The Sinister Mr. Corpse (24 page)

"Why be subtle about it?" Martin asked.

"What do you mean?"

"If you want the badge, take it. Beat the
shit out of him. What's he going to do, shoot you?"

"I hadn't quite thought of that
approach."

"The question is this: could you handle the
awkward situation of discovering that you were completely
wrong?"

"I'd get over it eventually."

"Then let's do it!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Stanley felt extremely nervous, which he
blamed on the fact that he was planning to physically threaten the
man who was responsible for his well-being. Lots of ways that could
turn out bad. But he had to see what was in the lab, even if it
just turned out to be a shelf filled with jars labeled "Virgin
Blood - Do Not Gargle."

Martin was kicking his ass
at the boxing video game, but of course Stanley had other things on
his mind and (even more importantly) only one arm. Hell, you
practically needed
four
arms to manipulate the kinds of controllers they
had on video games these days, so Stanley was not embarrassed by
his brutal trouncing.

They were the only ones in the bunker.
Veronica and Dr. Arnzin had gone home for the weekend, and Brant
had gone out to take care of "extremely important matters" related
to Stanley's "abhorrent behavior" and "irresponsible, reckless
attitude" but that he hoped Stanley had an enjoyable time "wasting
his life" playing that "crap."

But Brant would be back. And Stanley and
Martin would be ready for him.

Sort of.

Actually, they weren't really ready at all.
Having a gun would've been a really great point in their favor, but
they weren't allowed to leave the bunker. Well, Martin was, with
the warning that if he left, he wouldn't be allowed to return until
things calmed down. And they wouldn't have been able to smuggle a
gun past the metal detectors anyway, so they sat in Stanley's room,
playing video games, gunless.

He did have a bottle of hair spray that could
be used as a bludgeoning weapon, and a video game system that could
be used as a projectile, but they'd decided to rely on their own
brute strength if Brant failed to cooperate. Though neither Stanley
nor Martin were exactly fearsome physical threats, Brant wasn't
particularly intimidating, either. If they couldn't overpower a
fifty-year-old scientist with a rod up his butt, they didn't
deserve to know what was in the lab.

"I'm getting that phantom itch again," said
Stanley, setting down his game controller and scratching the air
where his arm used to be.

"What does it feel like?"

"It's weird. It feels like it's right in my
middle finger, like my arm is bent upward and I'm flipping somebody
off. What's disturbing about it is that I think maybe somebody has
my arm and they're playing around with it and flipping off their
buddies."

"I hope you're wrong."

"Me too." Stanley scratched at the itch
again. "You don't really think Donald's death was my fault, do
you?"

"No."

"You don't seem sure."

"Well, I'm not sure. I mean, he died trying
to save you. It was just to further his career because he was a
sleazy opportunistic bastard, but still, you put him in that
situation."

"Technically, the crackheads who kidnapped me
put me in that situation. They could've grabbed me while I was on
my way to the store for a quart of milk."

"But you weren't buying milk."

"I was out trying to save people," Stanley
said, trying not to get defensive.

"I know. That's why I'm not throwing any
guilt trips on you."

"You just did!"

"You asked a question! Stop asking
questions!"

There was a knock at the door.

"C'mon in," Stanley called out.

Brant opened the door. "I'm just letting you
know that I'm back."

"Thanks, sweetie. Do you want me to rub your
feet while you tell me about your day?"

"Your fan club has grown. I don't mind
telling you that they're very frightening people. A few of them
were even wearing makeup to look like you."

"That's pretty cool. Maybe I'll start a whole
trend of Mr. Corpse impersonators. Then it will end in tragedy when
there's a mass arm-severing. That would be an interesting fad,
don't you think?"

Brant raised an eyebrow. "Are you
uncomfortable about something?"

"No, why?"

"You're babbling even more incoherently than
usual."

"Nope. Just bummed about my arm."

