Stiffs

By Susanna Weber

Suppressed Grief

The word ‘pathetic’ is rooted in the word ‘empathetic.’ For Terence, this was no coincidence.

The emotions his employee, Jaune, was experiencing were just that―pathetic.

Terence, the managing director of Amigone Funeral Home, was on his lunch break. He rolled his eyes from beneath the paper he was inspecting. Jaune was one of his most emotional colleagues. Only a moment ago, she’d been harping at Terence about some insignificant detail―like the colour of the bathroom walls. Now oceans were flowing from her eyes. His other colleague, Ash Wilson, was equally pitiful. The man’s heart was so fuzzy, the sight of blood sent him sprawling to the ground. Ash tenderly steered Jaune to a chair where she could shake and sob.

“What happened, Jaune?” he asked in a hushed voice. He was kneeling in front of her, stroking her frizzy hair from her face as tears slowly leeched over her chin. Terence felt ill observing the two of them.

“I just took a new call. My, uh, my best friend’s husband―” Jaune sniffed incessantly. “he was also inhaling so sharply, Terence half expected her to gag on her own tongue. Frustrated, Terence slapped the newspaper on the table.

“Would you spit it out already!” he shouted. His sudden outburst took both Ash and Jaune by surprise. Ash almost appeared disgusted. Terence didn’t blame him. Jaune’s weeping mascara and sweating pink nose were a ghastly sight. She wiped her moist forehead, glowered at Terence, and took in a deep breath.

“My best friend’s husband accidently choked himself to death,” she whispered. Terence clapped

his hands together like a pair of symbols.

“Excellent!” he cried, jubilantly. “Finally, some action!” Ash’s jaw went flaccid. Jaune stomped out of the room, fists clenched and eyes to the floor. Completely indifferent toward the woman’s feelings, Terence studied the pad of paper on which Jaune had written the client’s information. He tore it off and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket, flashing his eyebrows up at Ash. “We have a body to pick up, Wilson,” he stated.

***

The dead man’s name was Yorkdale Buttersworth. Oddly enough, the title made Terence crave pudding. In the van, Ash sat silently. His lack of verbalization was atypical of his behavior. From the corner of his eye, Terence inspected him. His wavy wheat colored hair blew softly in the breeze, which emanated from the opening at the top of the window. Every so often he would lick his lips and glance over at Terence as though he wanted to say something.

“Whatever you want to say, Wilson, just say it!” Terence said finally, he could feel Ash’s eyes

poking him from every direction. Ash sighed and touched his forehead.

“It’s just…sometimes you’re so heartless,” Ash said. “Back there, Jaune was really upset. Her best friend’s husband died and all you cared about was the location of the corpse.” Terence stared, dead-eyed, at the gravel road before him. He could feel each stone crunching beneath the tires. The turbulence was making him feel nauseous. His head pounded with each pebble that popped.

“Are you even listening to me?” Ash shouted. His voice was an agonizing screech in Terence’s

ear.

“Yes! Yes! I’m a calloused villain, I got it!” Terence snapped. The acrid smell of skunk wafted through Ash’s window. Terence couldn’t help but avert his eyes toward the black and white mush of fur, bubbling on the side of the dusty road. He coughed. Now the dust was filtering into the vehicle. There was a hum as the window screen advanced upward. Ash cleared his throat.

“You know, Terence, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” he said. Terence

groaned. He knew where Ash was going with this line of conversation.

“Did Jaune set you up to ‘council’ me about Bob’s death?” Terence croaked.

“No,” Ash lied. Terence rubbed his eyes, still keeping one hand on the steering wheel. Now he would have to endure the rest of the ride listening to Wilson chirp on about the importance of grieving and how everyone grieves differently. Ash would accuse Terence of being a minimizer: someone who logicizes their feelings away. Or perhaps he would shake things up and claim Terence was having a postponed reaction. Either way, Terence didn’t have the patience to listen. Instead, he would let his mind wander…

Bob Amigone was the owner of Amigone Funeral Home. He was an old man with kind blue eyes and a sharp wit. The first time Terence met Bob was at a job fair, nearly ten years ago. The congested room terrified Terence. The lines of students shuffling papers and flashing fake smiles. All of them were hungry for jobs. They were like wild dogs the way they swarmed the booths. Terence hated participating in such events. His networking skills were abhorrent. His social skills in general were abhorrent. Terence stood at his superior height, like an awkward iceberg in the middle of the sea of flesh, when Bob nudged him in the ribs.

“I bet you’re a great embalmer,” he said, under his breath. Terence figured he would make a great embalmer. He always had a knack for the sciences and the arts. How Bob knew was always a mystery to Terence. The man was incredibly discerning. He somehow seemed to know what kind of person someone was before they even opened their mouth.

“I believe I could be,” Terence answered, producing a black polished folder. Bob chuckled, sliding on a pair of silver framed spectacles. He licked his fingers before ruffling through Terence’s resumé…

“Terence, you just drove past the house!” Ash exclaimed.

“Hmm? Oh.” Terence absent-mindedly pulled into a driveway and turned around.

Mrs. Buttersworth opened the door. Her face was red and wet. She was a doughy woman.

Terence thought her name accurately portrayed her appearance, as she looked as though she was filled with pudding. He entered her house without so much as an introduction. The living room was plump.

The sofa was plump, the armchair was plump, even the cat on the footstool was plump. It was no wonder, Mrs. Buttersworth was plump.

“Where’s your husband?” Terence questioned. “I’m guessing he didn’t accidently hang himself like a piñata in plain sight.” A mixture of shock and pain welled in Mrs. Buttersworth’s eyes. “he melted into the arms of Ash Wilson, who calmly allowed her to lubricate him in snot and tears. Emotions were repulsive. Over Mrs. Butterworth’s mammoth shoulders, Wilson shot Terence a venomous glare.

Terence shrugged in response. All he did was ask a simple question.

“Judging by the greasy little fingerprints on the windows, I assume you have children,” he said,

his features austere. ““hall I ask them where their father’s hanging?”

“No!” the woman screeched. “He― he’s in the shed outside. I knew he went there sometimes to―” Mrs. Buttersworth broke down again, tears sopping her blouse. “I don’t want my children to know what he did to himself!” she wailed. Ash took the woman by the hand, leading her to the kitchen.

Figured. Terence was getting the body all by himself.

“Your children have a right to know how their father died,” Terence declared, before leaving. “The news would likely stop them from playing the choking game.”

He turned to fetch the stretcher from the transfer van, when he heard a series of loud thumps.

The last thing Terence saw before tumbling down the concrete, was a round velvety dog face. The horse-sized mutt soared through the air like a Pegasus, knocking Terence over backwards. His head cracked against the edge of a step, and black spots speckled his vision.

***

Terence’s year in mortuary school seemed to end as quickly as the light of a candle under a snuff. Terence sat through seven painful interviews. None of which amounted to anything. Some of them were with chatty women who never seemed to stop flapping their gums long enough for Terence to get in a word. Others were with miserable-faced bald men who, after every one of Terence’s responses, stared at him with the beady eyes of an indifferent basset hound. Terence did everything to improve his interviewing skills. He met with his lab professor― a man who took pride in Terence’s academic achievements― for tips on effective body language and eye contact. But no matter how hard Terence tried, he could never seem to coax anyone into giving him a job. Was it his unusual gangly stature that turned people off toward him? His forced smile? The majority of his classmates managed to obtain a position effortlessly. Terence was frustrated and bitter. Terence called Bob on the last day of school. Bob had already accepted two interns, but was interested in a third.

“You’re not much of a people pleaser, are you, Son?” Bob asked, after the first ten minutes of

the interview.

“No,” Terence answered honestly, his eyes fixed on the rich red carpet.

“But your lab professor tells me you’re the top of his class. You excel in restorative arts and you present your cases as though you wrote the embalming textbook yourself!” The comment made Terence blink in surprise. Bob leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and eyeing Terence from under his glinting specs. ““o why is it that your Orientations teacher tells me you struggle making arrangements? She says the funeral directors with whom you made mock arrangements reported you as making them feel uncomfortable. She said they described you as lacking empathy. Why do think that is?” Terence swallowed. His throat was dry. He avoided drinking the water that Bob provided for fear of dribbling it on himself.

“People are tiresome specimens,” Terence started. “Although I am human myself, I struggle to understand others. I don’t feel the way other people feel, and, therefore, can’t even pretend to comprehend emotions. I cannot put on a caring façade the way others can. All I can do to show I care is embalm―to make the dead appear alive once more.” Bob laughed at Terence’s response.

“I believe you, “on,” he said. “If anything, you’re certainly honest! However, there are ways in which you can comfort the grieving without needing to pretend. If you truly do care, all you need to do is let it show. This can be done through actions and words.” At that moment, Bob stretched out his hand for Terence to shake. Tentatively, Terence took hold of it. “You’re one heck of a piece of work, Terry. But I bet, with a little guidance, you could be great with both the living and the dead. All we have to do is smooth those edges!”

***

The room was stark white and the lights, blinding. Now Terence knew what it was like to lay upon a prep table. The table, in all actuality, wasn’t a table at all. It was a bed. Terence was in a hospital bed. A plastic tube was connected to his hand, feeding him intravenously from a sac of soluble nutrients.

“Accursed canine…” Terence swore to himself. The pain in his head was so congesting he could

barely hear a thing. A blonde woman in blue scrubs approached his bedside.

“Do you remember who you are?” she asked. Terence nodded. What an absurd question. Of course he knew who he was! The slight movement of his head, sent the room spinning and his stomach lurching. Terence groaned before heaving all over the blonde nurse. Thanks to the acidic contents of his stomach, the nurse’s scrubs were no longer blue. Moments later, a second nurse entered the room with a mask and a mop. While washing away the blobs of bitter-smelling bile from the floor, the nurse informed Terence that he would be taken by a team of medical professionals for an MRI.

“Aside from having a nasty concussion, we believe you may have fractured your skull,” she explained, dipping the tendrils of the mop into the bucket of frothy soap water. Terence was not impressed. All this unnecessary attention because a woman was too emotional to control her dog.

A scan of Terence’s skull unmasked a small split at the base of his head. He was instructed to stay overnight. Before resting, though, Terence was visited by none other than Ash Wilson. Without his suit on, Terence barely recognized his employee. Ash didn’t appear quite as thin in casual wear. He wore a tan jacket, jeans and scuffed running shoes. From behind his back, he produced a cup of pudding.

“Hey, Terence. I, uh, brought you some pudding.” Ash slid a table toward Terence’s chin and rested the plastic cup of caramel colored goodness on top. Terence sat up, plucking the metal spoon from Ash’s fingers.

“Is it Yorkdale Buttersworth flavored?” he moaned, peeling back the wrapper. Ash laughed and assured Terence that Mr. Buttersworth had been removed effectively.

“After calling for an ambulance, I called Jaune. Jaune called PJ to help with the removal,” Ash explained. Terence grunted in approval and dipped the spoon into the viscous serum. PJ was one of his assistants.

“I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the concept of karma?” Ash asked. With a spoon of

pudding in his mouth, Terence raised an eyebrow at his freckle-faced coworker.

“Is that the name of the dog who attacked me?” Terence joked, swallowing the sweet lump.

Again, Ash laughed.

“No, no.” Ash fiddled with a lock of his hair. “omething was on his mind. Why was Wilson so

afraid of speaking his mind? Did he think Terence would get offended?

“Just say it, Wilson,” Terence demanded. “‘ight now what you’re not saying is far more offensive to me than what you’re about to say.” Ash straightened his jacket and crossed his arms.

“The choking game comment, was that really necessary? I mean, you could have been more

sensitive.” The pudding wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Terence had hoped it would be.

“This pudding is anticlimactic,” Terence declared, completely ignoring Ash’s remark. Ash sighed,

his green eyes scanning the naked room. Terence could see the anxiety mounting on his face.

“They, uh, aren’t going to take your blood are they?” Ash asked. The tendons in his neck distended as he tensed his jaw. Terence would have loved to see Ash encrust the blonde nurse a second time in vomit, but something told him that no amount of reassuring could convince Ash to stay much longer.

“I’m in a hospital, Wilson. In hospitals they’re all about the blood and the urine. You really ought to do something about that blood phobia.” The reply triggered a nervous laugh from Wilson, who then excused himself politely.

Alone and drifting in the dark room, Terence started awake at the sudden rush of cool air. He took a deep breath in. The pressure in his head was phenomenally painful. He felt as though the weight of gravity had increased and was bombarding his skull from all sides. He allowed his heavy head to sink

into the pillows and moaned softly before shutting his eyes. A second moan echoed back at him. Terence’s heart jumped in his chest. The air felt as though it had grown cooler. Terence shivered and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Why did every hospital staff insist on dressing their patients in skimpy nighties? The outfits were essentially nothing more than glorified potato sacks. They certainly didn’t seal in body heat. Nor were they particularly flattering.

“Why didn’t you cry at my funeral?” Terence swallowed. The voice belonged to Bob Amigone―only, it couldn’t be Bob Amigone because Bob Amigone was gone! Terence pressed the heels of his hands into his ears. The voice was a delusion. He had suffered brain damage; a delusion made sense. Terence could feel sweat crawling on his forehead as a white turbulence took shape in the corner of the room. It swirled like a fog until it resembled the body of Bob Amigone. Terence’s pulse was erratic. His breathing rate had also increased. Now he was hallucinating?

“What happened to you, Terry? You look awful!” The apparition chuckled to itself. “Almost as if you’ve just seen a ghost!” Terence squeezed his eyelids closed. His hands trembled so badly he could hardly keep them compressed over his ears. A chill ran through his body. When he opened his eyes, Terence saw the pale translucent version of Bob standing through the middle of his bed―through the middle of Terence! The man was like a reflection in glass. Terence’s blood felt as though it had turned to ice. It was almost as though his body had been plunged into a lake of freezing water.

