insanity. I saw that exact same spark once, in a man at the grocery store who started screaming that the Brussels sprouts were plotting an upcoming apocalypse. At the time, I thought he was just faking it to get a discount on the Brussels sprouts, but now I realized that he'd truly been enveloped by the cloak of madness.

"What's that?" I asked.

Chester pointed at Preston. "His nose. I want his nose."

Yes, there was a definite enveloping by the cloak of madness going on here. "You can't have his nose," Josh said, looking a bit uncomfortable. Preston started to back away.

"I believe I can." Chester grinned. It was not a sane grin. "I believe I will."

At this point, my survival instinct kicked in, and I decided to politely excuse myself from the room. After all, Preston had gotten himself into this mess by carrying our feud and his interest in gaming to ridiculous extremes, and it was up to him to get himself out.

"Well," I said, clearing my throat. "You don't need me anymore. Preston, I wish you all the best in keeping your face intact. Josh, nice meeting you, and if I ever get any mail that was supposed to go to you because we have the same name, I'll be sure to forward it. Chester, sorry about the lack of hospitality you've endured recently, but I think everything will all work out for the best. I'm going to head out for a while, maybe catch a movie if anything good is playing, possibly stop off for a burrito afterward, and I guess I'll see you all later. Have a fine evening."

I walked toward the door, waiting for the almost inevitable moment when one of the three men (most likely Chester) told me to stop. I hadn't yet decided if I would stop or not.

"Where do you think you're going?" Chester asked. The "stop" part was implied.

"I thought I explained it pretty well," I said. "You don't need me anymore. Preston, I wish you all the —"

"You're not going anywhere," said Chester.

"I'm flattered that you want to keep me around," I said, "but I'm really not part of the decision making process anymore."

"I said, you're not going anywhere!" Chester shouted, flinging his nose at me and confirming my "insane" theory beyond all reasonable doubt. His nose struck me on the forehead and stuck there.

I stood there for a moment with his nose on my forehead. After the moment ended, I'm ashamed to admit that I absolutely flipped out.

"Get it off! Get it off!" I screamed, clawing frantically at my face as I ran for the bathroom. I couldn't feel anything on my forehead anymore, but the panic didn't cease. Maybe the nose had absorbed through my flesh and bone! Maybe it was burrowing into my brain! Yes, I knew these thoughts were irrational. It was a very unnerving experience.

I stared into the mirror. There was a small bloody smear on my forehead, but no nose. It had fallen off.

Josh stepped into the bathroom doorway. "You should really calm down," he said.

"I'm fine now."

I didn't much care for the condescending look he was giving me. How macho would he be if a detached body part hit him? Perhaps I'd just scoop up the nose and throw it in his face. Make him catch it in his mouth like a grape.

No, I wouldn't really do that. No need to regress into primal savagery.

Upon closer examination, his look seemed to be less of a condescending one than an appalled one. Had the nose landed someplace else on my body? I tapped my chin, right shoulder, belly button, and left hip, but there was no sign of it. I hoped it hadn't slipped down inside the waist of my pants.

"What?" I asked.

He was staring at my shoes.

My heart sank. I didn't need to look at the bottom of my shoes to know what lurked beneath them.

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" I asked.

Chester pushed past his brother. I backed against the wall as he walked toward me, looking very, very unhappy. His spark of insanity had grown to one of those globes with electricity inside that mad scientists keep on their desks. He held out his hand, palm-up. "Give it back to me."

"It's . . . not currently available."

"Hand it over," he said.

"It got smeared. I'm really sorry."

"If you hurt it, I'm going to cut off your nose," Chester informed me.

I'm not a confrontational person by any stretch of the imagination, but I had to admit that I was getting a little sick of Chester trying to push me around. Who did he think he was? "I don't appreciate your attitude," I told him. "If it weren't for me, you'd still be in that cage. I didn't have to make an effort to get you out. I could've left you there. They could've kept chopping off parts, and I could've kept sticking them in my refrigerator. When I did try to save you, it was with the understanding that I'd be treated with respect. So stop being a dick."

"I appreciate you saving my life," said Chester. "But I'm still going to cut off your nose."

"Why mine? Preston's the one who left yours out for the roaches!"

"His nose looks like a ski jump."

"Well, mine is prone to inflammation and clogging!"

"Stop this, both of you," said Josh. "Nobody is cutting off anybody's nose today. Everybody take a nice deep breath and calm down so we can —"

Chester gave him a violent shove, pushing him out of the bathroom, and then slammed and locked the door. He turned back toward me, looking most menacing indeed.

"We really shouldn't be locked in the bathroom together for very long," I said, trying to add a touch of levity to the situation and postpone the violence. "They'll wonder what we're up to."

Chester seemed completely unamused. I wished that real life came with emoticons so he'd know I was joking. Josh pounded on the door and loudly suggested that matters had gotten slightly out of hand and that it would be a good idea for somebody to let him in.

Chester opened one of the drawers, rifled through the contents for a few seconds, and took out a nail file.

"You know who has a nose very similar to yours?" I asked. "Your brother. If you're looking to do an exchange, he's a much better candidate."

"I'm not going to mutilate my own brother," he said, acting as if I was the insane person standing in the bathroom instead of him.

I have to admit, I was starting to grow weary of these dramatic moments where I had to prove my inner strength. I was comfortable with my inner strength. I just wanted to watch some TV. That said, I couldn't let him file off my nose while waiting for Josh's efforts to kick open the bathroom door to bear fruit, so I had to act.

As he moved toward me, I kicked him in the leg. I'd been aiming for his face, but my high-kick wasn't well developed. A fleshy glob came off my shoe and smeared on his blue jeans.

"My nose! It's — it's all messed up!" said Chester. "You can't even tell what it's supposed to be!"

"I thought we'd already established that it was ruined."

"I didn't think it would be that bad!"

"I'm actually pretty good with Play-Doh," I said. "I bet if you let me fool around with it, I could smoosh it back into something nose-shaped." Technically, I hadn't used Play-Doh in years, but this seemed like a good bargaining chip.

I'm not sure why he got so mad. It's not as if I compared his nose to Silly Putty.

He bellowed with animalistic rage and attacked me.

It's difficult for me to describe what happened next because it sounds like I'm bragging. Hopefully I've confessed to enough cowardice and poor judgment thus far that my version of these events has credibility, so please believe me when I say that it was the most awesome dodge ever! He swung that nail file at my face, and I moved away at the last possible instant. He missed by millimeters. I grabbed the nail file out of his hand and jabbed it into the top of his head. Not hard enough to puncture his brain or anything — just hard enough to make it stick. Then I swung my foot and tripped him.

He landed flat on his back on the floor. He just lay there, looking confused, as if unsure how he got there. Maybe the blow to the head was exactly what he needed to become less deranged.

The bathroom door burst open, slamming into the nail file and driving it substantially further into Chester's skull.

* * *

Josh, Preston, and I sat on Preston's couch, trying to determine the best course of action.

"The way I see it," Josh began, "we're all equally responsible."

Preston let out an incredulous laugh. "You wish! I didn't poke him in the head with anything."

