As he lay in the stinking room, his entire body aching, wavering between sanity and insanity, Stanley had to admit that everybody had been right when they suggested that the whole crime fighter thing had been a poorly conceived idea. But he was a zombie! He couldn't follow the beaten path! What was he supposed to do with his abilities, rent himself out at a shooting range?
He briefly went insane again and daydreamed about being rented out at a shooting range. It was not a fun daydream.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been in the room, but he did know that he hadn't brought any injections with him on patrol. He'd taken one right before leaving, so he had until tomorrow evening (assuming it wasn't already tomorrow evening), but the need for escape was pretty substantial.
The second thug, the one who wasn't wearing a Band-Aid on his neck and hadn't shot him in the head, walked into the room. He held a small opaque cup, which he held to Stanley's mouth as he crouched down.
"Here, drink this."
"What is it?"
"Water."
"How do I know that?"
The thug shrugged and poured the liquid out onto the floor. "Guess you don't. Try not to get too thirsty." He stood up and headed for the doorway.
"No, wait, I need your help!"
"Is that so?"
"I need injections every twenty-four hours. You've got to let me go or I'll miss my next one and die."
"We'll let you go when we get our money."
"When's that?"
"We haven't decided on a deadline yet."
"If I don't get my injection, there won't be anything left to ransom off."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious! At the very least, let me call my friend Martin. He can leave one for me, and you can pick it up."
"Martin a cop?"
"No. He's just a friend."
"What's in the injection? We've got all kinds of stuff we could stick in you. You into crystal meth?"
"It's not drugs. It's…it's just not drugs."
"When we get our money, you can get your fix."
"They won't pay if I'm dead!"
"They might. I bet your remains are pretty valuable to a museum or something."
It was obvious that this wasn't going to work, so Stanley decided to focus on the second problem. "Listen to me, I got shot in the head-"
"No kidding."
"I'm a fast healer. The bullet, it's really screwing with my mind, and I'm scared that my skull will heal around it and seal it in there. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"That's one fucked up problem, man."
"I know. I'm okay for the moment, but any second now I could start seeing chickens in the walls, so I need to get the bullet out. You've got to get me a mirror and some big tweezers."
"I ain't getting you shit."
"Listen, Project Second Chance will pay much less for an insane zombie! What if they want to talk to me on the phone before they drop off the ransom? If I'm babbling incoherently, they won't believe it's me."
"We don't have any tweezers."
"I'll give you the money to buy some. They're cheap. But, see, the bullet is messing with my mind so bad that I didn't even realize something important. I can pay the ransom myself. I'm rich! Get me to an ATM and I'll get you all the money you need!"
"There's a limit on ATM withdrawals."
"We'll go to multiple ATMs."
"I've tried that before. It retained the dude's card."
"Then let me withdraw the money from my account. We can try a drive-through teller or something. How much are you asking?"
"Twenty million dollars."
"That's…generous. Look, I really got screwed on the contract, you know how those things go, and I don't have that much available, but Project Second Chance can come up with that, I'm sure."
"No shit. That's why we're holding you for ransom."
"Oh. That's right. Bullet in my brain, remember?"
"I remember."
"So what's your name?"
"None of your business."
"Well, Chauncey, all I'm asking for are some tweezers and a mirror so that I can get this bullet out of my brain. I'm a living corpse who dresses up in Halloween gear and goes after bad guys; do you really want my sanity slipping even further?"
"I'll have to ask Tom."
"Are you Tom's bitch?"
"No."
"You sure? It sounds to me like we might have a bitch situation going on here."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Is he cruel when you make love?"
The thug kicked Stanley in the face. "Your dead ass can just sit in here alone."
"No, no! Let's be reasonable about this. We're both entrepreneurs, right? You need to protect your investment. If you leave the bullet in here I'll…oh, fudge, here come the chickens…"
When Stanley's mind returned to functionality, there were three rats chewing on his feet. They'd burrowed through his shoes and were going at his toes with great enthusiasm. This was rather disturbing, although less disturbing than the rat that was chewing on Stanley's face.
He shook his head violently and kicked his feet to get rid of the vermin, then decided that maybe a good old fashioned sob session was in order.