“You always were good at keeping your composure,” the phantom breathed. “Even when your emotions ran deep, you made it seem as though they were nonexistent.” Its voice reminded Terence of the wind, carrying incoherent echoes from people of neighboring towns. “Of course, those parched eyes of yours do help. Jaune always tried to tell me that your colorless eyes and dark hair would be a handsome contrast to some lucky lady. However, it doesn’t appear as though you’ve found yourself anyone.” The words sounded as though they had traveled a very long distance. “Now look at you! Your eyes are brimming with fear. You can’t hide from your feelings forever, Son.” Like a vapor, Terence felt its hand on his cheek. “Of course, I didn’t make it easy for you, dropping dead so suddenly….” The voice faded out, like a lost transmission on a cell phone. Soon the only image left of Bob was his round spectacles. They hovered eerily for a moment and then blinked out of existence.

Terence was discharged the next morning. He thought about mentioning his hallucination to one of the nurses, but decided against it. It had probably been nothing more than a vivid dream.

Besides, Terence wouldn’t have put it past the blonde nurse to have slipped him something in his IV sac. After all, he had ruined her lovely blue scrubs. Was paranoid an emotion? Often people of a paranoid character were described as “ill.” In that case, paranoid may as well have been an emotion. For Terence, every emotion doubled as an illness.

“Terence!” From the parking lot of the hospital, a speck of a man hopped up and down, waving his hands fanatically. Terence turned his eyes to the sky in annoyance. It was Ash Wilson. How had that man known Terence would be leaving? “You’re looking better,” Ash said upon Terence’s approach.

Terence strapped himself into the passenger’s seat of Ash’s car and said, “Thanks. I’ve been doing something with my hair lately.”

Back at work, Terence was under the constant supervision of Jaune.

“Are you okay, Hun?” she would ask after every ten minutes. “he would then proceed to caution Terence against staying any longer. “I don’t want you getting dizzy. You understand me?” Jaune didn’t really care about Terence. “he just wanted him gone for the day so that he didn’t―as she would put it―traumatize the Buttersworth family. Terence had overheard Ash discussing the family’s arrival that day to talk about plans for Mr. Buttersworth’s funeral. Terence didn’t understand how he could possibly traumatize the family anymore than they already were. In all likelihood, Jaune just wanted Terence out of the way so she could be in charge. The woman was perpetually bossy.

“You just worry about making Mr. Buttersworth look better than you right now, okay darling?”

Jaune said, as she glided by the prep table. She gave him a wink and a pat on the back.

“Jaune,” Terence called. He couldn’t stand her false pleasantries. Jaune was the kind of person who sugar-coated her worries until her very demeanor turned hideously sweet. She spun at the door to face him. Her smile was so phony it looked as though someone had forcefully stuck it to her face. “I won’t leave this embalming room while your friend and her family are here,” Terence promised. Jaune’s face relaxed and she nodded promptly before leaving.

The embalming machine hummed to life, clicking between pulses. Terence couldn’t get Bob’s

voice out of his head.

“Now, a pre-injection will be wise here, Terry, as the man’s vascular system will likely be plugged with clots. Before a person dies of asphyxiation, the body’s muscles will work harder in a last attempt to breathe. The harder the muscles work, the more heat that is produced within the body. An elevated body temperature causes the blood to coagulate within the vascular system, hampering arterial injection and drainage in the embalming process. The chemicals used in a pre-injection help to rehydrate and lubricate clots. This way, when the formaldehyde is injected into the body, it will not experience any ‘barriers’ which may curb its ability to preserve.”

Terence knew this like he knew his own reflection. This was the very reason Mr. Buttersworth died. While standing on a large cylindrical pail, he looped a thick rope―which was firmly anchored to a wooden beam running along the top of his shed―around his neck. As he choked―thereby pleasuring himself― his body flailed out and he mistakenly kicked the bucket out from under him, resulting in his own hanging.

“This is where the expression ‘kicked the bucket’ originated.” Bob’s words echoed in Terence’s ears. They sounded so close, as though he was in the room with Terence. Terence took a break from massaging Mr. Buttersworth’s extremities. He had a splitting headache and was beginning to feel disoriented. At that moment, while Terence’s head pulsated, Ash peaked his nose into the room.

“Pssst, Terence,” Ash whispered. His words sounded all crackly and distorted. “What?” Terence squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them.

“Mrs. Buttersworth wishes to see you. “he feels terrible about what her dog did to you and wants to apologize.” Ash entered the room and gagged when he saw the trail of clumpy blood draining from Mr. Buttersworth’s neck.

““he doesn’t need to apologize,” Terence responded, splashing some water on the line of blood. “As you so tactfully put it at the hospital, I deserved what I got. The balance of the universe has been restored!” Ash sniffed and blinked at the body before him. Terence could tell Ash was becoming woozy. “Do sit down, Wilson!” Terence demanded.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Ash insisted. “What do you want me to tell Mrs. Buttersworth?”

Terence appeared not to have heard Wilson. He was preoccupied with an arm that wasn’t

receiving good distribution.

“Try pulling the cannula back, Terry. If you’ve passed the bifurcation, the arterial fluid won’t be circulating through the arm.” There was Bob’s voice again.

“Terence?”

Groaning, Terence finally replied, “Just make an excuse. It’s noon. Tell her I went with Bob for lunch.” Terence hadn’t even realized what he had said until he saw the concerned expression on Ash’s face. Terence swallowed. There was a painful lump in his throat. “Uh, never mind. Just tell her I’m busy and give her some of that reassuring crap that you give every sad person.” Ash laughed uncertainly and then scuttled out of the room, his eyes the size of dinner plates.

When Terence finished the embalming, he cleaned himself up and went to his office to take something for his headache. Why had he mentioned Bob’s name as though the man was still alive? Terence knew he was dead―he had embalmed Bob for crying out loud! The wooden drawer whirred open. Terence shuffled through its contents for the bottle of Advil.

“We always did like to go out to lunch together.” About to pop the gel capsule into his mouth, Terence froze, paralyzed. “You’d always get some silly tuna concoction or something because you were afraid of consuming beef products!” The pill bottle clattered to the ground; pills scattered in all directions. Bob’s joyful chuckle vibrated in his skull. “You said you didn’t eat beef because you were afraid that it was tainted with Mad Cow’s disease. And the dairy! You always claimed you were lactose intolerant. Only I knew the truth. You figured if the cow that made the milk was diseased, so was her milk!”

Terence contorted his body in all directions to find the source of Bob’s impossible verbalizations. But he was no where to be found. And why should he be? HE WA“ DEAD! The muscles in Terence’s legs suddenly went flaccid and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. He felt like a shell―as though he was hollow and had nothing inside of him for support. Terence didn’t know what to do. He was in so much pain; pain that he couldn’t describe or even begin to understand.

“Please!” Terence begged. “I know you’re dead. I know you’re dead. Don’t do this to me!” The lump in his throat now felt like a watermelon threatening to implode his trachea. Was this what it was like to grieve?

“Do you miss me?” Bob’s voice was full of sorrow. The sadness in his tone made Terence’s stomach flip. His eyes were so hot they felt as though they were melting. Then the tears came. They burned his face like acid. Terence couldn’t control himself. His body was shaking. His words suffocated in his throat.

“Yes,” he finally managed to murmur. Then he felt hands grip his shoulders. It was Wilson.

“Terence? What the―” Ash saw his friend’s face for only a moment, and, for the first time that he could see, Terence was feeling.

Five Hundred Pound Catastrophe

Terence’s eyes were still shut when he grabbed the vibrating phone. He was so accustomed to

the infernal device sounding during the middle of the night, that he often answered calls in his sleep.

“Yes? What do you want? If it’s another one of those selfish kooks who’s imprinted himself on the front of a train I don’t have a freaking shovel!” The responding voice was female and shaky; obviously the woman had experienced some form of trauma.

“I-it’s Francine. Francine Finch. I-is this Mr. Coon? My husband has died.” When Terence heard the woman’s name he lifted his legs sky high and catapulted himself out of bed. Francine was the woman he had made prearrangements with only a few weeks prior. Her husband, Salisbury Finch, suffered from type two diabetes, hypertension, arteriosclerosis, and binge eating disorder. The man was a ticking time bomb. His expiry did not surprise Terence one bit.

“Did the doctor release him and sign the medical?”

“Yes.” Francine’s goopy sobbing increased in goopiness. The woman sounded as though she was using her phone as a tissue. Terence informed her that her phone was likely not mucous proof.

“Please!” she wailed, “ just come and get him for me. I’m all alone with him! I live in apartment 241 on Crystler Ave.”

“Alright!” Terence couldn’t bear the sound of Francine’s mosquito- like whine any longer. “I’m coming.” Terence hung up and dialed his associate, Ash Wilson.

“Terence, do you have any idea what time it is?!” Evidently, Ash had not properly read the job

description before he was hired as a full time funeral director at Amigone Funeral Home.

“It’s 3 in the morning, and, unfortunately, we don’t have the courtesy of a night removal service.” Terence could hear Ash breathing rhythmically over the phone. “Wilson!” Terence was not going to perform this removal on his own. “Wake up! We’re both on call tonight!”

Ash moaned, “Now?!” Terence was already in the transfer van.

“Yes! Put on your big boy pants and meet me by the Crystler apartment buildings. We have a fat dead man to pick up.” Terence couldn’t help but grin as he tossed his phone in the back seat; his job was so exciting.

The stars were like pin holes of light in the dark early morning sky. It was good to get out again.

Terence was growing weary of all the paperwork he had been doing in preparation for the deaths of numerous clients. At least seven people were in heaven’s waiting room. It was about time one of them made it!

In the Crystler apartment parking lot, Wilson stepped from his car. His hair was disheveled, his face was pale, and there were dark discolorations beneath his eyes.

“Have you died too?!” Terence flashed his canines and elbowed his associate, jokingly. Ash

grumbled as the two of them wheeled the stretcher from the transfer van across the parking lot.

“Do you have to be so perky whenever we go on these macabre night removals?” Ash grumbled. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Wilson?!”

““ense of adventure? Terence, this isn’t a spelunking escapade. We’re picking up an overweight body at 3am!”

“Exhilarating, isn’t it? You want to know the best part, Wilson? He’s so fat, he probably won’t even fit on this stretcher.”

Terence giggled as they struggled through the entrance—one person awkwardly holding the door while the other squeezed through with the stretcher.

The apartment buildings were of an old European design. The exterior was a plaster white shell―often coated in the spray paint disturbances of a chemically imbalanced mind. The buildings of St. Louis du HA! HA! were so often plagued with these visual obscenities, that a group of paint scrapers was developed. They called themselves The Vandal Busters. The county paid double minimum wage to have The Vandal Busters scrape the fluorescent goo from public property. Terence had a theory: The Vandal Busters were really the vandals themselves. They vandalized buildings by night, and made a small fortune cleaning up their own messes by morning. It was pure genius. Of course the cops never listened to Terence. They all dismissed his theories as paranoid ravings. Apart from the tainted exterior, the building was a real rustic beauty.

It was a tight fit for both Ash, Terence, and the stretcher. Due to the limited length of the elevator, Terence was forced to prop the stretcher on its hind wheels. A mousy man in a lint infused house coat attempted to catch a ride up with the two of them. His beady eyes looked from Ash, to Terence, and finally, to the stretcher. Nothing was said.

“A man died,” Terence articulated. The mousy man blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and then promptly left the elevator. The elevator dinged; they had reached their landing. The floor was narrow and the apartments were not well spaced.

“How could an obese man even fit through these hallways?!” Ash marveled. “Lube.” Terence stated, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, God.”

Francine’s apartment was at the end of the hall. Terence knocked promptly on the door. Within

minutes, a frail, middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes peeped shyly from the other side.

“H-hello. Are you here for my husband?” Terence pried the door from Francine’s claw-like

fingers.

“Why else would we be here?” he stated, coldly. Ash apologized, as he usually did, for Terence’s

insensitive manner.

““orry about the intrusion, Mrs. Finch, we just want to be out of your hair as fast as possible.

Could you direct us to where your husband is?” Even at the unsightly hours of the morning, Ash was still

able to maintain a well-mannered disposition.

“He’s lying in his bed. Like he always did,” she sighed. “The great lard!”

Mr. Finch’s room was a little more than a cupboard. The room provided enough space for a bed, television set, and a small night stand. The walls were painted a ghastly green. The shade was identical to that of a gangrenous bedsore—it was Terence’s favorite colour.

“What is the name of the paint you used to paint these walls?” Terence inquired. “Gangrenous Bedsore? Purely Putrified?”

Francine’s raw eyes glistened. Before Terence could prepare himself, the woman became a tsunami of goobers and tears. Luckily, she directed her emotions toward Wilson. Ash patted her back and cooed to her like a mother to a sad child. Terence resisted the urge to gag. The woman’s nostrils ejaculated snot the way aerosol canisters spray silly string. While Terence assessed their options for transporting Mr. Finch, Ash guided Francine to her kitchen table and provided her with a plethora of tissues.

Mr. Finch’s mass hung over the sides of the bed. The bed itself sunk in at the center from the man’s astronomical weight. Terence didn’t even know how he would get Mr. Finch off of his bed. The man was partially on his side already and the bed was pushed up against the wall. Terence could have Ash crawl behind the man at the wall end of the bed and push while Terence pulled from the front.

Terence was not certain the bed frame, having already been weakened by Mr. Finch, would support another person standing on it.

Terence ducked into the kitchen. The apartment was uncomfortably small for a man of his stature. Ash and Mrs. Finch appeared to be deep in some conversation about Mr. Finch and his grotesque eating habits.

“You know, I tried to make him eat healthy. But he had a stash of those horrible Vachon cakes everywhere! I used to think he was eating all the salads and whole wheat breads that I was making him. Whenever I would return to his room for the dishes, they would be empty. I later learned he was dumping them out the window and digging into his stash! The nerve!” Ash nodded, understandingly.

“Wilson!” Terence interrupted. “Get over here and help me get Mr. Beluga onto the stretcher!” Ash stared incredulously at Terence before excusing himself from Mrs. Finch’s company.

With the stretcher parallel to the bed, Terence rubbed his hands together and said, “Alright, Wilson, start pushing Mr. Finch from behind.” Ash climbed onto the bed. The frame creaked in protest, but remained solid. He almost swallowed his tongue to keep from gagging. A musty mold-like odor was seeping from Mr. Finch’s doughy flesh. Terence handed Ash a pair of gloves. One could never be too sure what was hidden beneath the rippled fat shelves of a fat corpse. Terence braced his body against the stretcher and took hold of Mr. Finch’s beefy shoulders.

