The air down here was cool and heavy and smelled like asparagus piss, but for the most part it was clean. That meant ventilation, either in the form of an exit, or an air osmosis recirculator, and I'm pretty sure that osmosis thing didn't exist because I just made it up.
The tunnel ended at a large metal door, the kind with a slot at eye-level that opened up so some moron could ask you for a password. Which is exactly what happened. The slot opened, and a pair of eyes stared out at me, and whoever belonged to those eyes asked for a password.
“Tom sent me,” I said.
“That's not the password.”
“Tom didn't say there was a password.”
“Tom who?”
“Tom,” I improvised, “from Accounting.”
“How is Tom?”
“Good. Just got over a cold, still kind of congested.”
“It's great you know Tom, but I'm not supposed to let you in without a password.”
I was tempted to give him a Three Stooges eye poke through the slot.
“Look,” I reasoned, “why else would I be down here?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you got lost.”
“I'm wearing the robe.” I did a little sashay to emphasize the fact.
“Maybe you're a cop.”
“I'm not a cop.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I don't have a badge. You want to frisk me to check?”
“No. You smell like pee-pee.”
I set my jaw. “Doesn't anyone ever forget the password?”
The eyes shrugged. “Sure. Happens all the time.”
“So what happens then?”
“I ask them for the back-up password.”
I drew my Magnum, jammed it in the slot.
“Is the back-up password open the fucking door or I'll blow your head off?”
“Yep that's the password.”
He opened the door. I considered smacking password boy in the head, and it seemed like a good idea, so I gave him a little love tap with the butt of my pistol. When he fell over, I gave him another little love tap in the stomach, with my foot. This made my ass hurt even more, so I kicked him again, which hurt even more, so I kicked him again for causing me pain, and again, and again until the pain got so bad I had to stop, but I didn't, I kicked him once more.
Then I wandered through a short hallway and into a large open area, roughly the size of a woman's basketball court, which is the same size as a men's basketball court, but a woman's court has bouncing boobs. I noticed little details like that. Unfortunately, this room didn't have bouncing boobs. It had a dozen-plus boneheads in robes, all carrying flashlights, standing around and chanting something monkish.
I wormed my way into the group and considered the camera in my pocket. Mrs. Drawbridge had hired me to take pictures of her husband acting nutty. This qualified, but it was too dark to make out any details, and a flash might cause attention. Plus, these jamokes all had their hoods on, making positive ID pretty impossible.
I scanned the room, seeing if I could find Tom. I spotted him through my clever detective technique of looking around, and noticed his bag from the hardware store, still clenched in his hand. Maybe I could get up close, shove the camera in his face, get a quick snapshot, then run away.
“Attention, everyone!”
The chanting stopped. One of the wannabe monks had his hands up over his head, his knuckles brushing the dirt ceiling. Everyone stared at him.
“Let us form the sacred pentagon, and pray to Anubis, god of the dead, to bless the ceremony this evening. All hail, Anubis!”
“All hail, Anubis!” the monks chanted in reply.
Then we all arranged ourselves in a five-sided square around something in the center of the room. As I probably should have guessed—but didn't because I was too busy rubbing my painful throbbing ass—in the center of the room was a coffin.
The head monk shouted, “Who shall be the first to partake in the carnal pleasures of beyond the grave?”
I looked around, wondering what idiot would be stupid enough to bone a corpse, then found myself shoved into the center of the circle.
“My friend will go!”
I spun around, aiming the flashlight. It was old caretaker guy, a big grin creasing his face.
“This first has been chosen!” head monk bellowed. Two other monks—big ones—grabbed my arms and escorted me to the coffin.
“Guys, I'm new here. I'd sort of prefer to wait until next time before violating any dead people.”
I tried to pull away, but these monks had supernatural strength. The weight of the situation began to weigh on me. Sex with a cadaver wasn't on the list of things I wanted to do before I died, unless the cadaver was Angelina Jolie.
Then I stopped struggling, because I realized this had to be some kind of joke. Like a hazing prank, and when the coffin opened a stripper would pop out and blow me. That made a lot more sense than a society of necrophiliacs meeting secretly under one of Chicago's largest cemeteries. Right?
I smiled, hoping the stripper had big tits, not even protesting when I was depantsed by one of the hulky monk guys. They also took my gun. I figured that was okay—I only needed one type of gun to handle a hot stripper. You know what I mean.
My penis. I'm talking about my penis.
“Okay.” I clapped my hands together. “Let's do this.”
Another monk opened the coffin, and I stared in grinning expectation at a naked dead man.
“That's a guy,” I said.
Head monk came in close and whispered. “Couldn't find girl this time. It doesn't matter. Death is death. It's all a turn-on. You're here to get laid, right?”
I eyed the body. A chubby bald white guy, late fifties. The Y cut across his chest indicated he was autopsied. Death was probably a heart attack, based on the size of his gut.
“I'm actually not really feeling it right now,” I said.
“We can flip him over, if that helps.”
“I don't think it will help.”
“How fresh is it?” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Planted eight days ago,” head monk answered.
The crowd cheered.
“I got sloppy seconds!”
“I got thirds!”
“I want to go last, when he's so full he's leaking out of his nose!”
I tried to step away, but the inhumanly muscular monks held me firm.
“I'm really not horny right now,” I insisted. “In fact, I may never be horny again.”
“My friend is shy!” That damn old caretaker guy again. “He doesn't like to pitch! He prefers catching!”
“No problem. Fetch the bicycle pump!”
Someone brought over a bike pump, complete with needle tip. The head monk fussed around with the poor dead guy's junk, then pushed the needle into the pee hole at the shriveled tip. I had an anti-erection, my dick actually retreating into my body as I watched.
He began to pump. And, incredibly, the corpse's johnson responded by filling out in length and width, until it stuck up like a tent pole. The monk kept pumping, and then the scrotum inflated. First apple-sized. Then grapefruit. Then soccer ball. I winced, waiting for the POP, but he quit before it got to medicine ball proportions. Which is a good thing, because balls that big would be bad medicine indeed.
