65 Proof (64 page)

The next day, Mom and Dad came back from the doctor and told me Grandpa wouldn’t be coming home for a while. He was in a special hospital. It didn’t bother me at all because I never was close with Grandpa and I was too busy building the club house with Marty Phipp. We went out in the woods to find a good tree. We walked for a while when we got to a creek and then we followed the creek for a while when we saw the shed.

It was a small shed, and it looked like no one had used it for a long time, and Marty said it was great because we could use the wood to build our club house. So we went to the shed and it was really old. I could break the wood just by pushing it. Marty wanted to stand on top so I let him get on my shoulders and he got on and then fell through the roof.

I didn’t know what to do. I went in the shed and Marty was on the floor and he wasn’t moving. I shook him and yelled his name but he wouldn’t wake up. So I ran back along the creek to get my Mom. I was running and running and I looked up in the sky through a break in the trees and I saw something. So I stopped and I squinted in the sun and there it was. An eagle. Circling around the tops of the trees.

Then I began to run again, but I tripped over a human head, and then a very large and dirty man jumped out of the trees and came at me with a knife.

The biggest knife I ever seen.

It’s no secret I’m a huge F. Paul Wilson fan. When we were both invited into the Blood Lite anthology, I asked him if he would like to collaborate on a funny horror short. He graciously agreed, and we produced this slapstick bit of schtick. It was a lot of fun to write.

“W
e’re dead! We’re freakin’ dead!”

Mick Brady, known by the criminal underground of Arkham, Pennsylvania as “Mick the Mick,” held a shaking fist in front of Willie Corrigan’s face. Willie recoiled like a dog accustomed to being kicked.

“I’m sorry, Mick!”

Mick the Mick raised his arm and realized that smacking Willie wasn’t going to help their situation. He smacked him anyway, a punch to the gut that made the larger man double over and grunt like a pig.

“Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my hernia! You know I got a bulge there!”

Mick the Mick grabbed a shock of Willie’s greasy brown hair and jerked back his head so they were staring eye-to-eye.

“What do you think Nate the Nose is going to do to us when he finds out we lost his shit? We’re both going to be eating
San Francisco Hot Dogs
, Willie.”

Willie’s eyes got wide. Apparently the idea of having his dick cut off, boiled, and fed to him on a bun with a side of fries was several times worse than a whack to the hernia.

“We’ll…we’ll tell him the truth. Maybe he’ll understand.”

“You want to tell the biggest mobster in the state that your Nana used a key of uncut Columbian to make a pound cake?”

“It was an accident,” Willie whined. “She thought it was flour. Hey, is that a spider on the wall? Spiders give me the creeps, Mick. Why do they need eight legs? Other bugs only got six.”

Mick the Mick realized that hitting Willie again wouldn’t help anything. He hit him anyway, a slap across his face that echoed off the concrete floor and walls of Willie’s basement.

“Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my bad tooth! You know I got a cavity there!”

Mick the Mick was considering where he would belt his friend next, even though it wasn’t doing either of them any good, when he heard the basement door open.

“You boys playing nice down there?”

“Yes, Nana,” Willie called up the stairs. He nudged Mick the Mick and whispered, “Tell Nana yes.”

Mick the Mick rolled his eyes, but managed to say, “Yes, Nana.”

“Would you like some pound cake? It didn’t turn out very well for some reason, but Bruno seems to like it.”

Bruno was Willie’s dog, an elderly beagle. He tore down the basement stairs, ran eighteen quick laps around Mick the Mick and Willie, and then barreled, full-speed, face-first into the wall, knocking himself out. Mick the Mick watched as the dog’s tiny chest rose and fell with the speed of a weed wacker.

“No thanks, Nana,” Mick the Mick said.

“It’s on the counter, if you want any. Good night, boys.”

“Night, Nana,” they answered in unison.

Mick the Mick wondered how the hell they could get out of this mess. Maybe there was some way to separate the coke from the cake, using chemicals and stuff. But they wouldn’t be able to do it themselves. That meant telling Nate the Nose, which meant San Francisco Hot Dogs. In his twenty-four years since birth, Mick the Mick had grown very attached to his penis. He’d miss it something awful.

