'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!'