"Don't make me list your offenses, Clue Boy. Look, I loved my brother dearly, but he was also kind of a cretin. When he's kidnapped and being held for ransom, yeah, I'm gonna try to get him back. When I'm partially responsible for his death, albeit accidentally, and run the risk of a judge trying to make an example of me, I tend to lean in more of a 'let's cover everything up' direction."

"What exactly are you suggesting?" I asked.

"We need to dismember his body — a task which has already been started for us — and bury him in the woods."

I shook my head. "No. No way. I refuse to be part of that."

"You have to help us."

"No. Absolutely not."

Preston shifted in his seat. "I don't want to come off as morbid or anything, but that actually sounds like fun. I'd be more than happy to do his share."

Josh looked horrified. "You depraved psycho!"

"What? What's the big deal? It's better than having him puke the whole time."

"I'm not letting you chop up my brother if you're planning to enjoy it!"

"Okay, whatever. How about this? I'll be morally outraged and physically repulsed, but I'll do it just to keep us out of prison. Is that better?"

Josh sighed. "If I hear so much as a giggle — one giggle — there'll be hell to pay."

"That's fair. I do have a tendency to smile when I work, though."

"Fine. But no silent giggles where your shoulders twitch."

"Deal."

So I left them to their task. Hugs seemed inappropriate, so I simply returned to my apartment and made myself a salad. I didn't much enjoy the salad, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the gruesome recent events or because the lettuce was starting to wilt.

And that's when my problems began . . .

* * *

There was another knock at the door. I was becoming tempted to install a layer of iron spikes to keep that from happening. I glanced through the peephole, grimaced, and opened the door.

"Did you call about a severed ear?" asked the police officer.

"Yes, sir."

"Will you take me to it?"

I hesitated. "I believe I was mistaken."

"How so?"

"I was drunk. Very, very drunk. And in my drunken stupor I hallucinated a severed ear on my dining room table and called the police. It was a terrible mix-up and I apologize."

The officer frowned. "Alcohol isn't a hallucinogen. Sounds more like you were enjoying a bit of medicinal marijuana. May I see your prescription, please?"

"What I actually meant was that I was so drunk that I thought it would be funny to call about a severed nose. I'm sorry."

"Who said anything about a severed nose?"

"I meant ear."

"Who said anything about a severed ear?"

"You did."

"Did I?"

"I thought so."

"You were smoking pot, weren't you? Do you realize that it's a crime to contact the authorities while under the influence of illegal drugs?"

I considered that. "Isn't it a crime to do anything under the influence of illegal drugs?"

"Where's the dope, sir? I can smell it all over you. You probably sprung for the good stuff, didn't you? You and your pot-smoking stoner buddies. Or is LSD more your style? You doing some Lucying in the sky with diamonds? Crystal meth, perhaps?"

"I've never done drugs in my life."

"Oh, really? Never took a tiny little snort of cocaine? Never shot up just a wee bit of heroin on the weekends?"

"Never."

The police officer chuckled. "Prude."

"Are you . . . are you a real cop?"

"I'm just messing with you," said the officer. "I like to do that sometimes, when I'm at the end of my shift. But seriously, where's the ear?"

"There is no ear."

"Sir, you made two calls to 911 about a severed ear that you found in your apartment. I don't believe for a second that you were drunk, even though that's something I'd normally believe about a person. If you can't produce the ear, I'm going to have to take you in to the station for questioning."

Technically, the ear was still in my refrigerator, and I could give it to him. But since the ear belonged to Chester and I'd been partially responsible for his death, I didn't want forensics to trace anything. I probably should've had Josh and Preston bury the ear with the rest of Chester's corpse — it was odd how it kept getting overlooked while in my crisper.

"I made it all up," I insisted.

"Interesting. Mind if I take a look around?"

"Do you have a search warrant?"

"No. That's why I asked if you minded. But if you fabricated the whole story, then you have nothing to hide, right? I'll just take a quick peek around your apartment and let you off with a warning. If I have to come back with a warrant, I won't be so easygoing."

"You can look around," I told him.

"Thank you." The cop glanced around my living room, then walked into the kitchen.

Somehow I just knew this was going to end with a dead police officer in my apartment. I had no plans to murder him, but the way things were going I'd probably be mopping up cop brains from my kitchen floor within ten minutes.

"You keep a very tidy home," said the officer.

"Thank you."

The officer strolled over to the refrigerator. "Mind if I have a look inside?"

He knew. He had to know. I was tempted to say, "You know, don't you?" just to get the suspense over with, but decided against it. "Go ahead."

He opened the refrigerator door.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

He knelt down. My heart felt like it was going to spontaneously combust.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Confess. "There's an ear in my crisper," I said. "A few days ago I found a severed nose on my table and hid it in my refrigerator and it was joined the next day by an ear and I called the police and they never showed up and then some kidnappers showed up demanding ransom and they took me back to see the boss who cut off the kidnappee's toe and sewed it to my foot and let me go and I realized that the kidnappee's brother had the same name as me so I called him and the kidnappers came back and we went to get the kidnappee's brother and the brother killed one of the kidnappers — it was really splattery — but the other kidnapper kidnapped the brother and we went back to the boss and I accidentally killed the boss by pushing him into an oversized pushpin and then the brother killed the other kidnapper and then my downstairs neighbor stole the nose and the kidnappee got killed completely by accident and then you showed up and I lied about the ear in my crisper to keep forensics from matching it to the kidnappee and finding out that he was dead."

"Is that so?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then you would seem to be in a lot of trouble." The officer opened my crisper and removed the plastic baggie. "Is this the one?"

"Yes."

He stood up. "Looks like I hit paydirt. I was just looking for a beer." He opened the baggie, took out the roll of paper towel, and removed the ear, holding it carefully between his thumb and index finger.

"Am I under arrest?"

The officer looked at the ear, looked at me, looked back at the ear, and then popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "You will tell nobody about this," he said.

"Okay."

"I hear any stories about the cannibal cop, I'll eat your entire intestinal tract. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He walked out of my kitchen and headed for the front door. "You have a pleasant evening."

* * *

A couple of hours after that, there was another knock at the goddamn door.

"Sorry to bother you," said Preston. "There was, uh, a change in circumstances, and there's, uh, another body to dispose of. I'm totally fine with the sawing part, but if you didn't have anything else going on, I was wondering if you could maybe help me dig the extra grave."

I declined.

* * *

Shortly after that, the nightmares began.

Horrible nightmares where I had no nose, just like the traditional yellow smiley face. I stood in front of the entire class, noseless and not wearing pants. The other kids pointed at me and laughed, especially Pinocchio. I woke up screaming in a nasal voice.

The guilt was overwhelming. Finally, I went to see a psychiatrist, although I was rather vague about the source of my guilt, focusing more on hurt feelings than on mutilation and death. Her advice was to write down the entire series of events that led to my nightmares. Committing my thoughts to paper might help me work through them.

Well, now I've done that.

And I feel even worse than before. I can flip to any random page of my thoughts and find something unpleasant. A minute ago I just re-read the part where an eleventh toe was sewn to my foot. This was an awful idea. First thing in the morning, this is going straight into the incinerator, followed by my psychiatrist.

No, I'm kidding about my psychiatrist. Really.

* * *

Believe it or not, the nightmares have stopped. The guilt nightmares, anyway. Last night I did dream that I was trapped inside a giant clam, but I think that was unrelated to current events.