“Push!” Terence commanded. Ash leaned into Mr. Finch’s back fat. His palms sunk into the man’s rolls and disappeared. Meanwhile, Terence grunted and managed to heave Mr. Finch’s neck and shoulders one inch off the side of the bed. “Now push him from the back end,” Terence said. Ash breathed deeply and shuffled to the opposite end of the bed. “Push!” Terence hoisted Mr. Finch by his feet, while Ash buried his hands into the man’s buttocks.

“Oh, lord.”Ash suddenly stopped pushing. “Terence, he, uh, has a rather nasty bedsore on his rear.” Ash leapt over the bedpost, his face completely drained of color. Terence heaved a sigh and turned his gaze toward a stain on the ceiling. Ash was far too squeamish.

“What colour was it?” Terence teased. Ash fell limp to his knees, clutching his stomach. “I bet it was the same colour as these walls. Did it smell like fish?” Ash glared malignantly at Terence, who, having witnessed his associate’s ailed appearance, opened a window. “taggering to his feet, Ash made his way over to the window and closed his eyes as the cool breeze ruffled his hair.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he breathed. “You go up there.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Terence sighed, “ we’ve gotten him on his side enough to simply pull him from the front. Will you assist me or do I have to call in Mrs. Finch?” Ash took a moment to clear his head of the heinous smell and then wrapped his arm around Mr. Finch’s neck, placing his other hand on the man’s shoulder.

“That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Terence as he stationed himself at the foot end of Mr. Finch.

Francine entered the room only to find the two funeral directors performing what looked like an ancient torture routine on her dead husband.

“I-is this really necessary?” she gasped, seemingly traumatized.

“Yes,” Terence grunted. The two of them heaved upon the man’s appendages until finally his body toppled onto the stretcher. Terence was flung back by the force of the man’s fall and was sent crashing through Mr. Finch’s closet doors. The stretcher, intended for much smaller decedents, buckled under the weight and toppled to the floor. There was a loud boom as the mass collided with the floorboards. Francine screamed and stood paralyzed. The sound of the crash was so deafening, Terence was certain they’d stirred the entire neighborhood. He stood coughing as the dust cleared and produced a dented box of Vachon cakes.

“I believe I have found your husband’s secret stash,” he said. Francine took the crunched in

carton of cellophane wrappers, and left the room, completely shaken.

“Now what?” Ash asked, throwing up his hands in defeat. “There’s no way the two of us are strong enough to pull this guy down the hall to the elevator.” Terence made a deep sort of humming sound. It reminded Ash of the sound a computer makes when its trying to download too much information at once. He stepped over Mr. Finch and opened the door to the apartment. “Where are you going?!” Ash demanded.

“I’m going to find some stronger people!” he shouted in reply.

“It’s nearly four in the morning!” Ash yelled after him. He growled in frustration and sank into one of Mrs. Finch’s kitchen chairs. Mrs. Finch was sitting across from him with a glass of wine in her hand.

“I know how you feel,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I used to drink this stuff by the buckets I got so mad at my husband!” Ash felt a genuine concern for Mrs. Finch as he watched her chug glass after glass of cheap alcohol.

Terence gazed down the end of the hallway. He and Ash had made quite the racket trying to move Mr. Finch. Given the close proximity of each apartment, it would be unlikely any of the tenants were still asleep.

“How convenient,” Terence thought as he wrapped his knuckles on the adjacent door, “if these people are buff, I won’t have to disturb anyone else.” The man who opened the door most certainly wasn’t buff. He stood in his undergarments, pasty white and covered in dark hair. He was a string bean. In his noodle-like arms, the man held a shovel.

“What do you want?” The man squinted as the light from the hallway streamed into his apartment. The room smelled of stale perspiration, and dirty laundry. Terence clucked his tongue in disappointment.

“Nothing. I’m not real. You’re having a dream. When you wake up you’ll want to increase your hygienic standards. Good-bye.” The scrawny man’s stupefied face disappeared behind the door. Terence tried the neighbor on the opposing side of Mrs. Finch’s door, but only found a haggard woman with an evident tobacco addiction. Terence started for the apartment across from Mrs. Finch’s, but stopped when he detected a movement in his peripheral vision. To his surprise, there was a well built man stationed at the doors of an elevator

“Excuse me, “ir, I require your assistance,” Terence trotted over to the man. The man turned

and hinged his neck to look Terence in the eye.

Upon observing Terence’s height, the man murmured to himself, “Oh my, what have I done now?” Terence raised an eyebrow. Did everyone have to assume he was the grim reaper? “Listen,” the man put his hands up in surrender, “I’m only here to fix the elevator.” This statement meant bad news for Terence. If the elevator didn’t work, he and Ash would have to figure out a way of transporting Mr. Finch down the stairs.

“My name is Terence Coon. I have desperate need of a strong individual to assist me with a heavy weight,” he explained. The man slowly lowered his hands. He crossed his thick arms over his chest and nodded.

“Well, in that case, I’m your guy.” The man gestured for Terence to lead the way.

When Terence reentered the apartment, he found Ash crinkling his eyes with laughter. Mrs. Finch appeared to be doing an impersonation of her husband. Several coach cushions were shoved beneath her sweater.

“You’re the reason I’m fat, Fran! You can’t make anything with flavor! First you try to feed me weeds now you’re giving me bread made of sawdust! What do I look like a rabbit!? It’s no wonder I have to resort to eating pastries all the time! It’s the only way I can rid my mouth of all the tasteless crud you feed me!” Her words were slurred and she moved as though she was a disoriented sloth.

“Wilson! Quit canoodling!”

“Canoodling?!” Ash clutched his abdomen. His face was red and tears were rolling down his cheeks. “Terence, you say the darnest things!”

“Wait a minute.” Terence could smell the bitter odor of alcohol. “Have you been drinking?” Ash continued to laugh. Terence crunched his nose in disgust. “The human race disappoints me on a regular basis,” he said to know one in particular.

“Um, you said you needed help lifting something?” Behind them, the elevator man cleared his throat. Ash suddenly regained control of himself.

“You actually found somebody?” Terence didn’t respond. He was not impressed with Ash’s behavior. Instead, he decided to converse with the elevator repair man. The man’s name was Tucker. Terence inquired as to why Mr. Tucker had been asked to repair an elevator at such an untimely hour. Tucker rubbed his buzzed head, uncomfortably.

“I rode that elevator only an hour ago,” Terence said, “how could it be broken?” Now Tucker

was sweating. Terence could see the perspiration exuding from his pores.

“Alright! I’m not actually supposed to be repairing the elevator,” he confessed. “ I move furniture for a moving company. That’s my main job. I just like to repair things. I can’t help it!” Terence didn’t know how to react.

“What’s wrong with the elevator?” he asked.

“This is going to sound strange,” Tucker began, “ but every night for a month I’ve been taking a picture of the elevator shaft. I’ve placed the pictures side by side on my computer and have noticed an exponential increase in damage to the hoist ropes. Normally the counter weight on the opposite side of the sheave weighs about the same as the elevator at its forty percent capacity. Basically, when the

elevator is forty percent full, the counterweight and the car are perfectly balanced. It’s kind of like a seesaw when you think―”

“Can we, or can we not use the elevator?” Terence interrupted. Tucker shrugged.

“That’s the funny part. Normally when an elevator is overcrowded it won’t move. It will buzz until somebody gets off. However, the damage done to those cables indicates that there has been a significant strain placed on the wires-- a sort of strain that would have been avoided if the elevator had been able to sense an overloaded car.” Terence exhaled so sharply, he appeared to shrink as he lowered himself into a chair.

“In other words, we’re safe unless we enter the elevator with an elephant,” Terence grumbled.

Tucker nodded.

“Technically, you would still be relatively safe with an elephant. Even if the cables broke and the car fell, the built-in breaking system would stop the car from crashing into the foundation. If something was going to kill you, it would be the elephant!” Tucker chuckled. “Don’t tell me you called me here to help you lift an elephant!” Terence didn’t even crack a smile.

Tucker was appalled when he saw Mr. Finch’s mountainous form. Terence placed a hand on the tinker’s muscular shoulder.

“He’s not all elephant. Believe it or not, he’s part man too.” Tucker’s mouth hung so low, Terence wondered if he had dislocated his jaw. “You may want to shut your mouth. This man is dead and one of the flies buzzing around him may mistake your tongue for a landing pad.” Tucker took Terence’s advice and clamped his jaw together.

“H-he’s dead?! You didn’t kill him did you?! Oh no, I’m not getting myself involved.” Tucker threw up his arms. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m not going to touch that dead….thing!” Terence forced a pair of blue latex gloves into the man’s hands.

“That ‘thing’ was a human being. We didn’t kill him. He did that all by himself. We’re funeral directors and we’re skinny, so help us move him for God’s sake!” Tucker shrugged. He sighed and bent to lift the man’s head. Terence took the left leg, while Ash took the right. Even with Tucker’s help, they still only managed to slide Mr. Finch half a metre. Ash hung his head.

“Terence, this is impossible!” he huffed. “ Why don’t we just call someone for help. Even if we manage to move this man out of the apartment, we can’t take him on the elevator.” Ash inhaled deeply. He appeared to be struggling for air. He grabbed hold of the side of the wall as though he was about to lose consciousness. Terence eyed him curiously.

“How long have you been having difficulty breathing?” he asked. Ash looked at him, his face was cyanotic. “Never mind. Don’t talk. “ave your breath. Your face is turning the colour of a ripened beet. I suspect you're having an allergic reaction to the mold.”

“Mold?!” Tucker leapt back from the body of Mr. Finch.

“Yes. Mold grows between the fat flaps on obese subjects. Go out to the balcony and get some fresh air. Breathe deeply, but don’t hyperventilate!” Terence directed a groggy Ash toward the balcony doors. As soon as the word ‘balcony’ was mentioned, Mrs. Finch came stumbling into the room.

“B-be careful, Dear. The ants have eaten the wooden support railings on the balcony. The balcony is shot. I never got around to replacing it.” Ash nodded and filled his stale lungs with fresh air. ““tupid husband,” Mrs. Finch murmured. Terence perked up: he had a brilliant idea—a brilliantly disturbing idea.

“How stupid?” he questioned. “How much did you hate him?” Terence came up behind her. “he shook her head, refusing to look Terence in the eye. A tear rolled down her cheek. She sucked her cheeks in. Her lips were pursed and protruded stiffly from her face.

“I’m better off without him,” she croaked. Terence grinned a lopsided grin. “Do you hate him enough to push him off of a two story balcony?”

Both Mrs. Finch and Tucker exclaimed, “What!?” Terence laughed triumphantly. His pale eyes

sparkled deviantly.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move! And make sure Wilson doesn’t plummet to his death out there!” Terence took off as though some supernatural force had suddenly possessed him. His long legs propelled him down the stairs until he was outside in the cool air. Everything was quiet.

Terence enjoyed the cool night air. He often went for walks at the late hours of the night when nobody was out. The night was so silent. He could hear himself think. It was during those walks that he felt as though he owned the world. Several nights ago, Terence had strolled past the Crystler apartments and past a house, a block west, which was selling a truck. He remembered the truck because of the suspiciously low price that was attached.

Terence rocked on his heels in front of the door. The house was a charming brick foundation with two rocking chairs swaying back and forth on the porch. Terence had already sounded the doorbell twice. Using the window as a mirror, he attempted to fabricate his best nice person face. When he was satisfied with his expression, he rang the door a third time. A yawning woman and an old, creased man answered the door.

“Mill, call the police!” the man ordered upon seeing Terence. Perhaps his smile had been a bit too robust.

“Wait!” Terence shouted. “I’m here to buy your truck.” The man blinked at him and tightened

the belt on his bathrobe.

““on, it’s 5 in the morning!” His voice was raspy and Terence could smell his putrid breath from the extra foot he had over the man.

“Why does everyone keep telling me the time?!” Terence exclaimed. I own a functioning watch. I know what time it is! Does your truck work and is it filled with gas?” Terence pulled a number of bills from his coat pocket. The man’s eyes lit up like a candle light.

“Well…yes, it’s all in perfect working order.”

“Good. Then for an extra hundred dollars you’ll drive it to where I need it to go.” Before the man could respond, Terence crammed the crumpled bills into his hand and pulled him out into the night. The man didn’t fail to do exactly as Terence requested.

***

Ash ran a hand through the curly bush of hair atop his head. He stood square in the centre of the balcony, making sure to avoid leaning against the weakened support railings. He placed his chilled hands in his pockets and exhaled slowly. Peering through the wooden bars of the balcony, Ash saw an curious sight. There was an orange truck pulling up directly below the balcony. It halted and out strolled a tall, dark figure, none other than Terence. Ash squeezed his eyes shut and prayed he wouldn’t be forced to participate in another of Terence’s devilish plans.

“Terence, whatever you’re planning, I suggest you not go through with it,” Ash said, as his employer burst through the doors with a disturbingly parabolic smile. Terence gently pushed his co- worker aside.

“Mrs. Finch, are you going to keep your husband’s mattress?” Before he even heard her answer, Terence was pulling up a pair of blue gloves around his narrow wrists and peeling the soiled sheets from Mr. Finch’s mattress. “Tucker, open the balcony door.” Tucker appeared to be stunned.

“W-what are you doing?” he asked. Mrs. Finch stepped forward just then.

“I-I think I understand,” she stammered. “he pressed her twiggy body between the two men and, with trembling fingers, unfastened the door. “Wait just a minute,” she ordered. Terence raised his eyebrows. The woman’s sudden determination was intriguing. “Alright,” she said, tapping a steel baseball bat against the floor, “let’s see if I’ve still got it!” Francine raised the bat above her head, making herself appear several feet taller. She bared her teeth and charged toward the balcony railings.

“Mrs. Finch, stop! You’re going to kill yourself!” Ash hollered after her. A sound resembling the

crunching of bones shook the apartment.

“Good, God!” Tucker’s hand was clamped over his mouth in bewilderment as he watched the frail form of Mrs. Finch decimate what was left of her balcony support railings. Terence couldn’t help but chuckle. Ash and Tucker looked as though they had just been kicked in the teeth.