No. He'd be strong. He was no longer Stanley Dabernath, that pathetic failed movie distributor crying in his trailer. He was the Sinister Mr. Corpse, that pathetic failed superhero being held for ransom by drug dealers. If you discounted the rats, it was an improvement.
His cheek really hurt, but by testing the inside with his tongue it didn't appear that the rat had gotten all the way through.
If he got out of this, he'd definitely figure out another way to use his abilities for good. Martin's "soaking up wisdom" idea was sounding good. He could be a traveling bard, sharing stories of the ages ("This one time these drug dealers tied me up and let rats chew me.").
The door opened and both thugs entered. Chauncey held a small mirror and a long pair of metal tweezers.
"We're gonna let you get the bullet out," Chauncey explained. "But don't try using it on us or anything."
"Thank you," Stanley said, forcing himself not to say any of the 18,719 smart-ass comments that ricocheted through his mind.
"We're going to untie your hands," said Tom. "But we'll have a gun on you. If you try anything, I'll shoot you in the head again and drive that bullet in even deeper. You understand?"
"I understand."
Tom pointed the pistol at Stanley while Chauncey bent down and unlocked the handcuffs. He quickly jumped back as if Stanley was going to attack, but Stanley remained calm. He pushed himself to a sitting position and then scooted back against the wall. Though the wall was sticky, he didn't complain.
He picked up the mirror, which was an extremely girly one with a pink flowered frame. He took a moment to brace himself for what he might see, and then looked at his reflection.
It wasn't so bad. Yeah, there was a disgusting gash in his right cheek, but the bullet hole in his forehead wasn't as big as he would've expected. The lack of blood probably helped with the aesthetics.
He picked up the tweezers, wondering if he should use them for a daring escape attempt. He could fling them at Tom. They'd lodge into his left eye, and in a blind panic Tom would fire the pistol, shooting his partner in the heart. Tom would pluck out the tweezers but then be so overcome by grief that he'd turn the pistol on himself.
Stanley decided not to try it.
"I don't suppose I could call my doctor, could I?" he asked. "He's a cool guy. You'd like him."
"Just get the bullet out and shut up."
Stanley checked out the bullet hole closely in the mirror. "Any chance you've got a flashlight? I know I should've asked sooner, but I wasn't thinking."
"No flashlight."
"Figures. Okay, here we go."
A long silence.
"So go," Tom urged.
"I'm about to stick a pair of tweezers in my brain! A bit of lollygagging is to be expected!"
"You need to do it quick, man," said Chauncey. "Like when you're tearing off a bandage or having a chest wax."
"This isn't like a chest wax. This is surgery."
"Do you want me to do it?"
"Oh, sure, brain surgery by a twitchy-fingered drug addict. Sign me right the fuck up."
"Hey, that was a gesture, man!"
"How about you two give me some privacy?"
Tom shook his head. "No way. You'd try to escape."
"What am I gonna do? Scrape through the wall with a pair of tweezers?"
"You might! Did you see that movie with Tim Robbins? The Shawshank Redemption?"
"It was a rock hammer, and it took him, like, thirty years! The only way I'm gonna escape is to tie a message to a rat!"
Chauncey nervously looked around for rats. Tom smacked him in the shoulder.
"No privacy," said Tom. "You do it now or the bullet stays."
"Fine." Stanley angled the mirror just right, and then very, very slowly began to insert the tweezers into the bullet hole.
"Oh, man, that is nasty!"
"Shut up! You're disrupting my concentration!" Stanley shoved the tweezers in deeper.
"Did you get it?"
"I said shut up!"
"We should be taking pictures," said Tom.
"I mean it, be quiet so I can focus." He shoved the tweezers in even deeper. "Okay, I've got something. No, wait, that's just brain."
Tom and Chauncey both crouched down to get a closer look.
"What does it feel like?" Tom asked.
"It doesn't feel like anything. You don't have pain receptors in your brain."
"But it feels weird, right?"
"Enough with the questions! I'll give you a full report when it's done!"
Chauncey poked at his own forehead with his index finger. "I dunno, man, I don't think I could do something like that."
"Nobody's asking you to."
"I didn't say that anybody was asking me to, but if I were in that situation, I think I'd just leave the bullet where it was."