I've started volunteering at a local Eye, Ears & Nose clinic. I don't get to do anything interesting — mostly just tedious paperwork and wiping down the occasional examination table — but I feel a lot better about myself. I'm working off my karmic debt. I may have squished a nose under my shoe, but I've helped many, many more noses in need.

With that, I shall end this narrative, at peace with myself.

* * *

Yesterday the cannibal cop showed back up at my apartment, demanding that I hunt for him. But that's a story for another day.

DUMMY

Cameron watched without much interest as the young woman took off her clothes. Her body was nice, and she was half his age (less if she'd lied about being legal), but he just wasn't into it tonight.

It must have been her attitude. Sure, they both knew she wouldn't be stripping in his hotel room if money hadn't changed hands, and he didn't expect her to pretend that she was in love with him, but she acted like she was doing him some big favor. He didn't appreciate that. If she wanted to take an all-business approach, fine. Just don't look at him as if he were a pity lay.

He almost told her this.

Angel, whose birth name was probably not Angel, took off her shirt and tossed it onto the floor. Cameron had to admit that he did like the black bra she was wearing. All women should wear black bras. There should be government legislation to that effect. The last prostitute he'd hired, three days ago, had been wearing a flesh-colored bra that made her look like a mannequin.

"That thing gonna sit on your lap the whole time?" Angel asked, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her pants.

Cameron turned Wally's head to look at her, and then made the dummy's eyebrows wiggle. "Would it bother you?"

Angel smiled. "I charge extra for a three-way. But, seriously, you're going to put it away before we get started, right?"

Cameron raised his voice an octave and spoke mostly without moving his lips. "Aw, c'mon, sweetheart, don't you think I'm a handsome guy?"

Angel's smile disappeared. "That thing needs to go in a drawer or something. For real."

Cameron shook both his head and Wally's head. He spoke in his own voice. "No."

She gave him the look of somebody who had to deal with weirdos on a regular basis and had lost all patience with them. Cameron didn't care. It was better than being looked at with pity. "Whatever," she finally said. "But I'm not touching it."

"Nobody touches Wally but me."

"Good." She wiggled out of her pants and kicked them over next to her shirt. Then she reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. "Should I be doing this slower or what?"

"You're doing fine."

She removed the bra, exposing full, natural breasts that were rather spectacular except for —

"You've got a pierced nipple."

"Yeah."

"Why would anybody do that?"

"It looks cool."

"It looks painful."

"Nah, the swelling went down. I can take out the ring if you want."

Cameron shook his head. "No, then I'd have to look at the hole." This whole evening was very disappointing. He wanted to feel breasts against his body, not metal. How could anybody be aroused by this kind of self-mutilation?

He'd just have to make sure he only groped the left one.

"Is it grossing you out? Do you need me to leave?"

Yeah, right, Cameron thought. The next part of this conversation would be her pimp showing up to explain that there were no refunds once the bra was off. "It's fine."

She took off her panties and stood naked in front of him. "So . . . ?"

"What?"

"You planning to do me through your clothes?"

Cameron made Wally silently chuckle, then spoke for him. "What a sap! I guess we all know who the real dummy is around here!"

"Don't make that thing talk anymore."

"Oh, now, sweetheart, don't be like that. I'm a sensitive block of wood. I've got feelings like everybody else."

"I'm not kidding."

"Are you trying to make me cry? My face warps when I cry. It's not a pretty sight. Why don't you like me, Angel? What have I done to deserve your scorn? I know you're a beautiful woman and I'm just a dummy, and I'm permanently stuck with this ugly bozo next to me, but my heart is pure."

"I know you think you're being cute and everything, but you're really not," Angel told Cameron. "And I'd like you to stop it."

"It's only a ventriloquist dummy," said Cameron.

"I know what it is."

"If he scares you, I'll put him away."

"I didn't say he scares me. I just don't like those things."

"He's not alive, you know."

She glared at him. "I know that. Don't talk to me like I'm stupid."

"I thought you might have been worried that I believe he's alive, so I wanted to reassure you that I don't."

Angel sighed. "Okay, look, I'll make you a deal. Throw in another fifty bucks and I'll talk to your friend. I'll carry on a conversation, pretend he's real, do a comedy routine or whatever you want. That fair?"

"I don't have another fifty dollars."

"Then put the doll in the drawer and get undressed. Or leave your clothes on and just unzip your pants, or however you want to handle it, but I don't have time for any more games." The pity in her eyes was long gone. Now there was annoyance and perhaps even some disgust.

Cameron was much hornier now.

"I'm sorry," said Cameron. "I was just trying to be funny. Come here."

Angel stepped over to the bed. Cameron looked at her nude body and grinned. Pierced nipple notwithstanding, her body was smooth and tight, and he definitely preferred her tan lines to the hookers who went to a salon. He still wasn't feeling his usual level of excitement — in fact, more than once this had been the exact point where he had to blurt out humiliated apologies and rush out of the room — but he was still going to get his money's worth.

Cameron slid his free hand slowly down her leg.

"He likes you," he said.

* * *

"Why would you ever want to be a ventriloquist?" Cameron's mother had asked when he was thirteen. "Everybody hates them."

"Not everybody."

"Maybe not every single person in the whole entire world, but if you went around asking people, I bet you nine out of ten would say those things are creepy."

"I don't want to be a dummy. I want to be a ventriloquist. You're mixing them up."

"You know what I mean, smart guy. Go on and ask people. Do the survey as a project for one of your classes. See if you can get extra credit."

"I don't mind if people think they're creepy."

"What about just regular puppets? Everybody loves Kermit."

"Puppeteers have to hide."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not supposed to see the person controlling Kermit. It's supposed to look like he's alive."

"But he's a charming character."

"So are a lot of dummies. Charlie McCarthy was charming."

Mom had smiled. "If you woke up in the middle of the night, who would you rather see sitting at the foot of your bed, Kermit the Frog or Charlie McCarthy?"

"I wouldn't care. If they were sitting on my bed by themselves, neither one of them could do anything."

"Well, if I woke up and a ventriloquist dummy was on the bed, I'd wet that bed faster than you could spray it down with a hose. And get that gleam out of your eye; if you try it, you'll be grounded for a month."

"Want to hear me throw my voice? I've been practicing."

"Let's hear it."

"Hi, Mom!"

"That's pretty good!"

"Could you see my lips move?"

"Only a little."

"M is a hard letter."

* * *

"Let me be really clear about this," said Angel, covering her breasts with her hands. "I'm not some crack whore who will put up with your crap to get her next fix. Think of me like a pizza. You paid for the plain cheese. If you want extra toppings, and I'm including this bullshit with your doll as an extra topping, then it costs more."

"You can't raise the price just because I own a dummy."

"I can, because in my ad it clearly says that I cater to fetishes at a higher rate. You didn't say anything about making some spooky-ass doll talk and leer at me. You don't have another fifty bucks? Fine. Put that thing in a drawer and let's get down to business."

"Okay, okay, if you want to categorize Wally as a fetish, which for the record I completely disagree with, then I'm not going to argue. That doesn't mean he has to go in the drawer. He can sit right here on the nightstand." Cameron set Wally next to the lamp, facing the bed.