When Mrs. Finch had finished directing her rage toward the wooden beams of her balcony, she waddled past Terence, Ash, and Tucker, sweating and out of breath.

“How do you feel?” Terence beamed. Mrs. Finch nodded, her face was flushed.

“I feel alive and liberated.” Terence took either end of the dilapidated mattress and heaved it

over his head.

“Good. “ave some strength. You’re going to need it to push your husband off your balcony.” With a grunt, Terence tossed the mattress over the side of the balcony and watched as it thumped below, into the truck bed. Ash pulled Terence aside. His eyes were wide and lined with red.

“Terence, have you gone mad?! Please don’t tell me you’re actually going through with this! It’s insane! What if she pushes her husband off the balcony and he misses the mattress? He’ll smash like a pumpkin! “he’ll be traumatized.”

Terence placed a hand on Ash’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, “ Wilson, trust me. If Mr. Finch breaks in two like Humpty Dumpty, I’ll put him back together. I’m a master restorative artist.” Ash blew his next exhalation through his teeth and rubbed his eyes woefully. He was far too energy deficient to argue with Terence.

With Tucker’s help, Ash rolled the stretcher toward Terence, who stopped it with the apex of his

long shoe.

“Now, Mrs. Finch, I want you to concentrate,” Terence said, cracking his knuckles. The woman

nodded. “You need enough strength to roll your husband over the edge and into the truck bed below.”

Mrs. Finch’s fingers curled tightly around the bars of the stretcher. The skin over her knuckles was stretched and white and her nostrils were flared. She was an Olympic bobsledder and her sled was the preposterous grandeur of Mr. Finch. To think, the woman had been inebriated only moments ago. Now she was driving the entirety of her noodle-like form against her lumpish rock of a husband. Ash, Tucker, and Terence stood audience at the entrance of the balcony. Terence cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled encouragements to the struggling Mrs. Finch.

“‘emember the time when you fed your husband a lovely spinach quiche and he said it tasted like paper maché?!” Terence’s deep booming voice crashed through the neighborhood like fireworks bursting in the night sky. Ash wanted to make like an ostrich and bury his head under one of the couch cushions. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to meet the gaze of Mr. Tucker.

“How does he know that?” Tucker whispered. Having heard the man’s inquiry, Terence raised

his eyebrows and laughed ferociously.

“I can smell it in his purge!” he cried. Both Ash and Tucker gagged. Mrs. Finch gasped when she

saw the brown seedy liquid oozing from her husband’s lips.

“He regurgitated my food even when he was alive!” Mrs. Finch bellowed a number of profanities and, with one last heave, sent her husband flying off the edge of her balcony. “Take that, you filthy swine!” “he shrieked at the plummeting corpse of Mr. Finch. Terence, still full of jolly laughter, took two long strides and stood adjacent to Mrs. Finch. He peered over the side and the corners of his lips rose to devour his thin features.

“I’d say that cannonball dive deserves a full score of ten! Excellent shot, Mrs. Finch.” Mrs. Finch laughed and cried simultaneously. “he flung her arms around Terence’s narrow waist and thanked him profusely.

Terence beckoned for Ash and Tucker to come stand with them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He said, eye’s shining with the reflection of the morning sun. Terence was not just referring to the marbling of pink colours in the lemonade sky, but the mushroom cloud of fluffy, white feathers dancing around the sight of Mr. Finch’s body.

Mrs. Finch sighed. A glimmering tear trickled down her cheek. The engine of the truck rumbled to life and the vehicle, with Mr. Finch in the truck bed, motored onto the streets.

“Where’s it going?” Tucker asked.

“The funeral home,” Terence answered. He snickered, “People will do anything for money.”

Terence jumped as the inside of his jacket vibrated. “Talk about a buzz kill,” he murmured. It was his phone. He stepped inside to speak privately with the individual on the other line. He emerged minutes later, wearing a rather despondent expression.

“Wilson, go to the neighbor right of Mrs. Finch,” he ordered, tiredly. “Ask for his shovel. It would seem one of the so-called Vandel Busters has vandalized the front of a train.” Ash remained stationary with a look of complete perplexity imprinted upon his face. “With his body,” Terence added. Ash understood.

When he returned with the shovel, Terence instructed him to go home to bed.

““leep, puny mortal.”

He then approached Mr. Tucker, devouring the man with his large shadow.

“Have you ever seen a colon up close?” he inquired. Terence offered him the shovel. Mr.

Tucker’s face went pale.

“No, thanks! I think I’ll work on fixing the balcony here, ” he declared, waving the shovel away. “Oh, very well,” Terence replied, voice laden with disappointment. Before leaving, he turned to

address Mrs. Finch. “When you feel ready, stop by the funeral home and we can discuss those prearrangements you made. I think I have a few ideas as to how we can make your husband’s funeral more interesting.” Mrs. Finch nodded, her face alight.

“Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have the spattered contents of a human pizza pocket to retrieve.” The strange funeral director flashed them both a smile, snapped a pair of gloves over his long, slim hands, and left with the shovel proudly mounted upon his shoulder.

Abracadaver

“Let me get this straight,” Terence said, interlocking his fingers in front of him, “your husband was a magician and was bitten by a rabid rabbit?”

The widow had to be joking. Her eyes glittered with tears and her iridescent eyeliner was smudged beneath her eyes, making it appear as though she was a performer in a travelling circus. The tears flowed down her heavily concealed face, leaving streaks of pale skin beneath the mask of dark cosmetics. Her father cradled her head in his arms and patted her on the back while she sobbed convulsively. Terence was glad for the father’s appearance. Mucus disgusted him. The last thing he wanted was to become a human handkerchief. He shuffled awkwardly in his chair and cleared his throat to gain the attention of the woman’s father.

“Mr. Jinx was found dead in his trick store later that night?” Terence asked him. The old man

closed his eyes and nodded.

When his daughter finished her bout of crying, he dusted himself off and said, “When Jazzy found poor Jasper keeled over in his shop, she called for the ambulance, but he was already dead. An autopsy was performed, and it was confirmed that Jasper died of rabies. Damn obvious if you ask me.”

The widow, Jazzy, weaved her hand through her coloured red hair, displacing the tendrils that were plastered to her face.

“I told Jasper not to use wild rabbits in his tricks!” she cried. ““tupid dunce wouldn’t listen!” Jazzy buried her face in the crook of her father’s arm and continued her wailing.

“ “tupid dunce is a redundant word pairing,” Terence stated. His articulation was met with a pair of bewildered stares. He cleared his throat, “It’s pointless to say a dunce is stupid because the definition of dunce is...ugh, never mind. Why did you believe it was obvious Jasper died from rabies?” The question was directed toward Jazzy’s father, however, Jazzy answered it before he could open his mouth.

“Because, “tupid, the same rabbit that bit him was found dead beside him!” Evidently Jazzy’s

grief was making her hostile.

Terence walked out of the arrangement room an hour later wishing he had let his coworker, Ash Wilson, make the arrangements. After the tenacious woman and her father left, Terence was confronted by one of his nosey assistants.

““o, Tallman “am, what was up with all that hoopla in there?” The assistant was Mr. Rubin. He was especially chatty as well as prone to gossiping― two traits that were in direct relation with each other. Terence began to tell Mr. Rubin it was none of his business when the man cut him off.

“Wilson and I picked up that magician guy from the slice and dice room today. You should have seen poor Ash Hole’s face! “ome of that body juice got on his gloves and he near blacked out!” Terence rubbed his eyes in exhaustion as Mr. ‘ubin’s belly bounced with laughter.

“Mr. ‘ubin!” Terence raised his voice, finally unable to tolerate the man’s irritating laughter. “You will not refer to the forensic lab as the ‘slice and dice room’ nor will you harass a member of my staff behind his back! As punishment for your flippancy, you can clean the embalming room after I’ve embalmed Mr. Jinx!” Mr. ‘ubin hung his head and staggered up the stairs mumbling curse words under his breath the entire way.

Terence found Ash washing out the coach in the garage. Upon Terence’s sudden arrival, he

smashed his head against the roof of the vehicle in surprise.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed. “Good thing I have this helmet of curly hair to protect my skull, eh Terence?!” Ash was known in the community of “t. Louis du HA! HA! for his curly afro-like hair. He was also known for his irresistible charm and smile.

“Yes. Perhaps you should have it trimmed. Yesterday, during the funeral, an elderly woman mistook you for ‘ichard “immons,” Terence added. Ash laughed at this comment. His reaction confused Terence. Ash then went on to verbally surmise the option of quitting the funeral industry to film personal exercise videos in a leotard. Terence made it clear that he was very much against this postulation.

“We have a rather unique funeral to plan,” Terence informed him. “Instead of a casket, the family wishes for Mr. Jinx to be buried in the box he used to cut his assistants in half.” Ash raised his eyebrows attentively. “I want you to get a hold of this apparatus. I will provide you with the widow’s contact information later today.” Ash nodded his head and saluted as though he was in cadet school. Terence raised an eyebrow at this behavior and proceeded to the embalming room where he found Jaune supervising Miss Fairweather. Miss Fairweather was in the midst of performing a lower musculature mouth closure.

“Jaune, I would like for Miss Fairweather to observe how an autopsied body is embalmed,” he

declared, slipping into the personal protective gown. Jaune clucked her tongue in excitement.

“Now won’t that be an interesting learning experience! You run along, Deary. I’ll finish up over here,” Jaune smiled.

Miss Fairweather was almost as squeamish as Ash. As soon as Terence unshrouded the filayed body of Mr. Jinx, she gasped, “His brain is missing!” Terence informed her that the man’s brain, along with the rest of his viscera, was contained in a bag, packed into his otherwise vacant cavities.

“Your job will be to mix the viscera in a pail of cavity fluid and then cut them into tiny bits which will then be returned to the body between layers of hardening compound,” Terence notified her. He removed the slimy bag of viscera for her to see and carefully slit it open using a scalpel. The morbid contents spilled into a bucket of potent smelling cavity fluid, creating a grisly stew. “This process is called

dry packing,” Terence finished. “Most funeral directors don’t bother with it, as it’s a timely process. I,

however, do it because it’s fun.”

Terence grinned and left a white-faced Miss Fairweather to section the viscera.

“Oh yes,” Terence suddenly remembered a crucial step, “Miss Fairweather, when you begin digesting the viscera into smaller fragments, be sure to squeeze all the contents from them.” Terence turned to find that Miss Fairweather was not dry packing, but dry heaving in the sink. Jaune escorted the young intern out to mellow in Ash’s famous ‘pass out throne’ while Terence completed the embalming.

When Terence finished the case, he exited the preparation room and went to check on how the set-up was going in the visitation room. As he entered the room, he saw a peculiar sight. At the front was a bold, shining black and red wooden box stacked on top of a matching black table with golden legs. It was, undoubtedly, the box Mr. Jinx had placed his assistants in during his shows. Ash entered the room behind Terence.

“Wilson,” said Terence, having sensed the man’s presence, “ how did you―”

“It wasn’t me!” Ash stated. “The family must have wheeled it in under our noses, some how.” Terence still wasn’t one hundred percent sure this Jasper character’s funeral wasn’t all some sort of hoax. “By the way, Terence,” Ash added, “you smell rather strongly of formaldehyde.” Terence glared at his coworker from the corner of his eye.

“Thank-you.”

***

The next day, Terence asked his employees if they knew anything about the mysterious appearance of the ornate box. They did not. Confused and suspicious, Terence selected his least aggravating assistant, Paul, to help him dress Mr. Jinx. Terence flicked the switch. A harsh light illuminated the stark embalming room. Terence gasped when he saw the colour of Mr. Jinx. The body had turned a florescent pink overnight.

“Wow. Boss what did you use to embalm this guy? Pepto bismol?!” Paul exclaimed. Terence

frantically ran his shaking fingers through his hair.

“This―this isn’t possible! I only used a cap full of tint.” Terence inhaled sharply; his heart was fluttering and his chest felt tight. ““omebody must have deliberately emptied out a bottle of arterial fluid and filled it with tint!” he concluded.

“But Boss who would do―” Terence answered Paul’s question before he had even finished

asking it.

““omebody who is out to destroy me.”

Once Mr. Jinx was dressed in his magician's cloak and top hat, Terence began cosmetizing over

the man’s highlighter pink face.

“Is that stuff really gonna’ make his face look less like an easter egg?” Paul asked while carefully observing Terence layer the concealer on. The ghastly pink colouration of the man’s skin was the least of Terence’s worries. The magician often wore heavy makeup for his performances and his hands were concealed by a pair of white gloves. What troubled Terence was the poor preservation that had likely been achieved. Based on the man’s weight, at least three bottles of arterial fluid should have been administered. Given that at least one of the bottles had been swapped for a bottle of tint, the decomposition of Mr. Jinx’s body could become evident during the funeral. A wave of panicked nausea swept over Terence and he suddenly became very dizzy. He grabbed hold of Paul’s shoulder for stability.

“You okay, Boss?” Paul asked.

“Paul, pray this man doesn’t change from pink to green,” Terence responded.

***

Come noon, Terence was approached by Jaune while reading a dismally realistic fortune in a fortune cookie.

“Death is in your future,” Terence read.

“Beg your pardon?” Jaune said. Terence showed her the fortune.

“Death was in my past, is in my present time, and will be in my future,” Terence corrected it. ““till, it’s the most accurate fortune, I’ve ever read.” Jaune helped herself to a seat across from Terence, raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms in a disappointed mother sort of way. Perhaps she was expecting Terence to share his chicken ka-pow.

“Well, go on then,” he said, gesturing for her to help herself to the plate of untouched chicken. “There’s not enough pow in it anyway. It’s just chicken ka. The whole dish is anticlimactic. I’m not sure it’s even chicken.” Jaune ignored Terence’s criticisms of the cuisine.

“Please tell me you didn’t do what people are saying you did,” she said. Terence picked up a

week old newspaper and flipped to the obituaries.

“That depends on what people are saying I did,” Terence answered. Jaune ripped the newspaper from Terence’s long fingered grip and stabbed her own finger dangerously close to the tip of his nose.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what they’re sayin’! They sayin’ you turned poor Mr. Jinx into the pink panther! I told em’, Lord knows it ain’t so! Turnin’ a man pink!? I don’t think so!” Terence raised his hands in defeat. He explained to Jaune how some poltergeist had swapped his fluids. She slowly lowered her finger and shook her head as though Terence was a silly little boy.