Brant gestured to the television. "Well, I'll
leave you two alone to enjoy your mental stimulation."

"Hey, Brant, can we see the lab?"

"I don't think so."

Stanley and Martin got to their feet. "Are
you sure?" Stanley asked. "Because I'd really love to see what's
inside there."

"It's hazardous materials, as you most
certainly are aware. Why do you think we're in an underground
bunker?"

"Not sure I believe you, Brant."

"I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm
certainly not going to put our lives at risk to satisfy your
curiosity."

Stanley and Martin took a step forward. "I'm
not sure you have a choice," said Stanley.

"If I weren't an optimist who believes that
there are limits to even your stupidity, I'd think that you were
threatening me."

"Is that what you think?"

"No, because you couldn't possibly be that
much of an idiot, even after being shot in the head."

"I want you to show me the fuckin' lab," said
Stanley. "Now."

"See, Stanley, your overuse of profanity has
diluted its impact. I'm not intimidated at all. Martin, I thought
you were the reasonable member of your duo. That's why I've allowed
you to stick around. Now, I'd advise both of you to sit back down,
return to your fun little video games, and leave the intimidation
tactics to people who are actually intimidating."

"
Get him!
" Stanley shouted.

They both rushed forward. Martin reached the
doorway first, and received a punch to the jaw that knocked him all
the way across the room and against Stanley's bed.

Stanley took a split second
to admit to himself that while he wasn't happy to have seen it
happen, it
was
a
pretty damn impressive punch. Then he tackled Brant and both of
them fell to the floor.

Brant punched him in the face so hard that
Stanley swore his teeth rattled, his eyes spun in their sockets,
his not-quite-a-nose bounced against the back of his head, and his
hair rustled in the breeze created by Brant's mighty blow.

"Jeez! How often do you work out?" Stanley
asked.

"Every day," Brant replied, delivering
another punch. Stanley was glad he didn't have any blood, because
it would be spraying all over.

Stanley tried to hit Brant back and was
embarrassed by his own effort. Brant's third punch was even harder
than the first two, and Stanley decided that he didn't want to
fight anymore.

"Okay, okay! I quit!" Stanley said, climbing
off of Brant. "Truce!"

Brant stood up, wiped off his shirt, and then
grabbed Stanley by the neck and slammed him against the wall. "We
have a real problem here, Stanley. What do you suggest we do about
it?"

"Blame my head injury?"

"I don't think so." Brant shoved Stanley back
into the bedroom. Stanley stumbled and then fell on his butt,
landing on the video game system and almost giving himself an
unwanted sexual experience.

Brant calmly shut the door, leaving Stanley
and Martin inside. Stanley cursed as he heard it lock, then got up
and sighed.

"That was really pathetic," Stanley admitted.
"We got beat up by a shriveled old geezer."

"He's not shriveled," said Martin, sitting on
the bed and massaging his cheek. "He actually looks really
fit."

"Yeah, but I was out there beating up street
thugs! How does somebody like Brant get the best of me?"

"You weren't beating up street thugs. You
were making scary zombie faces at them and freaking them out when
they shot you and you didn't die. Two of them kidnapped you and
sawed off your arm."

"But still, I think something weird is going
on."

"You also got beat up by that ice cream man
that one time when he accused you of not paying for the
drumstick."

"I did pay for it."

"I know. But he beat you up and you paid for
it again."

"Still, maybe he's on steroids or
something."

"Stanley? Give it up. He beat us because we
suck."

"You suck more. When I
conceived this plan I didn't think you were such a weenie! One
punch and you were out! It took
three
punches for me to give
up!"

Martin glared at him. "I might also point out
that the plan involved things like lulling him into a false sense
of security, following him out of the room, and tackling him by
surprise. I'm pretty sure the plan was never to just run at him
like a pair of jackass football players."

"You were nothing like a football
player."

"Don't blame this on me, Stanley. I wanted to
get him in a gunny sack."