"Is there a camera in that thing?"

"No."

"Let me see." Angel reached for the dummy.

"Don't touch him!" Cameron almost smacked her hands away, and was immediately glad that he hadn't. She looked tough, and he didn't want a hooker going psycho in his room. "If I wanted to record this, I'd just hide a cell phone somewhere; I wouldn't install a camera in a ventriloquist's dummy."

"So you just want him to watch you fuck me?"

"Yes."

"And you don't think that's a fetish?"

"You don't have to do anything extra."

"Okay. Whatever. Let's just get this over with. Are you getting naked or what?"

Cameron began to take off his clothes. Though he was always self-conscious about his skinny, gawky body, she was probably used to dealing with morbidly obese men with body odor, or toothless old men, or guys who were stoned out of their minds. He was nobody's idea of an attractive man, but she'd had worse. He bet she'd had worse an hour ago.

He fumbled out of his pants and briefs and sat naked on the bed. He wasn't quite ready for action, thanks to all of this arguing, but Angel knelt in front of the bed without him having to ask.

* * *

Jesus, thought Katherine as her head bobbed up and down. His dick is probably smaller than the dummy's. In the grand scheme of things, having the doll around wasn't anywhere near as weird as some of the other things guys wanted her to do, like be choked, but it creeped her the hell out.

She glanced over at it. It was a wooden dummy that pretty much looked like all of the other ones she'd ever seen. It had painted-on brown hair, large brown eyes, a small nose, and a mouth that was permanently stuck in a grin.

And even though it wasn't moving or anything like that, the goddamn thing looked like it was actually watching her. She half-expected it to spring to life and start tugging its tiny wooden penis.

At least the dummy's owner wasn't having much trouble getting hard. She was so not in the mood to deal with erectile dysfunction tonight.

She looked away from the dummy. The sight directly in front of her eyes wasn't much better. Somebody needed to tell him that it was the 21st century. Guys trimmed now.

She pulled her mouth away. "How do you want me?"

"On your hands and knees."

She climbed onto the bed and obliged him, facing the television even though she kind of knew what he was going to say next.

"No, face the nightstand."

"You mean face the dummy."

"Yeah. Do it."

It wasn't worth arguing over. If there was a camera in the dummy . . . well, it wasn't as if there weren't already a dozen amateur sex videos of her online. She'd just get some friends to find Mr. Ventriloquist, break his legs, and get her fair payment.

She adjusted her position as he tore open the condom wrapper. The dummy wasn't moving, and yet the creepy little fuck still seemed to be watching her.

It was just her imagination.

Stop looking at me, you pervert doll.

The ventriloquist fumbled a bit behind her, and she reached back to help him out. She didn't want him to get performance anxiety and force her to start all over. He got inside and four or five thrusts later she could tell he was almost about to pop already.

Awesome. The sooner the better.

He sped up.

The doll turned its head.

Not a lot. Just enough that she was almost positive that she'd seen it turn its head, but enough that she immediately decided it was her imagination.

The ventriloquist let out an orgasmic moan that was more like a high-pitched screech. At that moment, the doll leapt off the nightstand onto the bed.

Katherine screamed.

* * *

Cameron sat on the sofa, drenched in perspiration and drinking whiskey as he stared at the dead hooker on his bed.

He hoped nobody had called to complain about the scream. It had been a quick one, and this was a pretty crappy motel, so he might be fine.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" he asked Wally. "What in your wooden little brain made you think that was a good idea?"

Wally didn't respond. The dummy just sat on the bed, little wooden legs dangling over the edge.

"Don't go mute on me," said Cameron. He pointed to Angel's bloody body. "And don't try to act like this was my fault. What the hell were you thinking?"

Wally lowered his head.

"I should break off your legs, that's what I should do. Snap those twigs off and make a little campfire. How would you like that? Or maybe I will lock you in a drawer. Lock you in there forever. It's not like you'll starve to death or suffocate. How's that sound?"

"Please don't," said Wally, speaking so quietly that his mouth barely moved.

The voice Cameron liked to do for him when he was playing ventriloquist was completely wrong. Wally actually had a very low voice, and often sounded like he was growling.

"Then apologize."

"I'm sorry."

"Say you'll never do it again."

Wally blinked. The dummy looked a bit defiant, which was hard to do with a wooden face that didn't move much. "What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to behave yourself. I expect you to remember who has the power. You need me a lot more than I need you!"

"What are you talking about? That doesn't make any sense! I don't need you at all! I want to be rid of you!"

Cameron wanted to grab him off the bed and throw him against the floor, bashing him into splinters, but resisted the temptation.

"You don't appreciate anything I do for you," Cameron said. "How many other dummies get to watch a live sex show? Huh? She wanted you to go in the drawer, but I was thinking about your happiness!"

"You think I wanted to see that grotesque sight? You're more insane than I thought!"

"She was hot! You should have sat there and enjoyed it, but no, instead you had to go and take advantage of my generosity!"

Cameron finished off the bottle of whiskey and stood up. He'd put this off long enough. Now he had to get rid of the body.

"Now I have to go buy a goddamn hacksaw," he told Wally. "Get in the bag."

* * *

Wally protested, but Wally always protested, the little shit. But he did get into the bag without Cameron having to pick him up and shove him in there.

Cameron put up the Do Not Disturb sign and left. He preferred to support Mom-and-Pop stores, but he wanted to be less memorable buying the hacksaw, so he went to a Home Depot. He bought the best one they had and paid with cash. At a different store, he bought some garbage bags and cleaning supplies.

"Making me buy a frickin' hacksaw," he muttered under his breath, as they drove back to the hotel. "Like I've got the extra money."

Wally, still in the bag, didn't respond.

"You can sit there and watch me do this," said Cameron, propping Wally up in the same spot where the dummy had watched him have brief sex with Angel. "If there's any shred of decency left in you, maybe you'll puke up some wood chips."

Wally said nothing as Cameron sawed up the body. Cameron looked at him often, still expecting to see signs of regret in plastic eyes that could show no emotion.

He got the body parts into their individual triple-wrapped garbage bags, and then bagged up the comforter and sheets. He scrubbed the mattress as well as he could. It wouldn't pass a forensics team, but it didn't immediately scream "ghastly murder site." He flipped the mattress over to further hide the crime.

Obviously, the housekeeper would notice the missing linens, but he'd paid with cash and given a fake name, and at this kind of dump they were probably used to getting ripped off. He'd be driving all day to get to his next gig, and they weren't going to track him across three states to get back some sheets.

* * *

Her body was perfect.

Seriously. If Cameron could have hired an artist to sculpt the ultimate female body to suit his taste, she would have been it. Her face? Not so great. But her body was sensational.

As she writhed on top of him, topless but still in her thong, he could barely control himself. He needed to be inside her, now.

Jenny licked his ear. "Want me to cuff you?"

"Excuse me?"

She leaned back and grinned. "I've got handcuffs. It'll be fun."

"Oh. No, no, that's okay."

Jenny gave him an exaggerated pout. "Oh, you're no fun." She looked over at Wally on the nightstand. "Your friend wants me to cuff you. He knows what kind of things I'd do to you . . . how I'd have my wicked way with you . . . with nothing you could do to stop me . . ."

