'But you've got to admit that I'm justified in being annoyed with the way my life has turned out. I'm gross and people are shooting at me.'
'Ah, yes, but there's a major hole in your argument.'
'What's that?'
'I've done my research. You were a jerk before your resurrection.'
Stanley held up his hands in mock surrender. 'Okay, you got me. I'll behave.'
'Good. So let's go get you fixed up.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Henry Sweet sighed and impatiently drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he checked his watch. Six more minutes. Six long, tedious minutes. God, he hated this job.
Killing people had lost its allure several years ago. Oh, sure, when he got started in the business, there was nothing like the feeling of slamming his knife into an innocent (or not-so-innocent) target, but these days he just got annoyed when they bled on his shirt.
He yawned. Then yawned again.
Henry had turned fifty last week, and the sting had yet to wear off. Fifty. Five decades. Half a century. That was just wrong. Turning fifty was for decrepit, toothless, senile old men, not him.
At least he didn't feel half a century old. He still turned female heads at the gym, and he could bench press more than most guys half his age. His short brown hair didn't require that much dye to hide the gray, and his vision was absolutely perfect. Physically, he was in every bit as good of shape as he was twenty years ago. He was just bored.
He checked his watch again. Five more minutes. He should've brought a handheld video game.
The minutes passed in an excruciatingly slow manner. When only one remained, he got out of the car and went around to open the trunk. He took out a pistol with a silencer, a roll of duct tape, a compact disc, and a hatchet.
He hid these items from sight (the pistol in the outside pocket of his black leather jacket, the tape and hatchet in the inside pocket) and then walked across the street to the front porch of the white suburban home.
At exactly eight o'clock he rang the doorbell.
The door opened, revealing an annoyed-looking Mr. Kabot. 'May I help you?'
'Hi. I'm here to murder you. May I come in?'
Henry didn't wait for Mr. Kabot to ask if this was some kind of joke. They always asked if this was some kind of joke. Henry was tired of the question. Instead, he whipped out his gun and pointed it at Mr. Kabot's chest to indicate that no, this was certainly not some kind of joke.
Mr. Kabot blanched and his mouth dropped open.
'Inside,' said Henry. 'Now.'
As they stepped inside the house, Henry immediately swung his gun toward Mrs. Kabot and their daughter Trisha, who were seated on the sofa watching the asinine reality television show that they never missed. 'Not one noise!' he said, closing the door behind him. 'If I hear so much as a squeak I'll kill all three of you.'
To their immense credit, the women didn't scream. Mrs. Kabot whimpered a bit, but he'd let it pass.
He took out the roll of duct tape and tossed it to Mr. Kabot. 'Tape their hands, feet, and mouths. If you want to whisper some reassuring nonsense at the same time, that's fine, but don't try anything. I've seen it all.'
Mr. Kabot stood there helplessly.
'I'm not here because I want to admire your new carpet,' Henry told him. 'Tape them up or I'll do it for you, and I won't be gentle.'
Mr. Kabot continued standing there long enough that Henry thought he might actually have to use the gun, but then he nodded and began to unspool the tape. He wrapped it around his wife's hands while Henry watched impatiently.
He glanced over at Trisha. She was eighteen years old, blonde, and incredibly hot despite a couple of pimples. Hard to believe she was a virgin.
Once Mr. Kabot had finished taping up his wife he went to work on his daughter. The guy was trembling, but at least he wasn't bawling like a baby. The last one had blubbered from beginning to end, and it made Henry want to gag.
With the two women sufficiently taped up, Henry walked over to Mr. Kabot and pressed the gun to his nose. 'I'm going to tape you up,' he said. 'There is to be no kicking, hitting, biting, or any other aggressive move. If you disobey, or even look like you're going to disobey, I'll shoot your wife. Understand?'
Mr. Kabot nodded.
'Good. Start the roll for me.'
Mr. Kabot stared at him quizzically.
'I can't do it with one hand,' Henry explained, annoyed. 'I need you to get it started.'
Mr. Kabot obligingly unrolled a couple inches of tape. Henry took the roll from him, stuck the end to Mr. Kabot's ankle, and then tightly wrapped the tape around his feet. Once that was done, Henry taped up his hands and mouth.
Henry lowered the gun. All three of them sat on the couch, looking terrified, but not so terrified that he thought they might panic and do something stupid.
'You're all doing fine,' Henry informed them, walking over to their entertainment center. He shut off the television. 'Why do you watch that crap? Are you worried about becoming too smart or something? I'm going to borrow your stereo, if that's okay.'
He bent down next to the stereo and ejected the CD holder. He removed the CD that was already in there and grimaced. 'Kenny Rogers? Are you kidding me?' He flung the CD, Frisbee-style, against the far wall, and then began to flip through the CDs stacked next to the stereo. 'Garth Brooks, Kenny Loggins, Faith Hill…you can't be serious.' Life was too short to listen to hicks moping about their lost love.
He took his own CD out of his pocket, tenderly placed it in the machine, and pressed play. At the sound of the wonderfully familiar piano melody he turned up the volume.
'That's me,' he told the family. 'I'm playing that. Not bad, huh?' None of them acted as if they understood what he was talking about. 'It's mood music. Kind of mellow now, but it'll pick up.'
An electric guitar joined the piano. 'That's me, too. I did everything on this song but mix the tracks. No, that's not right, I didn't do the drums, that was a drum machine, but everything else was me.'
Henry could feel the music boosting his spirits a bit. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the hatchet. Mrs. Kabot gasped, but Henry put a finger to his lips. 'You'll like the vocals,' he said. 'I'm singing out of my usual range, but it works.'
He fondled the hatchet as his voice sounded over the stereo. 'Ferocity…ferocity…must control my own ferocity…' he sang in a slow, soothing manner. Yeah, this was doing the trick. It always did. Once the song kicked into high gear with the next verse, the bloodbath could begin.
'The feelings inside me…think I'll have to hide me…before I unleash my (unleash my) ferocity…'
The electric guitar suddenly grew louder and faster.
Henry raised the hatchet.
'Ferocity! Ferocity! Gotta be somethin' wrong with me!'
As Mrs. Kabot and her daughter screamed through their duct tape, Henry rushed at the man of the house and let the poor doomed bastard have it. He chopped in time with the pounding drumbeat, singing along with himself.
'Insanity! Brutality! Gotta love ferocity!'
Chop! Chop! Chop!
'Cruelty! Mean ol' me! Gotta love…damn it!' Henry stopped singing and spat out some blood that got in his mouth. God, he hated the taste of that crap. He wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand and then went back to work.