“We could sell the cake,” Willie said.

“You think someone is going to pay sixty thousand bucks for a pound cake?”

“It’s just an idea.”

“It’s a stupid idea, Willie. No junkie is going to snort baked goods. Ain’t gonna happen.”

“So what should we do? I — hey, did you hear if the Phillies won? Phillies got more legs than a spider. And you know what?
They catch flies too!
That’s a joke, Mick.”

“Shaddup. I need to think.”

Mick the Mick couldn’t think of anything, so he punched Willie again, even though it didn’t solve anything.

“Jesus, Mick! You hit my kidney! You know I got a stone there!”

Mick the Mick walked away, rubbing his temples, willing an idea to come.

“That one really hurt, Mick.”

Mick the Mick shushed him.

“I mean it. I’m gonna be pissing red for a week.”

“Quiet, Willie. Lemme think.”

“It looks like cherry Kool-Aid. And it burns, Mick. Burns like fire.”

Mick the Mick snapped his fingers.
Fire.

“That’s it, Willie. Fire. Your house is insured, right?”

“I guess so. Hey, do you think there’s any pizza left? I like pepperoni. That’s a fun word to say.
Pepperoni
. It rhymes with
lonely
. You think pepperoni gets lonely, Mick?”

To help Willie focus, Mick the Mick kicked him in his bum leg, even though it really didn’t help him focus much.

“Jesus, Mick! You know I got gout!”

“Pay attention, Willie. We burn down the house, collect the insurance, and pay off Nate the Nose.”

Willie rubbed his shin, wincing.

“But where’s Nana supposed to live, Mick?”

“I hear the Miskatonic Nursing Home is a lot nicer, now that they arrested the guy who was making all the old people wear dog collars.”

“I can’t put Nana in a nursing home, Mick!”

“Would you rather be munching on your vein sausage? Nate the Nose makes you eat the whole thing, or else you also get served a side of meatballs.”

Willie folded his arms. “I won’t do it. And I won’t let you do it.”

Mick the Mick took aim and punched Willie in his bad knee, where he had the metal pins, even though it did nothing to fix their problem.

“Jesus, Mick! You hit me in the…”

“Woof!”

Bruno the beagle sprang to his feet, ran sixteen laps around the men, then tore up the stairs.

“Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Get off the counter! You’ve had enough pound cake!”

Mick the Mick put his face in his hands, very close to tears. The last time he cried was ten years ago, when Nate the Nose ordered him to break his mother’s thumbs because she was late with a loan payment. When he tried, Mom had stabbed Mick the Mick with a meat thermometer. That hurt, but not as much as a wiener-ectomy would.

“Maybe we can leave town,” Willie said, putting a hand on Mick the Mick’s shoulder.

That left Willie’s kidney exposed. Mick the Mick took advantage, even though it didn’t help their situation.

Willie fell to his knees. Bruno the beagle tore down the stairs, straddled Willie’s calf, and began to hump so fast his little doggie hips were a blur.

Mick the Mick began searching the basement for something flammable. As it often happened in life, arson was really the only way out. He found a can of paint thinner on a dusty metal shelf and worked the top with his thumbnail.

“Mick, no!”

Mick couldn’t get it open. He tried his teeth.

“You can’t burn my house down, Mick! All my stuff is here! Like my comics! We used to collect comics when we were kids, Mick! Don’t you remember?”

Willie reached for a box, dug out a torn copy of Amazing Spiderman #146, and traced his finger up and down Scorpion’s tail in a way that made Mick the Mick uncomfortable. So he reached out and slapped Willie’s bad tooth. Willie dropped the comic and curled up fetal, and Bruno the beagle abandoned the calf for the loftier possibilities of Willie’s head.

Mick managed to pop the top on the can, and he began to sprinkle mineral spirits on some bags labeled
Precious Photos & Memories.