The idea was almost irresistible. Almost. But Cameron shook his head. "Sorry. Not my thing."

Jenny shrugged. "A pity."

Cameron was in love. Not just with her physical form; she was nice. She seemed to genuinely like being there with him. Was she faking it? Probably. No nineteen-year-old would want to hang out with an ugly guy her dad's age. But he was able to completely lose himself in the illusion that there was no exchange of money involved, that he'd met her at a bar and talked her into coming back to his hotel.

"I love you," he said, before he could stop himself.

She smiled. "Well, I love you too, sweetie. Are you ready for me?" She reached down and stroked him.

"No, don't —"

His release was intense, but he was too frantic about the bad timing to enjoy it. After a few seconds he just lay there, humiliated.

Jenny giggled. "Wow. You got it all over us."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'll make you a deal. You be a gentleman and go get me a wet towel to clean myself up. I'm going to make a call so that I can spend some more time with you, and when you're ready, we'll give it another shot. Sound good, sweetie?"

Cameron nodded.

She winked at him. "I don't do this for everybody, so don't be a tattletale, okay?"

Cameron got up and hurried into the bathroom.

"Warm water!" she called after him.

* * *

Jenny reached for her cell phone to send a quick text to Marty. The ventriloquist was kind of adorable, and it made her feel good when a guy popped too soon. Marty could go for hours in a coke-fueled hate-fucking session, often rolling off her without even climaxing, and it wasn't the least bit romantic.

"Please don't scream," a voice whispered next to her.

She glanced over. It was the dummy. Its mouth moved as it spoke.

"He's insane. He's a killer. Please, get out of here and take me with you, as quickly as you can. Grab me and run."

She looked more closely at it. That ventriloquist prankster was in the bathroom, making this thing talk through some kind of remote control. Clever. "That so?" she asked, tapping on her cell phone screen as she kept her eye on the dummy.

The dummy stood up as the sound of running water came from the bathroom. "I'm dead serious. He's psychotic. I can't get away from him."

"That's a shame. You'd better run for the door, then."

"I can't open it by myself! Please. You're in danger."

"You know, I'm giving you a free second pop. I don't usually do that. You ought to be more grateful instead of trying to scare a lady."

The water turned off.

"Please, please help me," the dummy whispered, sitting back down.

The ventriloquist walked out of the bathroom, holding a damp towel. He'd cleaned himself up. His eyes darted from her to the dummy and his smile disappeared.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Cute trick."

"Did he say something to you?"

He seemed genuinely angry. Of course, he was a professional actor — ventriloquists counted as actors, right — so that wasn't surprising. Still, the way his eyes flashed with rage was unnerving.

"Nah. I just thought he turned his head, probably the light. C'mon over here so I can bring your friend back to life. Not the dummy."

The ventriloquist seemed unsure, but he lay down on the bed. Jenny picked up the remote control. "You like sports?" she asked.

"Sure. Why?"

"Most guys fantasize about watching the game while their girlfriend goes down on them. You one of them?"

The ventriloquist nodded.

"Good." Jenny turned on the television to ESPN, where a hockey game was playing. She turned up the volume, set the remote aside, and then took him into her mouth.

"I don't think I can do it again this soon," the ventriloquist said.

"I'll be the judge of that."

After about a minute, it was clear that, yeah, he wouldn't be ready to go for a while. Jenny briefly pulled her mouth away so she could speak. "Sure you don't want me to cuff ya?"

"I'm sure. I could cuff you."

Jenny shook her head. "Noooooo," she said, playfully. "I like to be in charge. Just close your eyes and let me do all the work."

The ventriloquist closed his eyes as she resumed.

* * *

As that hideous man lay there, moaning softly, Wally watched the hooker. Wally (Walter, before his soul had been zapped into this ridiculous dummy) knew she had some sort of plan. He had no personal experience with prostitutes, but he knew perfectly well that they didn't give you a free second try out of the goodness of their heart.

Her eyes kept darting toward the door, which Wally couldn't see from where he sat.

Wally would have smiled if he could. Now it made sense that she'd lured Cameron to the bed, and then said "Oh, wait, let me make sure the 'Do Not Disturb' sign is out." She'd left the door unlocked. Brilliant!

Just lie there, Cameron. Enjoy yourself. Hopefully it'll be the last pleasant sensation you ever experience.

A beam of light appeared and widened. Jenny picked up her pace and started making plenty of noise of her own. The beam of light disappeared.

* * *

Paradise.

If Cameron could relive one moment on an endless loop for the rest of his life, it would be this one. He wondered if he could get away with kidnapping her. He'd never kidnapped anybody before, and he didn't really have anywhere he could take Jenny and keep her safe, so he'd probably just have to leave that idea as a fantasy.

She pulled her head away from him.

He opened his eyes.

Oh, shit!

There were two big men standing next to the bed. They lunged at him at the same time, and before Cameron could let out a cry for help they'd flipped him over and pressed his face into the mattress, muffling him. One of them twisted his arm behind his back.

"Jesus!" said Jenny. "You don't have to break his arm!"

"Shut the fuck up, bitch."

"Real nice."

"Listen up, asshole," said one of the men, presumably her pimp, whispering into Cameron's ear. His breath smelled of cigarettes and whiskey; much better whiskey than Cameron could afford. "We're taking your cash and any nice shit you've got. Give us any problems, and we cut the hell out of you. You got that?"

Cameron couldn't speak through the mattress, but he was able to make a noise to indicate that he understood.

"What're you waiting for?" the pimp said to Jenny. "Go through his shit!"

Cameron lay there, helplessly listening to Jenny open drawers and dig through his suitcase. They were not going to be happy with the results.

A few minutes later, his prediction was confirmed. "Twenty-six bucks," said Jenny, "not counting the cash he already gave me. He does have an ATM card, though."

"So, how about you give the little lady here your PIN number?" The pimp grabbed a handful of Cameron's hair and pulled his head up enough to let him talk.

"I don't have any money in my account."

"That so?"

"I've got twelve bucks. You want to hold me here for twelve bucks, be my guest."

"He's got this dummy," said Jenny, picking up Wally. "It's remote control, I think. It might be worth something."

"Bitch, you think that toy is valuable?"

Jenny scowled at her pimp. "It talked to me while he was in the bathroom."

"That shit's been around since I was a kid. That's not any year 3000 technology."

"I'm not saying it's going to make us millionaires! I'm saying it was kind of cool!"

"Then take it. I don't care."

"I will." Jenny, still naked, picked up Wally and cradled him to her breast. "Show me how it works," she said to Cameron.

"I can't," he said.

"Bullshit you can't," said the pimp, smacking Cameron on the back of the head, hard. "Show her."

The men pulled Cameron up into a kneeling position, clearly no longer worried that he might call out an alarm.

"I have to be holding him to make him work," said Cameron.

Jenny shook her head. "No, make him do what you did in the bathroom."

What was he supposed to do? Try to convince them that Wally was really alive? They'd never believe that. His only hope was for Wally to play along . . .

