"I beg your pardon?" Stanley asked. Brant didn't sound like he was joking. Brant never sounded like he was joking, but this would've been a damn good time for him to start.
Brant gestured to a red vinyl recliner in the corner of his office. "Have a more comfortable seat."
"I'm fine," Stanley said.
"That was not a request."
"Okay, look, I can see that you're on a power trip. How about I come back later?"
"How about you sit in the recliner before I kill you?"
Stanley gaped at him. "You didn't just…yes, you did. You can't be serious."
"Let me explain something to you. Your mental health was not guaranteed upon your return. We were not one hundred percent sure what we'd be dealing with. Yes, we were concerned with protecting our investment, but we were more concerned with the safety of our staff. Therefore, we set up a contingency plan in case you went berserk."
"What kind of contingency plan?"
"An injection, deliverable by hypodermic needle or, if necessary, a dart gun. It's the reverse of the injections that keep you alive. If I were to inject it into your system, you would feel a slight pinch. And then you would feel as if your skin were boiling from the inside. It would feel that way because that's exactly what would be happening. You would probably start to scream. And then your burning, boiling, melting flesh would start to rip itself from your bones, which would hurt about as much as one might expect. Within five minutes of the initial injection, The Amazing Mr. Corpse would be reduced to a pile of bones and scraps of sizzling flesh. I have both the hypodermic needle and the dart gun here in my desk. Would you like me to show them to you?"
He's totally serious, thought Stanley. He was tempted to jump up and make a run for it, but he'd never make it to the door. "You've got too much invested in me," he said.
"Indeed I do. It would be a terrible waste and I would lose many weeks of sleep. So let's avoid that particular lose-lose situation if at all possible."
"Works for me."
"Go sit on the recliner."
Stanley sighed. "Okay, I get the message. The clowning around got out of hand. I'll be a docile little zombie from now on."
"I will ask you one more time to sit in the recliner. Please do not make me ask again."
Stanley pushed back his chair and stood up. "You've already proven everything you need to prove. I get that you're the boss."
"If I have to resort to the cliche of counting down from ten, I will be very unhappy."
"Okay! Jesus!" Stanley walked over and plopped himself down on the recliner. "Are you happy now?"
"Put up the footrest."
Stanley pulled the handle on the side and raised the footrest. "It's very comfy."
"I'm glad. I just don't want you to fall on the floor and hurt yourself. Now, do I need to deliver this injection by needle or dart gun?"
"You're gonna sizzle me? I sat on the freakin' recliner!"
"No, I am not going to sizzle you. I'm going to remind you what it was like to be dead."
"I already said you won. Lesson learned."
"The problem, Stanley, is that I don't believe you. It's clear that you're terrified, but I don't know how much of that will remain after you walk out of this room. You'll start to convince yourself it was all a bluff, and then we'll be right back where we started."
"I don't think you're bluffing."
"Unfortunately, I can't prove that, now can I? So what is it going to be? Needle or dart?"
"Shit, Brant…"
"Needle or dart?"
"Needle."
"An excellent choice." Brant opened a drawer and took out a hypodermic needle, wrapped in plastic. "I regret that I'm forced to take these measures, but I think we'll have a much better working relationship as a result."
He stood up and removed the needle from the plastic. Stanley's heart was racing. No, wait, it couldn't be racing, since it didn't beat any more, but it sure felt like it was racing. Pounding. Bashing against his ribcage.
What the hell was he supposed to do? Just let Brant inject him? Try to overpower him? Start bawling and hope that the whole scene became too pathetic for Brant to witness?
"Don't move," said Brant. "Trust me when I say that trying anything remotely clever will turn out badly for you."
"What if this completely messes me up?" Stanley asked. "Do you want to risk that? Think how bad it'll look to maliciously destroy your project."
"Oh, I think you're plenty resilient." Brant walked over to the recliner and without any sort of build-up jabbed the needle into Stanley's upper arm.
"Ow!"
"This room is soundproof. You're welcome to scream."
Everything went dark.
Not dark as if somebody had turned out the light or whacked him over the head with a baseball bat. It was a complete blackness. Though Stanley was sort of aware of his body, he couldn't see it, and there was a "going down the first hill of a really tall rollercoaster" sensation in what he thought was his stomach. The whole experience was not unlike rapidly sinking in an ocean of oil. Or rising. He couldn't quite tell.