“Jaune, I’m an artist. I comsetized over top of the colour. Trust me. He doesn’t look like the pink panther!” Terence reassured her. Jaune pinched her eyebrows together and subconsciously began picking at Terence’s inadequate chicken. Terence concluded: eating was Jaune’s way of coping with stress.

“What happens if he starts stinkin’ in the middle of the funeral! What are you gonna’ tell the family!” Jaune demanded. Terence sighed.

“I’ll tell them the truth,” he said. Jaune shot out of her chair like a rocket. Her sudden movement

knocked the saucy chicken shreds from the plate.

“The truth?!” she cried. Terence was losing his patience.

“Of course I’ll tell them the truth! What am I supposed to say?! The priest let one rip?!” Ash walked in and ducked just as a juicy chunk of chicken came sailing toward his face. A look of exasperation spread across his features.

“Are you two having some sort of a food fight?” he inquired, placing his hands on his hips. Terence hid the scrap of meat he was holding behind his back. “The magician’s family is here to see him,” Ash announced. Terence’s eyes grew three sizes; his dark brows furrowed with uneasiness. The family wasn’t supposed to view Mr. Jinx until tomorrow before the funeral!

“I, uh, haven’t positioned Mr. Jinx in his trick box yet,” he admitted. Ash was shaking his head so

fervently, Terence thought his fluffy hair would float from his head like a cloud.

“He’s not in the prep room, Terence, I was just down there this morning, stocking the shelves,” Ash explained. Terence made a worrisome whimper―the sort of sound a dog makes when his owner has left.

“I―I didn’t…..pardon me,” Terence pushed past Ash and skipped down the stairs, still clutching

the bland chicken bit.

In the visitation room, the family was linked together like a chain, supporting one another’s weight. Their faces were laden with sadness and their bodies seemed to sag as though they had no muscle to keep themselves upright. Their grief seemed to be floating heavy in the air like a greasy plume of smoke after a house fire. Terence immediately felt a weight pressing in on all sides of him. It wasn’t until Jazzy’s father stepped forward to shake Terence’s hand, that Terence remembered the sticky chicken nugget plastered to his palm. He coughed nervously and placed the chicken hand in his pocket.

““orry,” Terence apologized. “My, uh, hand is cold.” The man narrowed his eyes at Terence and backed away slowly. Terence’s breath caught in the back of his throat. He was so anxious he could feel himself vibrating. Mr. Jinx was gone! The family had traveled to the funeral home to say goodbye to an empty box! There was a long, unpleasant silence. Terence locked his muscles in an attempt to still his quaking body. He could almost hear them knitting together. The family stood piercing him with their heartbroken eyes.

““crew this!” Jazzy exclaimed. She flung open the lid of the box. There was a loud whooshing sound, followed by the coo of a dozen white doves. The birds flapped their graceful feathers and exited the intricately painted container. The family oohed and awed, gazing up at the elegant creatures soaring above their heads. Terence blinked. His head felt foggy. In the case, Mr. Jinx was perfectly positioned. His makeup was flawless, his costume was free of wrinkles, and his beard was freshly combed. A pair of arms encapsulated Terence’s thorax and he yelped in surprise.

“Oh, thank-you!” Jazzy bawled.

“You’re welcome,” Terence choked. The woman was practically asphyxiating him. Another woman, Jazzy’s mother, peeled her daughter from Terence’s reedy frame.

“How did you do that?!” Jazzy’s father asked in astonishment. Terence hadn’t done anything. He

was as perplexed as the family members.

“A mortician never reveals his secrets,” he responded.

***

The day was overcast and the graves seemed to jut from the ground like granite teeth. The bereaved came in large numbers and sat, in their black and their lace, before the grave like phantoms. Terence stationed himself toward the back of the crowd, where the rest of his staff was standing. The day was both hot and cold at the same time. Terence could feel the murkiness seeping through his coat and gnawing at his bones. His hair was damp with humidity and his skin seemed to crawl from the clamminess.

“omething was awry with this man’s funeral. The preparation process had been riddled with anomalous events: the sudden arrival of the trick box, the devious switch of the chemicals, the enigmatic transportation of Mr. Jinx’s body, and the supernatural eruption of doves from inside his trick box. Terence was growing more paranoid by the second. What if this whole process had been nothing but an elaborate prank to make him look bad? A horrible sense of dread fell over Terence like an illness. His gut wrenched and he doubled over in agony. A moan escaped his lips and Ash turned his head to see his employer clutching at his stomach as though his appendix had just ruptured.

“What’s the matter?” Ash whispered. The sickness left as quickly as it had come and was

replaced with an intense chill, freezing Terence in place.

“Nothing,” Terence whispered back, straightening himself. A rotten odor suddenly swept through the cemetery filling everyone’s nostrils. The priest chuckled, uneasily, and lit the incense burner.

“My apologies for the smell,” he said, “I seem to be having some stomach problems today.” Terence looked toward Jaune. She smiled dubiously at him and winked. Terence averted his eyes in disgust; it hadn’t been the first time she’d bribed a priest.

The priest recited the psalms over the sounds of soft weeping and sharp sniffling in the crowd.

People seemed to be producing tissues from every nook and cranny of their apparels. Terence witnessed one woman swipe a tissue from the protuberant pair of bosoms bursting from her blouse. It often amazed Terence what woman hid down there.

At one point during the priest’s sermon, a second voice rose above him. It was the voice of a

frightened young girl.

“Help! “omebody, get me out of here!” Terence didn’t know how, but the voice sounded as though it was coming from beneath them. Heads whipped back and forth amongst the sea of black, desperately searching for the source of the voice. Terence sprung forward. The voice was coming from inside the grave. His shoes squelched through the mushy carpet of leaves glued to the cemetery floor. Terence elbowed his way past the flummoxed priest and gazed down into the waterlogged pit. A shivering woman gazed back at him in her nightgown.

“How did I get here?!” she wailed. “I went to sleep last night in my bed and when I woke up I was trapped in here! I thought I was going to be buried alive!” Terence knelt by the grave, soiling the knees of his pants, and reached out his long arm. She pressed her small wet hands in his own and he hoisted her up. The pair of them were met with a melange of convoluted expressions. Some people appeared relieved, others alarmed, and the rest completely clueless.

“Avangeline!” Jazzy stood at the front. Her face was muddied with tears and runny makeup. “But you’re Jasper’s stage assistant! You’re the one he always sawed in half!” Terence wrapped his coat around the soggy girl. She nodded. Her hair fell to her shoulders in stringy wet tendrils.

““o, he’s dead, then? Jasper’s dead?” Jazzy frowned and hugged Avangeline as she began to join

the audience in a round of sobbing.

“I’m not so sure!” Terence articulated, cutting the audience’s lament short. Now Terence understood the unexplained events associated with Mr. Jinx’s death.

“He’s dead, “tupid!” screamed Jazzy. Terence refused to acknowledge the woman’s horrid

outburst.

“What is the one trick that every magician dreams to achieve?” Terence asked the crowd. A

floppy-haired youth tentatively raised his hand.

“Faking his own death?” The teen speculated. Terence nodded.

“Precisely.” The possibility of Mr. Jinx still being alive aroused the people. Terence grinned when he saw hope resurface through the zombified masks of the mourners. The cemetery flooded with buoyant chattering.

Terence cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Very impressive, Mr. Jinx! Now come out and tell us how you managed to fake your own death.” “ilence followed Terence’s plea. In the back, Terence could see Ash and Jaune shaking their heads and waving their hands wildly. Were they doing some sort of dance? Terence ignored them.

“Come on! We know the body in this case isn’t yours. Who is it? A secret identical twin?” The silence continued. “You can’t fool me, Mr. Jinx! I’m a restorative artist. I know, with the right tools, you can make anyone look like anyone.” Terence mustered up his strength and, with a grunt, overturned Mr. Jinx’s trick box. The man’s corpse rolled across the sodden turf. A pestilent odor snaked its way through the crowd, causing a number of members to fall ill. A figure emerged from the graves. It was Mr. Jinx.

The magician had an arrogant grin on his sly face and was stroking a white rabbit.

“I got you good, didn’t I?” he said, cheerfully. Terence whistled loudly. Every vomit encrusted

face turned toward him.

“You see! Mr. Jinx is alive and standing beside me.” Terence gestured toward the bowing magician. Oddly enough, as he looked out into the audience, he saw the majority of their expressions to be unchanged. People glared at him with wide wet fish eyes. One woman was shaking her head and biting her nails.

“He’s insane!” whimpered Jazzy. Mr. Jinx shrugged and looked to Terence for support.

“Mr. Jinx,” said Terence, “why don’t you explain to everyone how you managed to successfully fake your own death?”

The man chuckled and scratched the red-eyed rabbit behind its ears. He leaned in close to

Terence and whispered in his ear, “There was nothing fake about my death, “on.”

Biological Warfare

It was a peaceful day at Amigone Funeral Home. Terence was reading up on the latest embalming trends among funeral directors in Mortician Magazine, when he was interrupted by his employee, Ash Wilson.

“A man named Melvin Bowinkle and two lovely ladies are here to see you,” Ash proclaimed with his rosy cheeks and budding smile. Terence dropped the magazine―he couldn’t believe his ears. He stood aghast from his office desk. Melvin Bowinkle was the intern he’d fired last year.

“What’s the matter?” Ash asked. Terence adjusted his tie and swept a nervous hand through his

hair.

“Listen to me, Wislon. Melvin is a menace. He’s here to get revenge,” Terence whispered. His

voice was like a crackling fire. Ash shook his head in disbelief. He left laughing.

“I’m not joking, Wilson,” Terence said after him. He barricaded himself in front of the exit, his stretched limbs splayed spider-like in the door frame.

“Those ‘lovely’ ladies you're referring to are Ingrid and Hazel. They wear a fragrance that stings more than cavity fluid,” Terence explained. He went on to explain the circumstances under which he fired Melvin, but Ash wouldn’t listen. Like everyone else, he thought Terence to be a raving paranoid lunatic. Terence’s word had about as much credibility as the word of a girl who possessed imaginary friends.

“Damn it, Wilson!” Terence swore as his employee shoved past him. He felt like a turtle stuck on its back.

The stairs complained as Terence swooped down them, skipping two at a time with his long strides. The doorbell resonated throughout Amigone Funeral Home. In wafted Melvin, along with a smell so atrocious it made Terence choke.

***

Melvin was a snake disguised as a ballerina. His hair was pale like dead grass and his face reminded Terence of a rodent’s. He was well groomed―a puzzle without a single piece missing, and his words danced around people, suffocating them. Melvin blinded people with his fraudulent charm.

Everything about him was fake. Terence would never forget the year he hired Melvin on as his intern.

Using fancy lies and pretty costume, Melvin effortlessly wormed his way into Amigone Funeral Home. During his interview, Melvin possessed a demeanor of professionalism and tact. The façade was uncanny. Terence was fooled. He wasted no time in hiring the man… only to find out he was a desperate drug addict.

Families Melvin saw would come to Terence complaining about the excessive fees Melvin made them pay for their funerals. Grieving people were like putty in Melvin’s hands. Terence even caught him stealing money from the donation desk a few times after visitings.

No one believed Terence’s accusations against Melvin. Jaune, another of Terence’s employees, was convinced Terence was mentally unsuited to be her boss. Terence wasn’t the most trusting of men, nor was he very communal, but that certainly didn’t make him insane. Melvin used Jaune to his advantage. Terence often heard the two discussing him as though he was their patient in a mental institution.

“The poor man thinks I’m stealing money!” Melvin would say, his voice dripping with innocence.

Two months of bullshit felt like an eternity to Terence. The day Terence confirmed his suspicions

of Melvin’s drug habits, was the best day of Terence’s life.

It started with a conversation Terence heard Melvin having with another intern. Upon asked why he decided to go into funeral services, Melvin responded, “I dunno.” The intern sounded abashed when she probed, “Then, why are you here?!”

In response to the young woman’s question, Melvin ripped a gurgling belch and then apologized for his inability to control his gases. At that point, Terence had felt it necessary to intercede. He took Melvin aside and informed him it was unacceptable to behave in such a manner―especially in front of a younger intern and especially during a visitation. Melvin had simply shrugged flippantly. When he strolled past to leave, Terence was hit with a turbulence of malodorous air. Melvin had been drinking.

Terence fired Melvin then and there. Melvin swore on his mother’s grave it was his cologne Terence was

smelling.

Terence had crossed his gangly arms, sucked in his cheeks and said, “Nice try, Bowinkle, but your mother is still alive. She works at the drugstore. You’re an apathetic little worm who squirms for attention and adheres to the qualms induced by the chemicals found in a bar. One day I will most certainly see your jaundiced face on a prep table, but until that day inevitably comes, I bid you ado.”

***

Now Melvin was back. He was like a pesky bug that refused to die.

“Get the hell out of my funeral home!” Terence snapped. Ash immediately apologized for his employer’s horrid disposition. Melvin chuckled, his round spectacles glinting in the light.

“I see you’re still your same charming self,” he said. Terence was both slight and enormous. The physical combination had most people weak at the knees, but Melvin seemed to enjoy wading in Terence’s shadow.

“What do you want, Bowinkle?” Terence demanded.

“I bumped into Ingrid and Hazel downtown this morning and thought I’d bring them over for a visit. You remember Ingrid and Hazel, don’t you?”

Terence could feel his eyes water as soon as the widows stepped forward. Their perfume was so strong he could taste its foulness tickling the back of his throat.

““how them upstairs, Wilson,” Terence commanded. “I have something I want to say to Mr.

Bowinkle, here.” His voice was layered with vehemence.

Like lampreys, the frail ladies latched onto Ash. Though clearly disturbed by their lack of personal space, Ash grinned pleasantly at the ladies and escorted them gingerly up the stairs.

“What are you doing here, Bowinkle?!” Terence demanded. Melvin shrugged his accursed shrug. “Just trying to help some appreciative old women,” he answered with a sly grin. Terence wanted

to peel the man’s snarky smile from his face.