"It's all a trick," Cameron told Jenny, "but it's about the performance, so you've got to make yourself believe that he's alive." He looked right into the dummy's eyes. "Wally, I'm sorry for everything I've done, and I swear to you that when we get out of this mess, I'll let you go. I'll open that door and you can run right out, or I'll take you anywhere you want to go. Please, Wally, believe me. Do you believe me? Just nod your head and say something if you believe me."

Wally didn't move.

"Please, Wally! Say something!"

Wally said nothing.

"Give this bitch the remote control or whatever it is," said the pimp. "We don't have time to play around."

"Wally, say something! Talk to us!"

"Make that dummy work or we're going to beat the shit out of you and leave you for dead."

"Please, Wally! Please!"

* * *

Wally snuggled against Jenny's blouse as they sat in the back seat of the car. He'd had the perfect view of the men beating the shit out of Cameron and leaving him for dead, and now he had a nice place to relax while they drove back to wherever they were going.

At some point, he'd tell Jenny that he was alive, but he'd wait until the right moment. There was no rush. For now, he'd just enjoy not being Cameron's prisoner any longer.

"Why'd you bring that stupid thing?" asked her pimp, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Because it's cute."

"Don't get too attached to it. When we get back, I'm gonna take that fuckin' thing apart splinter by splinter and see how it works."

Crap.

Oh well.

Wally flapped his arms and thrashed around. "I'm alive! I am a living dummy! Fear me! Fear me! Fear me!"

He bit down on Jenny's breast through the blouse, as hard as he could.

Everybody in the car screamed.

* * *

Wally climbed out through the broken rear windshield. A couple of glass chunks were stuck in his face, but they didn't hurt or anything. He didn't think anybody in the car was dead, though he didn't have to worry about any of them coming after him anytime soon.

He scurried out of the street and onto the sidewalk, and then into an alley.

Safe. Finally.

There were not a lot of options in life for a man whose soul had been transferred into a ventriloquist's dummy, but at least Wally could now pick his own. He walked down the alley, whistling a happy yet creepy little tune.

STORY NOTES

"Pett Semmuteary." As with Gleefully Macabre Tales, I start the collection off with a dose of animal cruelty! As a moviegoer or book-reader, I'm like most of the world when I say, "Kill all the humans you want but leave the kitty alone!" But it doesn't upset me in my own writing, probably because I know for certain that no animals were harmed and that no research was done. This story, obviously a send-up of Stephen King's Pet Sematary, was written just for this book, and it came from me deciding out of nowhere that it would be funny to have a title where "Pet Cemetery" was even more misspelled. And that's all I had for a while, but once I got the idea that burying pets in this resurrection cemetery had become routine and annoying to our main character, the story was a quick and easy one to write.

"Comeuppance." I originally called this story "The Voodoo Tattoo," but then I decided that was too much of a spoiler. (And, obviously, I hope you're not reading this before the story itself. If so, I apologize for the spoiler.) This story was a lot of fun to write, mostly because I love writing with an exaggerated, overly formal tone.

"The Apocalypse Ain't So Bad." I came up with the idea for this story shortly after reading Brian Keene's Dead Sea, an amazingly bleak novel in which characters often ask "In a world overrun by zombies, what's the point of even going on living?" (Answer: There isn't one.) So I thought it would be fun to take a character with the opposite viewpoint, a sunny guy who sees the positive side of everything. Then, of course, I had to break him of that habit.

"The Bell . . . FROM HELL!!!" This originally appeared in an anthology called Blood Lite, which contained stories by big-name authors like Charlaine Harris and Jim Butcher. If you look at the Amazon reviews, you'll see that 99% of the people who bought this book bought it just for their contributions and couldn't care less about poor little "The Bell . . . FROM HELL!!!" (And most of those people were mad that Charlaine Harris hadn't done a Sookie Stackhouse story.) It was a bit disheartening . . . until I got the royalty check, and realized that being in an anthology with Charlaine Harris and Jim Butcher is a very good thing indeed.

"Work/Life Balance." As of this writing, I have spent 16.5 years working in a corporate environment, so I'm a man who knows how Casual Fridays work. If you get nothing else from this book, and that's a strong possibility, I hope you take away the cautionary message from this story. In much the same way that same-sex marriage can only lead to people being forced at gunpoint to marry gay pugs, Casual Friday will destroy the earth. Only you — assuming that you work in middle management at a corporation — can stop it.

"Stop Stabbing Me." Another story written specifically for this collection. When I write a novel, I don't outline unless the cruel publisher forces me to, but I like to at least have a pretty good idea of where I'm headed. With short stories, I often just start writing, making it up paragraph by paragraph, and see where it leads. Which is what happened here. I knew that I didn't want to go for the obvious ending of the narrator stabbing his older brother to death, but aside from that, this story was all ad-lib.

"Eight-Legged Vengeance." I originally called this "The Eight Legs of Vengeance," and it took me far too long to realize that "Eight-Legged Vengeance" was the way to go. I have a fondness for comedy in which simple tasks become ridiculously difficult. I'd love to do this kind of story at novel length.

"The Drop." Originally, after the narrator goes splat, he realizes that he's a now a zombie. The editor asked me to get rid of that part. Deep inside, I knew he was right, so I did. Later, when I posted the story on my website, I used my original ending, with a disclaimer saying that when this story first appeared the editor made me change the ending, and he was right to do so, but I still kind of wanted people to see the zombie-ending version. Now, reviewing the story again for inclusion in this book, yes, I continue to believe that the editor was right, and since this is pretty much the "permanent" version of this story, I present it zombie-ending-free.

"Here's What Happened . . ." Somehow I lost the file for this story, so to include it in this collection I had to completely retype it. Yeah, I know that there are worse problems for somebody to have, but still, my pain will be significantly magnified if you think that this particular story sucked.

"Pregnancy Test" I think that if somebody invented a device like this, which brings you merry entertainment during a very stressful couple of minutes, they'd make a fortune. Feel free to use the idea and send me half of the money.

"Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine." This is one of my personal favorites of my own stories. The germ of the idea goes all the way back to 1990 or 1991, when I was in a creative writing class in college. There was a real-life case where a mother had murdered her children, and one of my classmates wrote a poem about it . . . a terrible poem. It was passionate and heartfelt, but the depth of his exploration of the issue essentially came down to: this was a bad thing for the mother to do. A couple of decades later, I decided to write about somebody having a life-changing moral epiphany about something absurdly obvious; in this case, baby-killing.

"The Carver." Before the 300-copy hardcover limited edition of Gleefully Macabre Tales was published, I had a moment of complete whack-job insanity where I said to my publisher, "Hey, what if I wrote a piece of micro-fiction on every signature sheet?" I found this idea so delightful that I immediately started writing a bunch of one-or-two sentence stories. Then, a short while later, I thought "Aaaiiiieeee!!! What have I done?!?" Fortunately, the publisher came back and said, "That's really not necessary," presumably because he didn't want me to be seventeen months late returning the signature sheets. Years later, when I was desperately seeking a story idea for the World Horror Convention souvenir book, I found the one-sentence story of the serial killer who uses the pumpkin-tracing patterns on human faces. That ended up not actually being the point of the story, but it was a nice springboard.