"We don't have any gunny sacks! I don't think
they even make gunny sacks anymore!"

"Then I said, how about a pillowcase over his
head? A pillowcase would've worked. But no, you said, let's wing
it. Let's wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. How did the
perfect opportunity to strike suddenly become you shouting 'Get
him!' when he was standing in the doorway?"

"Everything's always my fault, isn't it?"

Martin nodded vigorously.

"Well, you can sit there all night and play
the blame game, but I'm going to do some forward-thinking and
figure out a way out of here."

"Like what? Chew through the wall?"

"At least that would be more productive than
standing around here complaining!"

"No, if you want to get technical about it,
trying to chew through the wall would be equally productive to
standing around here complaining."

Stanley kicked the video game system. "That's
it! You're fired!"

"From what?"

"Everything! You're fired from
everything!"

"Fine! Fire me!"

"I just did!"

"Good!"

"Glad you approve!"

"You know, Stanley, I've been your loyal
friend for a long time. Somebody like you just cries out for
fair-weather friends, but I've been your friend through every kind
of weather there is. And do you know why that is? Do you know why
I've stuck with you, through thick and thin, all of these
years?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm a fuckin' idiot!" Martin smacked
himself on the side of the head three times. "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!
What the hell was I thinking? You suck!"

"I don't suck."

"You do! You're, like, the devil! You're the
worst thing that's ever happened to me! If I'd never met you, I'd
have a real job and self-respect and occasional moments of
happiness! You're this incredible moron who somehow convinced
himself that he's a genius even though to be a genius you have to
possess some sort of actual intelligence! You're like
this...this...this cloud of foul, black evil that's ruining the
world! You're the worst person who has ever lived in the entire
history of mankind! You suck so much that if Carl Sagan were alive
he couldn't even quantify it! Why the hell have I been hanging out
with you all this time? What bugs are squirming around in my brain
to mess with my thought processes so much that I thought you were a
good choice of a friend?" He smacked himself twice more. "Dumb!
Dumb! Dumb! Fuck you, Stanley! Fuck you with a goat! Fuck you with
a...a...wide-screen television! Fuck you with a moose head!"

The door opened.

"I'm not done yet!" Martin shouted, not
taking his eyes off Stanley. "Fuck you with a branding iron! With a
calendar! With a beehive! With a--"

"Martin, I think Brant wants to say
something."

"With a cannibal! With a goat!"

"You already used the goat," said Stanley,
calmly. "How about we discuss this later, when you're feeling, uh,
different?"

Martin sat down on the bed and buried his
face in his hands.

"You let out a lot of interesting emotions,"
said Stanley. "We'll delve into them, I promise."

"Did I miss something?" Brant asked.

"No, no, he just...aw, crud." Stanley's
spirits sank even further as he saw that Brant was holding the dart
gun. "Are you going to execute me?"

"That all depends on you."

Martin lifted his head. "What is that?"

"The darts have an anti-Stanley formula,"
Stanley explained. "It'll boil my body from the inside out. If you
ask nicely he'll probably let you shoot me."

Brant chuckled. "It sounds to me like we
could both get a lot of pleasure out of pulling the trigger
simultaneously. But, alas, the Sinister Mr. Corpse is still useful
to me. So we have to figure out what to do about this little
problem. If I ignore it, next you'll come after me with a gun, or
at least come up with a plan that isn't completely asinine. That
leaves only punishment. I've punished you before and it didn't
work. So I have to try something even more extreme."

"You're going to chop off my other arm,
aren't you?"

"No. I'm glad you remembered the effect that
the fluid in this dart would have on you. I never explained,
however, that it does quite a number on regular humans as
well."

With a cruel smile, Brant pointed the dart
gun at Martin and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As soon as he saw Brant's hand move, Stanley
leapt in front of his friend.

The dart struck Stanley in the belly. He
stared at it for a moment and then plucked it out. It stung a bit,
but it wasn't too--