The women, Ingrid and Hazel, both lost their husbands in the same year. The two were inseparable. When Ingrid’s husband died, Hazel came with her to make the arrangements, and when Hazel’s husband died, Ingrid repaid the favor. They had the same manicured fuschia nails, the same pearl earrings, and the same purplish tinge to their hair. What stuck out most about the ladies in Terence’s mind, was their scent: a sickening sweet stench that tingled his orifices like wasabi. Terence had choked and spluttered his way through both arrangements, excusing himself multiple times on account of his nose bleeding. Melvin knew how embarrassing those arrangements had been for Terence.

Leaning in close to Melvin’s deceptively cherub-like face, Terence hissed, “This is biological warfare of the lowest form.”

Melvin chuckled, “I’d forgotten about the nosebleeds.”

“You’re so full of shit I can smell it on your breath!” Terence spat. “You invited those ladies here with the intention of causing me pain. You want revenge because I fired you.”

Melvin rocked on his feet and slid his hands in his pockets. He feigned a sigh of concern and pretended to study the patterns in the carpet.

“You really are a paranoid son of a bitch,” he said. “Ingrid and Hazel praised you the whole ride here. They’re beside themselves grateful for what you did for them at their husband’s funerals. We worked those funerals together, Terence. I thought their presence would make you remember what we were able to accomplish.”

“Kindly show Miss Ingrid and Miss Hazel to the door,” Terence said coldly.

“Don’t you care about the reputation of your funeral home?” Melvin said. “Ingrid and Hazel are

active members of the community. Why do you think you have a good reputation right now? I can tell

you it’s not because of your social skills. Most people think you’re a freak. Ingrid and Hazel are your only supporters. Turn them away, and no one will want a funeral here.” Melvin finished with a glowering glint in his beady eyes. He was right. Terence was seven feet tall, bone thin, and had eyes so colourless they looked alien. On top of being a funeral director, it didn’t take much for people to believe he was mad.

Furious and defeated, Terence dragged himself up the stairs to join Ingrid, Hazel, and Ash in the lounge. He paused on the fifth step and turned to face Melvin.

“This isn’t just biological warfare,” he said perniciously, “this is premeditated biological

warfare.”

In the lounge, Ingrid and Hazel were giggling and eating an array of vibrantly flavored funeral home candies. While Terence took the seat farthest from the ladies, Melvin went to the fridge in search of some refreshments.

“Come now, Mr. Coon, we don’t bite!” piped Ingrid. Terence stretched his long arms out in front

of him on the table and intertwined his fingers.

“Yes,” he declared, “judging by your lack of teeth, I’d say that statement is rather accurate.” Ash elbowed Terence forcefully in the ribs. Terence grunted and turned to his coworker in complete bewilderment.

“He’s just kidding!” Ash said, flashing his perfect teeth. The ladies giggled incessantly and

poured each other a cup of tea.

As time wasted away and the insignificance of the discussions grew more and more transparent, the aroma of the ladies’ perfume slowly diffused over to Terence’s half of the table. His head pulsed and his brain felt as though it was melting into a pool of goo inside his skull. His eyes stung and his nose and throat burned with an equal intensity. The ladies’ perfume wasn’t just another chemical concoction of artificial pheromones, it was a neurotoxin.

“Mr. Coon, do you know Lynch Thornberry?” Hazel asked. Terence blinked away the tears that were welling in his inflamed eyeballs and attempted to focus on the bleeding image of Hazel’s face. Her skin was far too many colours.

“The postman?” he asked, choking on his own words. The perfume tasted like a gaseous form of marmite. “His head’s like a light bulb. It’s all round and shiny,” Terence remarked. His words sounded slurred and felt sloppy in his prickling mouth. Melvin’s chuckling filled the room. It was so painfully monotonous it reminded Terence of a robot he once programmed to tell bad jokes. The robot was horrendously annoying and was later terminated.

Beside Terence, Ash was twiddling with a candy wrapper. The crinkling and crunching of the plastic was painful in his ears. He felt as though the fragments of his skull were splitting. Every sound seemed more pronounced.

““hhh,” he hushed. Ash ceased his twiddling and gazed up at Terence. His eyes inflated like pool

donuts.

“Terence,” Ash lowered his voice, discretely, “your nose is bleeding!” Terence tilted his head

downward and cupped his hand over his nose to act as an eavestrough for the blood.

“Get me out of here!” he murmured. Ash stood. All eyes were on him. He clapped his hands

together.

“Well, everyone,” he started. “You’ll have to excuse Terence and I as we―uh, use the bathroom.” The party looked at Ash in astonishment.

““orry,” Ingrid said. “Did you say the two of you were going to use the bathroom together?” Ash nodded. His face was so red he looked as if he’d just completed a marathon.

“I didn’t know men did that!” Hazel exclaimed. The two howled with laughter as Terence and

Ash dashed out. Terence could only imagine the satisfied sneer on Melvin’s ugly mug.

“Terence, what’s going on?” Ash demanded as he struggled to keep up with Terence’s far- reaching steps.

The stairs and hallways seemed to be never ending as Terence tried desperately not to drip

blood on the opulent furnishings of the funeral home. He didn’t stop until he was in the prep room. “Terence, what are you―”

“I’m getting prep towel, it’s absorbent!” Blood streamed from his nose like water from a faucet.

Red beads splatted neatly to the white tiling on the floor. Squeamish as he was, Ash gagged and shielded his eyes.

“You know, Terence, for a man who tolerates the fumes of carcinogenic embalming chemicals,

you react pretty dramatically to little old lady perfume,” he stated.

“For a funeral director, you react pretty dramatically to the sight of blood,” Terence retorted.

Having controlled the bleeding, Terence placed a pair of eye weights over his stinging eyes. The weights were normally placed over decedent’s eyes to reduce any swelling that may have occurred as a result of trauma or injection. Terence didn’t think the cadavers would mind him borrowing them.

““o it’s true then,” Ash said. “Melvin brought those ladies here to smite you.” He shook his head. “I guess you made the right decision to fire him after all.”

“Indeed,” Terence responded, scrubbing the dried blood from his palms.

The doorbell sounded for the second time that day. Terence huffed and shook droplets of water from his hands.

“Make sure Bowinkle doesn’t answer that,” he said to Ash. “That asshole doesn’t work here anymore.”

He followed swiftly behind Ash, through the display of polished caskets and elegant urns, until he came face to face with Lynch Thornberry.

“We were just talking about you, Mr. Thornberry,” Ash beamed. Dressed impeccably in a black suit and silk tie, the man looked more like a butler than a postman. The bald man pushed past Ash, displaying his hand for Terence to shake.

His face stern, he said, “Well,aren’t you going to shake my hand?” Terence eyed the man suspiciously.

“Handshakes are nothing but an exchange of germs,” he stated. ““houldn’t you be wearing that funny post man costume?” The man’s eyebrows rose to meet the wrinkles on his forehead.

“You’re mistaking me for my twin brother, Doug Thornberry,” he articulated. He removed his tiny spectacles and glared at Terence as though he was an unsightly smudge on the wall. “Honestly, Mr. Coon, someone in your position should take the time to remember little details like that.” Evidently, the man had a superiority complex. A few subtle insults would likely balance his ego.

“Yes. I remember now. You’re the fat twin.” Terence forced a smile. Jaune often told him not to

smile, as he looked like he was chewing glass.

Mr. Thornberry’s jaw clenched. His frown lines deepened―they looked like they’d been carved into his face. He stabbed his fat finger in Ash’s direction and demanded Terence order him to get a hair cut.

“The older generation won’t feel comfortable speaking to a man with disco hair,” he declared, now flashing his pretentious stare in Terence’s direction.

Before the man could get out another critical word, Terence said, “Not everyone can be as bald as you, Mr. Thornberry.” His face the colour of a tomato, Lynch ran a hand over his bulbous head. He really was quite ugly.

“I’m here to inspect your funeral home to ensure that everything is in accordance with the legislation,” he announced. Terence felt as though his insides were drowning. According to the legislation, an embalming room must be kept in a clean, sanitary and disinfected condition. The blood from Terence’s nose was still splattered all over the embalming room. Terence silently cursed Melvin’s existence. There was no doubt in his mind, the inspector’s untimely entrance was no coincidence.

“This is an inconvenient time,” Terence proclaimed. As if on cue, Melvin appeared.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Thornberry,” he greeted politely. As usual, Bowinkle was kissing the ass of authority. “Don’t mind Terence. He may be an Asperger’s case, but I assure you he runs a clean business.” Terence envisioned Melvin as an ant smoking under a magnifying glass.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lynch declared.

Terence was screwed. At some point during the inspection, Lynch would demand to see the prep room. Ash and Terence together wouldn’t be able to convince Lynch the blood was a result of a perfume induced nosebleed. Terence could be charged for disobeying the legislation. Worst of all, Melvin would make it his job to inform every last person about Terence’s bloodstained prep room. As if Melvin wasn’t source enough for Terence’s frustration, Mr. Thornberry’s constant stream of criticisms was beginning to undermine Terence’s already paper thin patience.

“Mr. Coon, you’re disturbingly thin. Perhaps if you put on weight, you’d avoid scaring away potential clients. I highly doubt grieving families would feel comfortable speaking to a cadaverous funeral director.”

Terence reminded Mr. Thornberry that he was here to analyze the condition of the funeral home, not the funeral directors. Mr. Thornberry merely ignored this fact and went on to propose Terence use his husky voice to entertain listeners over the radio. He also made the ignorant mistake of suggesting Terence tryout for a basketball league.

By the time the four of them made their way to the preparation room, Terence was beyond pissed. He aggressively pulled back the crimson curtains concealing the door to the preparation room. Ash plastered his body in front of the entrance.

““top! There’s bodies in there!” he lied. Ash was a crummy liar. “Move out of the way, Wilson,” Terence sighed.

When Lynch caught sight of the blood stains, he went ballistic. Distasteful words gushed from his mouth like bile.

“Mr. Thornberry!” Terence boomed. “Kindly refrain from using such disgusting language in my funeral home. If you’re too stupid to come up with your own terms, shut-up!”

Lynch threw up his hands wildly. His head was like a pimple―bloated and red.

“I think it’s justified I use harsh language right now!” he screamed. He was wrong. There was never an excuse for the use of unoriginal speech. “Honestly, Terence! What sort of lazy unhygienic lump are you?! Mark my words, the board will be hearing about this!”

“Now, Mr. Thornberry,” Melvin cooed, “I’m sure Terence has a perfectly reasonable explanation for the blood stains.”

Terence’s eyes were on Melvin like daggers. He attempted to retell the story of his nosebleed,

but even after Ash vouched for him, Lynch wouldn’t listen.

“Do you take me for an idiot, Mr. Coon?!” he snapped. Terence refrained from saying yes. “That’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever heard! Bob Amigone was a fool for handing his business over to you after he died.”

The comment made something deep inside Terence snap. Bob was a kind and gentle man―one of the few people who had ever taken the time to look past Terence’s frightening exterior. Anyone who insulted him was a disgusting waste of human flesh. Terence felt strangulated with wrath. When he took up the pistol-like needle injector, his body seemed to do so of its own accord.

“Terence?” Ash’s face was blanched in horror. “Put that down, Terence.” The terrified voice

barely registered as an echo in Terence’s mind. “uddenly he was a machine―cold and cruel.

“Mr. Thornberry,” Terence said, his voice sounded foreign. Metallic. The man turned, his naked skull perfectly in line with the eye of the needle injector. Terence pressed the device close and pumped a needle furiously into his frontal bone. He felt the man’s grotesque head shatter under the impact.

Blood leaked from the protruding pin and dribbled down Mr. Thronberry’s petrified features. Ash loosed a wretched shriek as the man’s eyes fogged over and he fell lifeless to the floor. His head broke like a watermelon. The stew-like contents spewed everywhere, coating Terence in gore.

“How do you like my prep room now, Melvin?!” Terence uttered through locked teeth. He could

feel his heart twitching. He was insane.

Melvin scuttled and screamed like a lobster in a pot of boiling water. This time Terence used a trocar―a long hallow needle― as his choice of weapon. Melvin’s death was quick. Before he could even manage a squeak, Terence had Melvin skewered through the heart. A human shish kabob. The trocar squelched as Terence removed it. A burst of blood shot forth, thickening the red soup that covered the floor. Ash had long since fainted from the shock. He was crumpled by the door beside a pile of his own vomit.

Terence too fell ill. His hands glittered with the sap of his victims. His knees weakened beneath him. What had he done? Terence squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wail in agony at the wickedness of his deed…

“Terence?” A small voice called his name. “Are you okay?” The voice grew louder. It was Ash.

Terence opened his eyes. He was sprawled on the floor of the lounge with his coworker intimately close to him.

“Oh God…” he groaned. His head felt like it had been sandwiched between two rhinoceroses.

“You were saying something about a postman with a head like a light bulb when you suddenly collapsed out of your chair,” Ash explained. This was excellent news. Terence wasn’t a homicidal maniac after all. The whole scenario had been but a wild trip.

“I do believe your perfume has some rather disturbing psychedelic properties,” Terence said to

Ingrid and Hazel.

“Oh, Hazel. I told you we shouldn’t have worn that perfume. Look what we’ve done to the poor man!” Ingrid hobbled over to Terence and helped him to his feet. For a decrepit old lady, she was surprisingly strong. Hazel joined Ingrid and clucked her tongue in a motherly fashion.

“I dare say we almost killed the man, Ingrid,” she said. Ingrid laughed and the two of them

linked arms.

“Why, my Dear, we’ve only managed to do it twice!” The two women cackled like a pair of kookaburras. Terence was genuinely freaked out by the pair of them. Melvin appeared to be disturbed as well.

“Uh, ladies, are you sure you wouldn’t rather take a taxi back to your place?” he questioned. “What’s the matter, Melvin? Are you afraid of two little old grannies?” Ingrid said, cheekily.

Melvin gulped and followed the two of them, nervously.

After the three of them departed, Terence’s deep-toned thundering laughter reverberated amidst the window panes of the funeral home, causing them to rattle.

When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he said to Ash, “Did you see the look on Bowinkle’s face?! He looked like a deer in the headlights!” Ash couldn’t help but join in the laughter.