Willie moaned something unintelligible through closed lips — he was probably afraid to open his mouth until he disengaged Bruno the beagle.

“Mmphp-muummph-mooeoemmum!”

“We don’t have a choice, Willie. The only way out of this is fire. Beautiful, cleansing fire. If there’s money left over, we’ll bribe the orderlies so Nana doesn’t get abused. At least not as much as the others.”

“Mick!” Willie cried. It came out “Mibb!” because Bruno the beagle had taken advantage. Willie gagged, shoving the dog away. Bruno the beagle ran around Willie seven times then flew up the stairs.

“Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Naughty dog! Not when we have company over!”

Willie hacked and spit, then sat up.

“A heist, Mick. We could do a heist.”

“No way,” Mick the Mick said. “Remember what happened to Jimmy the Spleen? Tried to knock over a WaMu in Pittsburgh. Cops shot his ass off. His whole ass. You want one of them creepy poop bags hanging on your belt?”

Willie wiped a sleeve across his tongue. “Not a bank, Mick. The Arkham Museum.”

“The museum?”

“They got all kinds of expensive old stuff. And it ain’t guarded at night. I bet we could break in there, get away with all sorts of pricey antiques. I think they got like a T-rex skull. That could be worth a million bucks. If I had a million bucks, I’d buy some scuba gear, so I could go deep diving on shipwrecks and try to find some treasure so I could be rich.”

Mick the Mick rolled his eyes.

“You think Tommy the Fence is going to buy a T-rex skull? How we even gonna get it out of there, Willie? You gonna put it in your pocket?”

“They got other stuff too, Mick. Maybe gold and gems and stamps.”

“I got a stamp for you.”

“Jesus, Mick! My toe! You know I got that infected ingrown!”

Mick the Mick was ready to offer seconds, but he stopped mid-stomp.

“You ever been to the Museum, Willie?”

“Course not. You?”

“Nah.”

But maybe it wasn’t a totally suck-awful idea.

“What about the alarms?”

“We can get past those, Mick. No problem. Hey, you think I need a haircut? If I look up, I can see my bangs.”

Willie did just that. Mick the Mick stared at the cardboard boxes, soaked with paint thinner. He wanted to light them up, watch them burn. But insurance took forever. There were investigations, forms to fill out, waiting periods.

But if they went to the museum and pinched something small and expensive, chances are they could turn it around in a day or two. The faster they could pay off Nate the Nose, the safer Little Mick and the Twins were.

“Okay, Willie. We’ll give it a try. But if it don’t work, we torch Nana’s house. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Mick the Mick extended his hand. Willie reached for it, leaving his hernia bulge unprotected. Now that they had a plan, it served absolutely no purpose to hit Willie again.

He hit him anyway.

“I don’t like it in here, Mick.” Willie said as they entered the great central hall of the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards.

Mick the Mick gave him a look, which was pretty useless since Willie couldn’t see his face and he couldn’t see Willie’s. The only things they could see were whatever lay at the end of their flashlight beams.

Getting in had been a walk. Literally. The front doors were unlocked. And no alarm. Really weird. Unless the museum had stopped locking up because nobody ever came here. Mick the Mick had lived in Arkham all his life and never met anyone who’d ever come here except on a class trip. Made a kind of sense then to not bother with locks. Nobody came during the day when the lights were on, so why would anyone want to come when the lights were out?

Which made Mick the Mick a little nervous about finding anything valuable.

“It’s just a bunch of rooms filled with loads of old crap.”

Willie’s voice shook. “Old stuff scares me. Especially
this
old stuff.”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s old and — hey, can we stop at Burger Pile on the way home?”

“Focus, Willie. You gotta focus.”

“I like picking off the sesame seeds and making them fight wars.”

Mick the Mick took a swing at him and missed in the dark.

Suddenly the lights went on. They were caught. Mick the Mick feared prison almost as much as he feared Nate the Nose. He was small for his size, and unfortunately blessed with perfectly-shaped buttocks. The cons would trade him around like cigarettes.