Stanley opened his eyes. Here he was, about to have sex with a pair of women who were into re-animated dead guys. He was a freakin' zombie! What the hell were they thinking? What kind of messed up chicks slept with a rotting guy named Mr. Corpse?
He'd dated plenty of women who were into kinky stuff. He could provide spankings when requested. He was always up for a good tied-to-the-bed session, both as the provider and recipient of the rope burns. Hot candle wax was never a problem, nor were nipple clamps, testicle decorations, or this scary toy his ex-girlfriend Charlene owned that looked like the crab-monster in Alien.
But he had limits. The inclusion of household pets, for example. And fantasy role play that involved him pretending to be a father, son, brother, uncle, cousin, or great aunt.
Sleeping with necrophiles was another one.
'Hold on a second,' said Stanley, sitting up. 'I don't think I can do this.'
'What do you mean?' asked Mandy.
'I mean…I just can't do it. It's icky.'
'We'll be the judge of that.'
'No, really. This is just deranged. I've got a decomposed dick. You seem like two very nice girls, but you're also scary. I think you should leave.'
'You're kicking us out?' asked Dot, incredulous.
'Yes,' said Stanley, equally incredulous.
Mandy pouted. 'Don't you like us anymore?'
'You know that Groucho Marx line about not wanting to join a club that would have him for a member? I'm thinking that any women who would screw a zombie are best left untouched.'
'You've got a lot of fucking nerve,' said Dot, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. 'You talk to us, you buy us drinks, you bring us up here, and now you aren't going to put out?'
'Sorry.'
'How about just oral?'
'That's actually much worse, to be honest.'
Mandy smacked his leg. 'Asshole.'
The women got off the bed and walked back into the bathroom. Stanley lay there, torn between wanting to call them back and wanting them out of his room as quickly as possible so he could start spraying disinfectant.
They emerged from the bathroom less than thirty seconds later, fully dressed. Mandy gave him the finger.
'You can have the rest of the booze, if you want,' Stanley offered.
'Go to hell.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
They left the room. Stanley lay there, relieved but a little depressed. Was he doomed to be alone for the rest of his life? Would he never again know the touch of a woman? Never again know intimacy? Never again experience a really good, sloppy blow job?
Stanley's eyes widened. What in the holy name of fuck had he been thinking? Quasimodo and the Phantom of the Opera had to kidnap women to try to get laid, and he'd turned away two hot women who were throwing themselves at him! Forget a life of self-imposed celibacy! He was gonna get himself a piece of necrophile ass!
He hurried out of the room, but Mandy and Dot were nowhere to be seen. The man with the gun, on the other hand, was quite easy to see.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man looked to be in his fifties. He wore brown slacks and a white dress shirt that was drenched with sweat. He was pale, had no eyebrows, and wore a baseball cap. The gun, pointed at Stanley, shook in his trembling hand. He stood right next to the door, close enough that Stanley could reach out and touch the gun's barrel should he be so inclined (which he wasn't).
'Hey, whoa, let's be cool,' said Stanley, holding up his arms in what he desperately hoped was a 'Look, I'm unarmed and have no intentions to cause you bodily harm, so please don't shoot me Mr. Crazy Person' gesture.
A tear ran down the man's cheek. 'You give people false hope,' he whispered.
'I do what?'
'I'm dying,' said the man. His voice was so soft that Stanley almost had to lean forward to hear him, but he elected not to for fear that it might look like a cannibal zombie attack. 'Cancer.'
'I lost my grandmother to cancer,' Stanley told him, hoping to establish some sort of personal connection to the guy to help keep himself from getting shot. Where were the security guards? Where were the insomniac hotel guests who needed to refill their ice buckets?
'You give people false hope!' the man repeated, his voice growing louder. 'You walk around in that mask and you pretend that you're a miracle and you lie!'
'I'm not a miracle,' Stanley explained. 'I'm a scientific marvel. It's not a mask, I swear. You can touch my face if you want. Everybody else does.'
'How can you live with yourself?' the man demanded, now sobbing. 'How can you lie to the world when people like me are dying?'
'Again, not a lie. Do you really think I would've sent those two women away if it were a mask? I could be writhing in ecstasy right now! I'm trying to get them back! C'mon, put the gun down and we'll share!'
'Don't make fun of me.'
'Dude, I'm not making fun of you! I'm making a generous offer!'
'Well let me ask you something, Mr. Corpse. If you're for real, why are you scared of being shot?'
'Because it hurts and leaves holes!'
The man looked uncertain.
'What's your name?' asked Stanley.
'Charles.'
'Can I call you Chuck?'
'I prefer Charlie,' the man said with a sniffle.
'Okay, Charlie, I want you to look at something.' Stanley unbuttoned his shirt and held it open. 'See how my skin is all nasty? Why would I walk around with makeup on my chest? I'm a real zombie!'
Charlie shook his head. 'That's impossible.'
'It's not impossible! Feel my heart! It's not beating!'
'You just want to knock the gun away.'
'Well, yeah, but I mostly want you to feel my heart! I'm a zombie! A dead guy! A cadaver! What'll it take to convince you? Do you want a certificate of authenticity?'
Behind Stanley, the elevator door dinged. 'Freeze!' shouted a voice behind him. 'Put down your weapon!'
Charlie looked at Stanley. 'Do you know what my son said to me a few days ago? He said 'Daddy, don't worry, the doctors will bring you back to life just like they did Mr. Corpse.''
'I said put down your weapon!' repeated the man behind Stanley, who was hopefully packing heat. Several doors opened and various people peeked out, but quickly pulled back as they saw what was happening.
Charlie pulled off his baseball cap, revealing his bald head. 'And I had to look at my six-year-old and tell him, no, the doctors aren't going to bring Daddy back. And he promised me that they would. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and told me that everything was going to be okay.'
'Listen to me, Charlie. I feel bad for you, I really do. But if you shoot me and I'm not a zombie, then you'll become a murderer. Six-year-olds with murderer parents have a shitty social life.'
'He needs to know that it's a lie.'
'It's not a lie. Which means that you'll look like a jackass when I get back up. Your son won't be impressed. So just put the gun down, let me prove my deadness, and let's be friends, okay?'
Charlie pointed the gun away from Stanley. Stanley's momentary sense of relief vanished as Charlie pressed