"Push The Button." A direct parody of Richard Matheson's story "Button, Button," except that it's based entirely on my memory of being a kid and having one of my friends telling me about this really great episode of The Twilight Zone. Flashing forward to 2012, Cult Movie Mania did a fantastic film series that ran for about six weeks. For the final week, they showed a trio of short films, and between those were live skits I wrote. Actor Joel B. Wynkoop performed in all of them, and Joel is an actor who treats the script as a blueprint . . . in other words, he ad-libs his ass off. So this is "Push The Button" as it was originally written, except that it's a short story instead of a script, and the omniscient narration was completely different. I'm not one to pat myself on the back over my own work, but c'mon, "It's like I don't even know you anymore!" was pretty clever, right?

"Specimen 313." So I got this e-mail from Christopher Golden, asking if there was any way I could write a story really quickly for a new anthology called The Monster's Corner, a collection of stories from the monster's point of view. In this situation, the correct answer is, and I quote, "yes." Then I started brainstorming sympathetic monsters that the other authors in the book hadn't already used. I thought that "giant Venus flytraps" was probably a safe bet, and Christopher Golden (I can call him "Chris," but why show off?) confirmed that there were no stories about sympathetic carnivorous plants. I don't think the word "sweet" is used very often to describe my short fiction, but, y'know, despite the blood and ghastly death, I think this story is kind of sweet.

"My Knife Collection." What does it say about me that I love to write from the point of view of reprehensible killers? Hopefully nothing. The protagonists in my novels tend to have some pretty deep flaws, but in short fiction, I often go all-out and write about despicable people. It's just fun. Sorry about that.

"Drain Bamage." You know how some authors say that their characters tell them what to do? I'm not one of those authors. This story, though, is an example of something that turned out completely different from what I'd intended. The concept was that I wanted to write a dark comedy about a little boy who drops his baby sister, then spends his whole life thinking that he may have caused brain damage. There were lots of directions the story could take (his sister goes insane, his sister doesn't go insane but he kills her thinking she's gone insane, the brother goes insane from the experience, etc.) but as humor, they all seemed too obvious. So I went with "the brother goes insane from the experience," but suddenly shifted the tone into something pitch-black and deadly serious.

"Gramma's Corpse." Another story like "Drain Bamage" that was conceived as a dark comedy, but about a page into it, I realized that the story worked perfectly fine as a straightforward creep-out. I don't know if the story is scary or not, but I've done a live reading of it, and when the girl hits the corpse and its eye pops open, the audience gasped. Heh heh.

"Burden." Yeah, I know. This is one big bummer of a story. It was written for an anthology, and that was the assignment: really downbeat, unpleasant horror. I'd spent about a year after college taking care of a quadriplegic man at his home, and — bathroom tasks notwithstanding — it was a perfectly fine job. It wasn't easy to get him into his recliner, but once I did, hey, we could sit down and watch Die Hard together, or I could read him First Blood. Not a bad gig. But when I was scanning my brain for material for a truly miserable little tale, it was clear how this experience could be transformed into something bitter and mean-spirited. When I turned in the story, the editor said, "I love the idea but it should be from the point-of-view of the paralyzed brother. Can you do a rewrite?" This, of course, would have turned it into a completely different story, and crossed the line from "As your editor, here are suggestions to improve the story" (always welcome) to "If I were writing the story myself, this is what I would have done" (boo!). And I withdrew the story.

"Rough Draft." People on the Internet skim a lot. There have been many times when I've posted things that are obvious jokes, as long as you actually read them, that people took seriously. Sometimes it's hilarious: I once posted a fake news article about how I'd been disqualified for a writing award, an article that was credible at first but ended with me fending off the authorities with a stolen trophy and a quote from the Chief of Police saying "We tried to subdue him, but the tip of that award was really pointy!" Several people who didn't read the whole article expressed outrage over my unfair treatment. Sometimes I feel guilty: ages ago, I did a 13-part serial comedy novel called Destiny's Noogie, and one part was a long (and increasingly ridiculous) rant about how I couldn't finish the chapter and just wanted to quit. It never occurred to me that anybody could possibly take it seriously, and most people got the joke, but I also got some "I'm really sorry to hear this, and I hope it gets better" responses, and, worse, a couple of people sent lengthy "I too have gone through writer's block, and I know how difficult it can be, and here's what I did to get over it" e-mails. Writing back to say "Uh, I was just kidding" made me feel like a Jerk Supreme. And . . . yeah, when "Rough Draft" was posted online, some people wondered if the correct version had been published. So my hope is that they didn't read the whole thing.

"Fangboy and the Troll." Of all of my Novels That Hardly Anybody Has Read, Fangboy is my favorite. So it was a lot of fun to revisit that book and write a "missing" chapter. If you enjoyed this story, you should definitely read Fangboy. If you did not enjoy this, you should still read Fangboy, but lower your expectations.

"Dead in the Water." No matter what the market, I always try to write to the best of my abilities. That said, when I wrote this story, for an anthology of zombie stories that take place in St. Petersburg, Florida, I wasn't getting paid for it, so my goal was to have as much fun as possible. Thus the extreme silliness on display here. (As opposed to all of the other stories in this collection, which are literate tales of great dignity.) I drive over the Howard Frankland Bridge on a semi-regular basis, so if any dissatisfied readers were trying to kill me, there are far worse ways to go about it than filling that bridge with zombies.

"Immunity." I love writing comedy in which people are extremely impressed by their own accomplishments, but this was my first time exploring that in a "serious" story. It's kind of a nihilistic little piece, now that I think about it. I should have called it "The Apocalypse Sucks, After All."

"The Big Bite." The inspiration for this story is right in the first sentence: if a vampire were sixty-five feet tall and going on a destructive rampage, the fact that it was a vampire would be largely irrelevant. This story is silly even by my standards, and, to be perfectly honest, not one of my most popular. But when the anthology Monstrous was reviewed on the podcast Dread Media, host Desmond Reddick said it was his favorite piece in the collection, and one of the funniest stories he'd ever read. We've since become good friends (though we've never met in person), he's been a huge supporter of my work, and my own dumb little Gleefully Macabre podcast is hosted by Dread Media. So "The Big Bite" was totally worth it.

"We Believe." After doing a major redesign on my website, which allowed people to post comments, I put up this story as a holiday freebie. The very first comment was something to the effect of "What an awful story. I hope this isn't representative of the stuff you actually charge money for." And I thought "Well, my website should be a forum where people can express honest opinions, and if he didn't like the story, he is completely within his rights to tell me so." Then a couple of days later I thought, "This is my website. Fuck that guy," and deleted his comment.

"Poor Career Choice." When I was compiling stories for my first collection, Gleefully Macabre Tales, I was on the fence about including the three Andrew Mayhem stories I'd written. This was partly because a publisher had asked about doing a hardcover omnibus of the novels (a project that is now deceased, may it rest in peace) and I thought I might reprint them there, but more importantly . . . y'know, I just don't think the other two stories are all that great. In fact, I kind of regret letting JA Konrath talk me into including them in Suckers. But I do like "Poor Career Choice," which originally appeared in These Guns For Hire, edited by Mr. Konrath. He made me cut a few jokes, and though I agreed with his editorial brutality, I've decided to include the (mostly) original version here.

"True Hero" A goofy little sketch comedy-esque tale written just for this collection. I inflict ghastly violence upon my characters while cackling with maniacal glee, but I honestly felt kind of bad writing about a poor guy not getting the credit he deserves for a selfless act.