The doorbell sang and both Ash and Terence composed themselves pronto. A short bald man with a square-like body shape entered the funeral home.

“Hi, I’m Doug Thornberry.” The man took Terence’s hand and shook it firmly. “I’m here to make arrangements for my idiot brother, Lynch. It would seem he finally criticized the wrong guy and got himself shot in the head!”

Lost

Terence was stuck babysitting. As he rocked back and forth in the rocking chair, blankly watching the curious child crawl about the room, he couldn’t help but think how deceptively morbid the term was. Why would parents want a complete stranger to ‘sit’ upon their offspring? The woman Mint Hallows―with her oversized sunglasses and bobbing black hair― simply transferred the child over to Terence and went off to make arrangements for her father’s funeral. Terence was awkward when it came to conversing with emotionally compromised adults; but when it came to children, he was clueless. Before transferring the temporary custody of her child over to Terence, the woman hesitated. She was frightened of Terence. She was frightened of his abnormal height and raw boned figure. She eyed Terence as though he was an extraterrestrial, there to dissect her child and study the innards.

Noticing Mint’s unease, Jaune had assured her Terence wouldn’t hurt a fly. This was a lie. Terence had

not only hurt, but killed flies on numerous occasions.

“Is this your house?” The child spoke.

“No,” Terence answered. The child was dressed in the costume of a fox. His face was round and smooth like a peach. Brown speckles dotted his cheeks and a sandy tuft of hair protruded from the hood of his apparel.

“Why do you have so many beds?” The boy pointed at the caskets, which could be seen through the door of the children’s room.

“They’re called caskets and they are intended for dead bodies,” Terence clarified.

“Can I go in one?” The boy started to jump up and down as though he was on a trampoline.

Terence sighed; the dandelion yellow walls of the room were making his eyes ache and the kid’s

energetic hopping was starting to disorient him.

“No. You’re not a dead body,” Terence replied, curtly. “When will I die?” he whined.

““eventy-eight years is the average life span of a male,” Terence informed him. “Your demise will likely be around that age.” The boy crossed his arms and fell to his bum.

“Please, Mister?” he pouted, his eyes wide and watery. Terence shrugged. Why not? He stood, beckoning for the kid to follow him. The fox boy flung up his paws in delight and skipped triumphantly behind Terence.

“Which casket?” Terence asked the child. Without hesitation, the boy pointed to a sleek casket

made of mahogany. It was the most expensive casket Terence possessed. The boy had classy taste. Laughing, the kid climbed Terence like a lemur and leapt into the casket’s interior.

Jaune walked into the room, her smile a sticker on her face. Mint strutted fashionably behind.

Her smile dissolved when she saw Terence towering like a guard beside a casket full of fox boy.

“Hey mom!” he cried. “Look at me, I’m dead!” The mother appeared as though she was about to

have a breathing spell.

“Pip!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing in there?!” Mint extracted her son from the casket, all the while scowling Terence from the corner of her eye. “How could you let my Pip climb into a coffin!?” she shrieked, forehead wrinkled in distress. Terence was confused by the woman’s anger toward him. People’s emotions always confused him.

“Actually, I let him climb into a casket,” Terence corrected her. “A coffin is typically hexagonal in shape and narrows at the foot.” The woman tightened her grip on Pip’s hand. Her eyes were open in surprise and her head was shaking back and forth as though she didn’t understand the difference.

“Okay, maybe I should just go to a different funeral home,” Mint articulated. “he left in a huff,

dragging her son behind her.

Jaune managed to stop the woman before she left. Terence heard her apologize profusely for his behavior. Mint eventually agreed to return to the funeral home at a time when Terence would not be present.

“I don’t want my child in the hands of that freak!” she spat, before stomping out of the funeral home. Terence was genuinely hurt by Mint’s outrage. After her boisterous exit, he morosely marched up the steps to the main level of Amigone Funeral Home.

When Jaune saw his woebegone expression, she touched him lightly on the arm.

“Listen, Terry,” she said, “you can’t let little boys crawl into caskets―you understand? People think we’re weird enough already. Now I know you can’t help being seven feet tall―”

“I’m 6’5,” Terence corrected her.

“Yes, Dear, but you’re the width of an uncooked noodle, which only makes you look taller―what with that hyperwhatchamacallit disorder―”

“Hyperthyroidism,” Terence sighed.

“Yeah, whatever. My point is this: when people enter this funeral home, you can’t be the scientific embalmer. You have to be the social butterfly―like Wilson,” Terence frowned. Jaune compared him to his charming counterpart, Ash Wilson on a regular basis. Her audacity angered Terence more than he could express. Who was she to tell him what to do? Terence was her employer.

He raised an eyebrow menacingly at her and said, “Yesterday night I transferred a body that was discovered buried beneath layers of mud on a farm. Apparently he had a heart attack while mucking the pig pen.”

Jaune snorted, “What does that have to do with anything?” Terence bent over so that his pallid eyes bore into Jaune’s warm, dark features. His voice like sandpaper, he whispered, “You may need to use a chisel to scrape the encrusted manure from the van.” A grin snaked across Terence’s face as he left his employee cringing beneath the chandeliers.

***

Mint returned the next day, this time leaving her child in the custody of Ash Wilson. Terence tucked himself away in the embalming lab while Jaune commenced her tortuous session of small talk with the accursed Mint Hallows.

Dressing his hands in blue latex, Terence was about to begin embalming Mint’s father, when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Don’t call me while I’m embalming!” Terence pronounced over the phone.

““orry, Terence, it’s an emergency.” Terence groaned. It was Ash. What the hell did he want? “Pip’s disappeared! I swear, I blinked and he was gone!”

“Well then, I suppose he must have evaporated. After all, a boy his age would typically be composed of seventy percent water.”

“That’s very interesting, Terence, but I’ll be in deep manure if we don’t find this kid.” “Where were you yesterday night when I was in deep manure, fishing out a man’s slimy

corpse?” There was silence on Ash’s end. “Good-bye, Wilson.” Terence hung up and turned his phone

off to prevent any more distractions.

The embalming lab was a beautiful place when free of distractions. Though blissfully silent, it was not without its own music. Metal clinked on metal and water echoed in the drain. The subcutaneous layers of fat beneath the skin ripped and crackled beneath the aneurysm needles.

Coagulated bits of blood tumbled from the vein, spattering softy to the table like bits of jam.

Terence sighed contently and said to the dead man, “You, sir, are a symphony.”

“Who are you talking to?” Pip emerged from under the cabinet beneath the sink. Terence

jumped like a startled cat. The pair of spring forceps he was handling clattered to the floor.

“How did you―but you were with….you can’t be in here!”

“I’m playing hide and seek!” The kid announced, sweetly. “It’s a secret though!” Terence swallowed. How had Pip snuck in without his knowledge? The preparation room doors were always sealed shut.

“Why are you dressed like a doctor?” Pip questioned. “What’s that red stuff on you?” Terence positioned himself directly in front of the boy, blocking his view of the table which held his dead bleeding grandpa.

“It’s blood,” Terence answered truthfully. The kid cocked his head, inquisitively. He still bore the costume of a fox. “I’m, uh, in the middle of a procedure,”Terence continued. He could hear the griping of the boy’s mother as Jaune led her down to the casket selection room. What would she say if all of a sudden her son materialized from a mysterious door hidden behind a curtain?

“Can I help?” The boy asked enthusiastically. Terence shook his head and informed Pip that he had to earn his funeral director’s license before assisting in the preparation process. Much to Terence’s chagrin, Mint and Jaune were both chattering away within the parameters of the preparation room.

Terence would be caught if he tried to sneak the little boy out. He had no option but to call upon the aid of Ash Wilson.

***

Ash huffed and rubbed his face. He shouldn’t have blinked. He had just received the news: Pip was in the prep room. Now he had to provide a distraction while Terence spirited the boy out. Ash took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He figured he’d take a few minutes to meditate before humiliating himself. Slowly exhaling, he straightened himself up and swung open the door. Mint was feeling the interior fabric of the Cambridge Oak casket, which happened to be situated directly adjacent to the preparation room.

“Oh no! Ma’am, you definitely don’t want that casket!” Ash stepped in front of the Cambridge Oak. She blinked, flustered. Jaune crossed her arms. Though her lips were sealed, Ash could tell she was sucking her teeth in annoyance.

“Wilson, what are you doing? “houldn’t you be watching dear little Pip?” Jaune’s voice was both

sweet and sour at the same time.

“Yes. He’s having a blast in there. I just couldn’t help but notice you admiring this casket. Trust me, ma’am, you don’t want it!” Mint blew an exasperated breath.

“Why not!?” “he demanded. Ash didn’t have a proper answer to that question. Jaune narrowed

her eyes in expectation.

“Go on, Mr. Casket King,” she probed. Ash picked his brain for an adequate response. He spat out the first thing that came to mind.

“Because oak tastes sweeter to bugs,” he explained. “You don’t want creepy crawlies nibbling through your father’s eternal resting bed, do you?” Ash took the woman by the arm and forcefully directed her toward the opposite end of the casket selection room. “You want to pick something away from the red curtains,” Ash told her. While Mint’s back was turned, Terence stuck his crooked nose between the curtains and gave Pip a push toward the children’s room. The boy stealthily darted from the preparation room to the children’s room without so much as a swishing noise. Ash diverted his gaze just in time to make eye contact with Terence, who nodded before slinking back into the comfort of his embalming lab.

***

As it turned out, Pip was not present during the visitation. The boy’s absence concerned Terence. Why was he not present to say good-bye to his grandfather? Before dashing out of the prep room the other day, Pip had said something that disturbed Terence.

“Mom said we lost grandpa, so I’m going to find him.” The boy’s squeaky little voice rang through Terence’s head like a bell. His grandpa’s body would be on display for the afternoon and evening. Then, it would be sent to a crematorium to be cremated. As much as Terence despised Mint Hallows, he didn’t want her son to be deprived of an opportunity to see his grandfather for the last time. For this reason, he sought out Mint and tapped her tentatively on the shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” she sneered in disgust. “Meet my ex-husband, Barnaby.” Terence shook hands with a short, disgruntled looking man. His face was thin and his hair was a gray fuzz atop his head. There were heavy lines around the man’s mouth as well as dark circles beneath his eyes. Terence didn’t blame the man for looking the way he did. Mint was a tiresome woman.

“You’re quite the artist, Mr. Coon. I’ve heard wonderful things about your sculptures,” he said, warmly. “I tried to buy my ex-wife here one of your creations for her third twenty-ninth birthday last year, but she refused, informing me that she was too stuck up to have a ‘lawn ornament.’ I really hope she hasn’t been too much of a pain in your ass.”

“How dare you!?” Mint shrieked like a shrill parrot and jabbed her ex-husband in the ribs.

Terence was feeling more than a little uneasy. He cleared his throat.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Ma’am, where is your son?” A look of contempt spread across the woman’s tight features.

“Why would I tell you something like that!?” she huffed. ““o you can molest my child!?” “I have no intention of―”

“ I ought to report you to the authorities!” The woman stomped off, jabbing her pointy heels

into the plush of the carpet. Barnaby was left rolling is eyes and chuckling.

“You’ll have to excuse her. “he cages that poor Pip like a monkey in the zoo! “he wouldn’t let him come today. “he thought the sight of his dead grandfather would traumatize him. He’s at home with the sitter. He’ll be at the funeral on “aturday, though. The sitter’s busy that day. Poor kid. Wish she’d let me spend some time with him.” Mr. Hallows left sighing miserably and shaking his head.

There was a pang of anxiety in Terence’s chest. His stomach was flopping and his eyes felt hot. Terence huffed in annoyance. He was caring, and no matter how hard he tried, his discomfort would not go away until he helped Pip. If he did nothing, the boy would never understand the finality of death. Pip would go through life with the guilt of ‘losing grandpa’ riding on his back.

Terence beckoned Wilson to his side.

“Call the crematorium. Tell them to cancel the rush on Mr. Hallow’s cremation. I want his body here the day of the service.”

“What? Why? Mint specifically requested that her father be cremated and placed in an urn to be on display for―”

“Yes, I know! There’s been a change in plans.” “Okay…” Ash sounded uncertain.

“Trust me, Wilson,” Terence said. “Oh, and if you love yourself, don’t tell Jaune about this,” he added. Ash laughed as though he wasn’t sure it was appropriate for him to laugh, and swiftly left to follow his employer’s orders.

***

It was ten o’clock on a bright “aturday morning. The mourners of Mrs. Hallows’ father were arranged in rows. They were a sea of sadness. One woman would start to cry and then sure enough, the entire pew would start. The tears came and went like waves.

Pip sat swinging his legs beside his mother at the front pew. On a polished table sat a simple wooden urn. It was supposed that the ashes of Pip’s deceased grandpa were contained in the urn. They were, in actuality, the ashes of another.

Under the stairs of Amigone Funeral Home was a closet filled with boxes of ash―human ash.

Terence placed the cremated remains of another’s loved one in the closet for safe keeping until a family member could pick them up. When many of the families didn’t return, the lonely parcels collected dust on the shelves. What a sad thought it was: to die, disintegrate and then be packed in a box and placed as storage on a shelf like a can of old beans. In Terence’s mind, he was putting a person’s neglected remains to good use. He was also giving a sheltered little boy the opportunity to bid adieu to his beloved grandfather. Terence would wait until the reception. He would borrow Pip while his mother gargled spiked punch, and show him his grandfather, whole and waiting in the casket selection room.

Thankfully, Terence only had to appear at the reception for a mere minute before Pip skipped merrily to his side. He hated receptions. They exposed the plasticity of people’s emotions. One minute they’re comforting their grieving friend, the next they’re laughing and stuffing their faces with buttery finger sandwiches as though no one died. Terence warned his families not to trust these advantageous dogs, but rarely did his clients take him seriously.

“I have something to show you,” Terence told Pip. “Follow me.” The kid laughed merrily and

obeyed.

“Where are we going?” he asked insistently. “Are we there yet?” When they reached the casket

selection room Terence knelt to the ground to look the child in the eyes.

“You told me you lost your grandfather,” Terence said. The kid nodded, his smile widened.

“Did you find him?” Pip asked. Terence shook his head.