Stanley frowned and jiggled the tweezers a bit.
"Do you have it?" asked Tom.
"I'm not sure. I think so. I can't tell."
"Maybe you should lean your head down and shake it."
Stanley started to tell him to shut up again, but then decided that the advice was sound and took it.
"Anything?"
"Do you see any bullets dropping out of my head?"
"No."
"Then it's not doing anything!"
"Don't be so goddamn testy, man. We got you the tweezers and mirror like you wanted!"
Stanley raised his head, let go of the tweezers, and pointed at both of them. "If you don't stop talking, I swear to God, I'll beat the crap out of you."
Neither of the thugs looked intimidated. Their lack of fear was probably directly related to the pair of tweezers protruding from Stanley's forehead.
Stanley fished around for a few more moments in blissful silence. "Oops, there went high school Algebra."
"No big loss," said Tom.
Stanley pulled out the tweezers and shook his head. "No good, I can't get it. I'll need a medical professional to do the brain surgery."
"That bites, man."
"Yeah."
And then Stanley realized that this was his big chance. Tom had lowered the gun, and both men were still staring at the hole in his forehead.
He slammed the tweezers into Tom's chest. Tom screamed in pain as Stanley grabbed for the gun. He missed. Tom swung it toward his face, but Stanley threw a punch that struck the inside of his wrist. The gun fell to the floor.
Stanley got Tom with a devastating head-butt that he was pretty damn sure hurt himself a lot more than the thug, considering that he already had a hole in his skull.
Chauncey tackled him. They struggled on the floor, Man against Zombie.
Zombie was getting his ass kicked.
Chauncey bashed Stanley against the floor four, five, then six times until Stanley had to admit that he probably wasn't going to emerge as the victor.
"Cuff him!" said Tom, groaning in pain.
Chauncey rolled Stanley over onto his stomach and refastened the handcuffs. Then he bashed Stanley's face against the floor a couple more times.
"What do we do with him?" Chauncey asked.
"I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna make sure that the folks paying his ransom know good and well that this is the real Mr. Corpse. Go get a knife. Biggest one we've got."
"Okay, that idea is really unnecessary," Stanley insisted, rolling over onto his back as Chauncey left the room. "I'm very recognizable."
Tom plucked the tweezers out of his chest. "You can fake pictures. You can't fake an arm."
"Aw, shit, c'mon, Tom-"
"Did you just say my name? Did he tell you my name?"
"No, no, you just look like a Tom."
"This ain't good."
"What difference does it make if I know your name? I know what you look like, too!"
Hey, Stanley, how about you not say anything else that stupid for the rest of the day?
Chauncey returned to the room, holding a butcher knife. "Did you tell him my name?" Tom demanded.
"No."
"How'd he know it was Tom?"
"Oh. Maybe."
"So, Hugh, how's it going, Hugh, did you get the knife like I asked, Hugh?"
"What's the big deal? He's already seen our faces, and Tom is a very common name."
Tom considered that. "Yeah, you're right. Give me the knife and hold him down."
"Guys, you don't need to do this," Stanley said, not even trying to be manly and keep the terror out of his voice. "They'll pay the ransom. They've got too much invested in me. I'll tell the press that you were kind, generous captors and that we experienced that weird bonding thing that you hear people talk about."
Tom shook his head. "You're losing an arm."
"At least just take a thumb. My thumbs are distinctive. They'll know it's mine."
"Arm. It'll grow back, right?"
"No! I heal, but I don't regenerate body parts!" Or did he? After all, he was a supernatural being…
Nope, the arm wouldn't grow back.
Hugh/Chauncey shoved a dirty tube sock into Stanley's mouth. It tasted like foot. Then he tied a gag around his mouth. Stanley screamed a few times to test it out.
"Roll him on his stomach and hold him down," said Tom.
Hugh rolled Stanley on his stomach. He struggled with all of his might, figuring that his situation wasn't going to get much worse for misbehavior, but within moments Hugh was kneeling on his back and holding him down firmly.
Tom placed the butcher knife against Stanley's upper arm.
And began to saw.
It was a long, involved process, but fortunately for Stanley, he was insane for most of it.