"Chomp (A Cautionary Tale)." I speak with an American accent but I have very British sensibilities when it comes to characters having very mild reactions to unspeakably gruesome violence. As I've said before in these notes, I love to do things in short stories that I couldn't do in novels. In a full-length novel, even a horror/comedy, I try to have characters react to horrific situations as if they were genuinely horrific. In a short story, it's fun to have characters react with a shrug when people are shrieking and spurting blood everywhere. In real life, it's a mix of the two; I try to assist people with their medical needs, but while I do so I'm all like "Ha ha! You lost an arm!"

"The Severed Nose" The closing novella! (Or "novelette." You paid for this book, so you can pick.) I have no idea why the removal of body parts is a recurring theme in my work, but just off the top of my head, people lose pieces of themselves in Casket For Sale (Only Used Once), Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to "Shirley"), A Bad Day For Voodoo, The Sinister Mr. Corpse, Pressure, Wolf Hunt, Faint of Heart, Benjamin's Parasite (if you count teeth), Fangboy (again, if you count teeth, although now we're kind of forcing it), more that I'm sure I'm missing, and probably many novels to come. Also "Chomp (A Cautionary Tale)," which you read right before "The Severed Nose" if you're reading these stories in order, which scientific studies have shown you're probably not.

"Dummy." There really isn't much sex in this book, is there? Certainly less than Gleefully Macabre Tales. My bad. Though this story doesn't offer hot XXX puppet action, it does feature people going at it. Not in such a way that you'd highlight the pages and re-read it while whispering "Oh, yeah . . ." but, hey, not every book can be 50 Shades of Grey. When I was a kid, I read a book on ventriloquism, which said that because you can't pronounce some sounds without moving your lips, you have to replace them with other sounds. So, for example, when you go through the alphabet, the letter W would be pronounced as "duggle-you." When I did the alphabet for my friend, he laughed and said "Duggle-you???" It was not a good ventriloquism book.

"Story Notes" Not too long ago I was following an online discussion about what people liked and didn't like about short story collections. Many people said that they hate it when the story notes are at the end of the book instead of after each story. I took that under consideration . . . but I don't think most readers even care about the author's comments, and it would just be something annoying to skip after each story. What do you think?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeff Strand's previous short story collection, Gleefully Macabre Tales, was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Best Fiction Collection, although he lost to Stephen King and curses Mr. King to this day. His novels include Pressure, Dweller, A Bad Day for Voodoo, Wolf Hunt, and a bunch of others, including Benjamin's Parasite and The Sinister Mr. Corpse, and some others, including Mandibles and Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary), along with others.

His short fiction has appeared in such anthologies as The Monster's Corner, These Guns for Hire, and all three volumes of the Blood Lite series. He lives in Tampa, Florida, and you can visit his Gleefully Macabre website at www.JeffStrand.com.

OTHER BOOKS BY JEFF STRAND

Pressure. What if your best friend was a killer . . . and he wanted you to be just like him? Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Dweller. The story of a decades-long friendship between Toby and the monster that lives in the woods behind his home. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Wolf Hunt. Two thugs for hire. One beautiful woman. And one vicious frickin' werewolf.

Suckers (with JA Konrath). Andrew Mayhem meets Harry McGlade. Which one will prove to be more incompetent?

A Bad Day For Voodoo. A young adult horror/comedy about why sticking pins in a voodoo doll of your history teacher isn't always the best idea.

Fangboy. A dark comedy fairy tale about the adventures of Nathan Pepper, who was born with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

The Sinister Mr. Corpse. The feel-good zombie novel of the year.

Benjamin's Parasite. A rather disgusting action/horror/comedy about why getting infected with a ghastly parasite is unpleasant.

Kutter. Charlie Stanlon is a reprehensible serial killer, a vicious beast who cares about nobody . . . until he finds an injured Boston Terrier in the park . . .

Gleefully Macabre Tales. A collection of thirty-two demented tales. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Collection.

The Severed Nose. What would you do if you came home one evening and found a severed nose lying on a plate on your dining room table?

Disposal. Frank, a self-proclaimed scumbag, is hired to murder an old man . . . but the old bastard just won't DIE!!!

Elrod McBugle on the Loose. A comedy for kids (and adults who were warped as kids).

Out of Whack. A coming-of-age comedy about love, friendship, and the realization that trying to yank somebody's panties off in a passionate manner can only lead to wedgies.

How to Rescue a Dead Princess. A ridiculous spoof of fantasy novels. Lots and lots and lots of jokes, but I'm willing to admit that it perhaps tries a bit too hard.

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore). The greatest theme park attraction in the world! Take a completely safe ride through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn't break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters . . .

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn't much like Twilight.

For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com.

Find him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/JeffStrandAuthorFanPage.

To subscribe to Jeff Strand's newsletter, email JeffStrandNewsletter@gmail.com.

CREDITS

"Pett Semmuteary," "Stop Stabbing Me," "Dummy," "Pregnancy Test," "True Hero," "Fangboy and the Troll," and "Push The Button" are previously unpublished.

"Comeuppance" Horror World. 2007.

"The Apocalypse Ain't So Bad" Horror Library, Volume 3. 2008.

"Work/Life Balance" Help Wanted: Tales of On-The-Job Terror. 2012.

"Eight-Legged Vengeance" Blood Lite II: Overbite. 2010.

"The Drop" Delirium Books website. 2007.

"Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine" Desolate Souls. 2008.

"The Carver" World Horror Convention Souvenir Book. 2012.

"Here's What Happened . . ." Waiting for October. 2007.

"The Bell . . . FROM HELL!!!" Blood Lite. 2008.

"Bad Cover Art" Originally published as "The Cover" Necrotic Tissue #10. 2010.

"My Knife Collection" Cemetery Dance #60. 2009.

"Drain Bamage" Horror Library, Volume 4. 2010.

"Gramma's Corpse" Waiting for October. 2007.

"Immunity" Bits of the Dead. 2008.

"Burden" Shroud Magazine #6. 2009.

"Rough Draft" Horror World. 2010.

"Dead in the Water" Zombie Nation: St. Pete. 2010.

"The Big Bite" Monstrous. 2009.

"We Believe" Author's website. 2008.

"Poor Career Choice" These Guns For Hire. 2006.

"Chomp (A Cautionary Tale)" Relics & Remains. 2012.

"The Severed Nose" Morning Star Books. 2009.

- END -

Table of Contents

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Pett Semmuteary

Comeuppance

The Apocalypse Ain't So Bad

The Bell . . . FROM HELL!!!

Work/Life Balance

Stop Stabbing Me

Eight-Legged Vengeance

The Drop

Here's What Happened . . .

Pregnancy Test

Mr. Twitcher's Miracle Baby-Chopping Machine

The Carver

Push the Button

My Knife Collection

Drain Bamage

Gramma's Corpse

Burden

Rough Draft

Fangboy and the Troll

Dead in the Water

Immunity

The Big Bite

Specimen 313

We Believe

Poor Career Choice

True Hero

Chomp (A Cautionary Tale)

The Severed Nose

Dummy

Story Notes

About the Author

Other Books by Jeff Strand