His head might've come off, but he wasn't sure about that, either.
Still, it wasn't that bad. Not exactly relaxing, but not exactly repeating the third grade.
Then he could see, sort of.
Just himself, floating/falling in the blackness. Not a very good view of himself, but better than the all-encompassing darkness.
A piece of skin on his right arm tore off, curling up as if it were a sardine can lid. It was uncomfortable.
A slightly larger piece of skin on his left arm did the same thing. Way-too-red blood began to jettison from the wound, even though Stanley distinctly remembered being told that he didn't have any blood.
Strips of flesh began to peel off each of his legs. More strips came off his arms. The flesh on his chest joined in, exposing rotting, misshapen organs.
Stanley decided to scream.
Then he felt something bite him. It was a set of teeth, attached to nobody. The teeth bit their way up his leg. More teeth joined them, forming a little trail of choppers biting through the skin of his leg. He could feel them on his back.
Something was burrowing its way into what remained of his arms. The pain was worse than giving rectal birth to a school of hungry piranha.
Did this mean that when he died he'd gone to hell?
The burrowing creature squirmed up into his brain. He could see it in the back of his eyes. It was red and slimy and had lots of pincers.
Stanley screamed some more.
And then woke up in the recliner.
He continued screaming as he flailed around to get away from the teeth and burrowing creatures that were no longer hurting him.
"Stanley…?"
Stanley realized that his skin was all intact, but he couldn't stop screaming.
"Stanley, it's okay now."
Stanley saw Brant standing over him. He tightly gripped the armrests of the recliner and forced himself to take a slow, deep, non-oxygen-delivering breath. It seemed to work. After a few more moments, he was more or less calmed down.
"Did you enjoy that?" asked Brant.
Stanley elected not to tell Brant to go fuck himself. "What was that?"
"A lesson."
"But what was it? Is that how it was like when I was dead?"
"You tell me."
"If I remembered, I wouldn't be asking," said Stanley. He wanted to add the word "asshole" to prove that his spirit wasn't broken, but if Brant had the power to make him go through that again, then perhaps Stanley's spirit was broken.
"Fair enough. But I'm not here to reveal the secrets of life and death to you, Stanley. How would you like an eternity-long replay of what you just experienced?"
"I wouldn't."
"Good. Then my discipline was successful." Brant smiled. "It may have been excessive, but I want to make sure you realize just how important it is for you to behave. I'm not asking you to behave like a robot. I'm asking you to behave in a manner that doesn't inspire me to want to place a shotgun in my mouth. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"Good." Brant's smile disappeared. "Because believe me, Stanley, if I have to destroy you, I will. I'll shoot that fucking dart right between your fucking eyes. You will respect me. You will obey me. And you'll watch your fucking language when I'm in the room. Do you completely understand?"
"Yeah."
"Say it."
"I completely understand."
The smile returned. "Then it should be smooth sailing from now on. You're not to discuss anything that has transpired. You'll tell Veronica that I threatened to keep you in the bunker until your behavior was in line with that of a Project Second Chance employee."
"Y'know, that actually would've worked just as well," Stanley remarked.
"We'll never know. Do you need a few minutes to compose yourself?"
"Nah, I'm fine."
"Take a few minutes anyway. And Stanley?"
"Yeah?"
"Sign the contract."
"Okay."
"By the way, the security guard who shot you? A religious zealot. We had to turn him over to the police because we couldn't exactly make him disappear, if you know what I mean. More people like that are out there, Stanley. Don't antagonize the ones who are keeping you safe."
"So what did he say?" asked Veronica as Stanley stepped out of Brant's office. She was a respectable distance down the corridor, but Stanley wondered if she'd been holding a glass to the soundproof door.
"He was a smidgen pissed."
"You look kind of shaken up."
"He threw me into a pit. Did you know he has a pit under his office? Giant spiders and everything."
"Be serious. What did he say?"
"I dunno, something about my attitude needing adjustment. I may turn over a new leaf. I'd hate for him to have to scold me again."
"That's it? He just talked about your attitude?"
Stanley shrugged. "He raised his voice. And he sort of implied that he wasn't going to let me out into society if I kept being my usual witty self. I guess I'll give him what he wants; I don't really care."
"Well…good, I guess."
"I'm still going to be obnoxious around you, though."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."