“He never was lost. Lost is a colloquialism for death.” Pip cocked his head sideways. He didn’t understand. Terence sighed. “Climb on my shoulders. I’ll show you.” The kid saddled Terence’s neck as though he was on a horse. Terence rose and uncovered the lid of the casket in front of him. When the boy saw his grandfather― eyes closed, arms folded and resting over his chest― he screamed.

“Grandpa! Wake up!” he cried. Terence cringed; the boy was screaming right in his ear.

“He’s not asleep. He’s dead,” Terence stated. He gently placed Pip on the carpet and dragged a chair over to the casket for the boy to stand on. Pip stood, tears pooling in his normally joyous eyes.

“When will I see him again?” he whined.

“Never,” Terence answered truthfully. “When someone dies, they’re gone forever.” “Did he die because of me?” Pip asked, sniffling. Terence laughed.

“You don’t seem like the homicidal type to me!” The kid laughed too, though Terence doubted he understood the term ‘homicidal.’ Then Pip sobbed and sobbed and all Terence could do was watch. Then, when the tears subsided, he returned the boy to his mother.

As soon as Mint saw Pip’s sagging lip, it was clear she blamed Terence for her child’s discontent.

Her malignant expression was sharp enough to bore holes through his skull. Pip may not have been capable of homicide, but she certainly was. Terence swallowed. He hoped he wouldn’t be her first victim.

“Mommy, why didn’t you tell me grandpa died?” Pip pouted in her arms. The woman’s brows

came together in anguish. She hugged her child close to her breast.

“What did you tell my Pip!?” she hissed at Terence.

“The truth.” The woman’s face twisted in rage. “he set down her son and advanced toward Terence like a puma pouncing its prey. Her hand was raised, ready to strike him, when, all of a sudden, Pip shrieked a bloodcurdling shriek. Mint watched in amazement as her son hobbled over to Terence and hugged his leg.

“Don’t hurt him, mommy, he’s my friend!” The boy clung to Terence protectively. Terence could feel his feet prickling as the boy cut off his circulation. Mint’s lip trembled at the sight of her son’s betrayal. She collapsed to the ground, shoulders heaving as she cried, wretchedly.

Terence stood gobsmacked. A little boy was crying into his pant leg and his mother was thrashing and dumping tears all over the carpet. Had everyone else from the reception already gone home? Where were Jaune and Ash when he needed them?

“Uh―” Terence searched desperately for the right words to say. “There, there.” He sounded about as sincere as a robot. Just when Terence thought Mint was about to claw a hole in the carpet, Ash

came to his rescue. He smoothly helped the woman to her feet, hugging her and patting her back like the true caregiver he was.

“I was just trying to be a good mother!” she wept.

“I know. I’m here for you, ma’am,” Ash assured her. Terence observed the actions of his bushy- haired cohort with somewhat of a jealous eye. He wished he could show people, the way Ash could, how much he cared. At least Pip seemed to see. The boy finally released Terence’s leg. Terence gasped as he felt the warmth of blood flow back toward his numb foot. As he attempted to rub the feeling back into the limb, Mint approached him slowly with red eyes and quivering lips. Ash was right behind her, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down her shoulder.

“I, uh, would like to apologize for the way I treated you,” she sniffed. “Other than his grandfather, Pip has never shown that much―” the woman’s voice cracked, “affection for anyone. I guess I lost control.”

“Yes, you did,” Terence agreed, brushing himself off. “Terence!” Ash barked, narrowing his eyes in disapproval. “I mean, I accept your apology,” Terence corrected himself.

***

About a week later, Mint and her son returned to Amigone Funeral Home for the real ashes of grandpa. Terence was glad to see that someone cared enough about their dead loved one to take his remains into their care. Without a family, those parcels were nothing but boxes of dust, identifiable only by means of a faded label. Terence handed the box to Pip, who was back in his fox sleeper.

When the boy asked Terence how it was that grandpa was able to fit into such a small package, Terence answered, “He was sent to a special room where he was burned. His dust was then collected and placed into that container.” Funnily enough, the boy seemed to be okay with the thought of holding a box of grandpa dust. Mint thanked Terence for all of his help, although, Terence could tell by the sneer of her thin lips that she was still disgusted by him. When the two were out the door hand in hand, Terence overheard Pip’s perky voice.

“Mom, when I grow up, I want to be just like him!” Terence laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Deluded Love

Ash Wilson groaned and covered his eyes in embarrassment. He, a funeral director, fainted at the sight of blood. His coworker, Jaune stood next to him. She had her arms crossed and was pumping the ground like a gas pedal. Ash could see the disappointment etched into the lines of her dark face. The man standing next to her wore a different sort of expression. His name was Fernando Fernidand.

Tanned features drooping under the weight of his sorrow and confusion, Mr. Fernidand gazed toward his bandaged thumb. Ash swore to himself. He’d been probing the man for information about his deceased mother during a funeral arrangement. Mr. Fernidand’s mannerisms were anxious and tense. He fidgeted uncomfortably and nervously chewed his fingers. At one point during the arrangement, Fernando accidently bit a chunk out of his thumb. Blood dripped from his thumb to the table, leaving a neat little blob on the woodwork…and leaving Ash unconscious on the carpet.

“I apologize, Mr. Fernidand,” Ash began. He took a deep breath before continuing. He felt like a

moron seated in his designated ‘pass-out chair.’

“I, uh, must have been dehydrated,” he lied. Jaune rolled her eyes in response to this

explanation. Fernando just nodded.

“I’ll go some place else,” he uttered. His voice was quiet and tainted with hopelessness. Before walking the man to the door, Jaune gave Ash a sharp glare. Moments later, her curvaceous figure came marching back with the manager, Terence Coon, in tow. Based upon his heavy-lidded expression, Ash guessed he was not amused.

Tall and terribly gaunt, he groaned, “You fainted again, didn’t you, Wilson?”

“Yeah,” Ash responded. Terence’s face was unchanging. Ash felt as though he was suffocating under his manager’s patronizing stare. He cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted in his chair.

“Well of course you did,” Terence said. “That’s what you do. You see a broken hang nail and you drop like the dead.” He looked from Ash to Jaune and raised his eyebrows expectantly. ““o what’s the big deal?!” he cried, throwing up his arms. “What do you want me to do about it? Hypnotize him!”

“You stupid man!” Jaune screamed. “Of course I don’t! I want you to give Wilson some time off so he can be treated professionally!” Ash raised his hand just then. He felt it necessary to inform Jaune and Terence that he was, in fact, still in the room. Jaune pulled a card from her pocket and placed it in Ash’s lap. The card belonged to a therapist named Mr. Quincy Gibbs.

“Wait a minute.” Terence plucked the card from his coworker’s lap. “You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. “Quincy Gibbs is a holistic hypnotherapist.”

“What does that mean?” Ash asked.

“It means he’s a fraudulent worm who will rob you of your every penny and leave you worse off

than you were to begin with,” Terence answered, tossing the card into a nearby trash can. “His

practices have no scientific basis and are, therefore, null and void.” Jaune raised her eyebrows and

pointed her index finger at Ash threateningly.

“You see that Gibbs character―understand? I don’t care what this paranoid clown says, you gonna see him!” Before leaving, Jaune shot Terence a murderous stare. The woman’s eyes were venomous. Terence let out a frustrated sigh.

““ometimes I get the feeling I’m just a puppet,” he said to no one in particular. Then, turning to

Ash he said, “ Consider the rest of this week your therapy vacation.”

***

Much to Terence’s chagrin, it was only two days since Ash had left when a fourth grade teacher

called him at the funeral home. The teacher’s voice was so high it pained Terence to listen to her.

“Is this Mr. Coon? Oh dear! Oh my! My name is Treacle “unshine. I’m the grade four teacher here at Hanes Elementary. The children’s gerbil was found dead this morning in his cage. We think the poor creature had a heart attack. The children took a vote. They want to give him a funeral.”

Terence wondered how any child could tolerate listening to such an irritating voice all day.

“Hello? Mr. Coon? I was told you do pet funerals.” Terence took a seat in his office and closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered. The last thing Terence wanted to do was enter an elementary school classroom. Those buildings were designed for the munchkins who attended them, not for human giraffes like Terence. That, and they were stippled with disease particulates. Terence shivered at the thought of the greasy fingerprints on the window panes. Windows were perfect canvases for children to paint finger portraits with their own slime. Terence shuffled away from the window in his own office. He was going to have to come up with an excuse.

“Listen, Mrs. “unshine―” “It’s Miss “unshine, actually.”

“ I’m not sure this situation really poses a need for a trained funeral director to―” There was a knock on Terence’s door just then. It was Jaune. Terence placed Miss “unshine on hold and opened the door.

“What do you want, Jaune?” Terence groaned, annoyed. The woman folded her arms and

wrinkled her forehead.

“You’re gonna’ help those kids. You understand?!” Terence narrowed his eyes at the woman.

Jaune admitted she was eavesdropping as though she was proud of it. “The community thinks you’re as cold as a toilet seat in the middle of winter!” she ranted, “Prove them wrong and help these kids. We have an appearance to maintain, Terry. Whether it be the queen or a gerbil, death is death. You’re going and that’s that.”

***

It was official. Terence was a puppet. He didn’t know why he continued to humour Jaune’s social antics. Ash was far better suited for the task of playing funeral. Terence had an intern to train and bodies to embalm. Jean was right about one thing, however. The people of “t. Louis du HA! HA! weren’t thrilled with Terence. After Bob Amigone―the owner and operator of Amigone Funeral Home passed away suddenly from a stroke, he entrusted Terence with control of the facility. Jaune, being an obsessive compulsive power freak, coveted Terence’s position. “he thought Terence to be socially incompetent and got a sadistic thrill out of watching him unintentionally tear the grieving apart with his blunt disposition and lack of sentimentality. “he’d been trying to mold Terence into Mr. Rogers ever since he started at Amigone.

“Damn woman,” Terence swore to himself. “I’m an undertaker. I don’t do friggin’ birthdays!” He couldn’t help but scoff as he walked into Hanes Elementary, passed the many displays of paper maché volcanoes and wilted dandelion chains.

“There truly is nothing new under the sun,” he thought morosely to himself. Gliding by the boy’s bathroom, he held his breath. Children’s bathrooms often festered with Legionella Pneumophilia bacteria. Just beyond the bathrooms, was Miss “unshine’s classroom. The door was right where the monotonous secretary had said it would be. It wasn’t hard to miss as it was plastered in smiling suns―some of which Terence swore appeared slightly demonic.

“Mr. Coon!” A wrinkled raisin of a woman greeted Terence. She smelled of a dinosaur exhibit Terence visited once. Another noteworthy aspect of her appearance was her pants. Secured into position by a thick leather belt, they were a remarkably efficient shelf for her sagging bosoms.

“It’s the children’s reading time,” she informed Terence.

The children were doing everything but reading. One rather disheveled lad was playing a gaming device behind a large encyclopedia, which was carelessly propped upside down. A girl with prominent pigtails was scribbling messages to another girl, and a chubby boy, who was seated in the corner, was using a pair of scissors to carve obscenities into the paint on the interior of his desk.

“How very charming,” Terence grumbled under his breath. He followed Miss Sunshine to the front of the class.

“he clapped twice and said, “Okay, children, reading time is over now! I’d like you all to meet the man who will be helping with Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo’s funeral, Mr. Coon! Everyone say hello, Mr.

Coon!” Terence was welcomed by a plethora of unenthusiastic hellos. A boy with an odd birthmark on the side of his face, shot up his hand.

“Do you touch dead people?” he asked. Miss “unshine appeared agitated by the boy’s inquiry. “Aksel!” she exclaimed in disgust, “in this classroom, we do not ask such derogatory questions!”

Terence was in the dark as to what made the question derogatory.

“Yes, I do,” Terence answered, honestly. He started to explain the process of embalming to the

children when Miss Sunshine cut him off.

“As you can see, everyone, Mr. Coon is very skilled in his profession and will be able to help us say good-bye to Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo.” The bell for recess rang, and the room cleared faster than a torrent of rain.

“Miss “unshine, why did you stop me from explaining the process of embalming to your students?” Terence probed. “By doing so you’ve deprived them of a valuable learning experience.” Miss “unshine chuckled and told Terence children their age weren’t mature enough to handle the information.

“I disagree, Miss Sunshine. Your students are nearing puberty. If they are old enough to be taught about the physical changes that accompany sexual maturation, they are old enough to be taught about the physical changes that accompany death.” Oddly enough, Terence’s argument only made Miss Sunshine chuckle harder.

““ex?! An old woman like me wouldn’t know anything about that, now would she? Why don’t I fetch poor Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo from his cage.” Miss “unshine winked at Terence before awkwardly brushing past him. Terence didn’t know why she winked. Perhaps there was something in her eye.

When the children returned, Terence had the gerbil naturally positioned in an empty shoebox, which the children had haphazardly decorated.

““o, boys and girls, what you’re going to do is come up one by one and place your memento into

Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo’s casket,” Miss “unshine instructed, once everyone was seated.

“Pardon me,” Terence interrupted, “but I do believe we should determine the manner of disposition first.” He turned toward the students. “A water and sky burial are impossible, I’m afraid. Therefore, your pet may be cremated and scattered, or simply buried beneath the earth.” One kid asked what the word ‘cremated’ meant. Terence began to explain the process of cremation, but was, once again, stopped by Miss Sunshine.

“Now, children,” she began, “although Mr. Coon means well, we cannot burn poor Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo. Playing with fire is naughty and dangerous. Besides, we haven’t any matches.” Terence immediately objected to what Miss Sunshine was saying.

“In this case, I would say a cremation is most convenient,” Terence stated. “The weather is neither dry nor windy today. The chance of the fire growing out of control is highly improbable. The ground is covered in melting snow and will be sodden and muddy. I don’t have a shovel with me, and although there appears to be no matches, I have a sneaking suspicion you own a lighter, Miss “unshine.” Miss Sunshine flushed red and giggled, nervously.

“Why, Mr. Coon, why would an innocent school teacher carry a lighter in her classroom?” Terence placed his hands in his pockets and sighed. Miss Sunshine was dull for a seemingly educated woman.

“You smell strongly of smoke, and have skin like unkempt leather. I don’t smoke, but I’m sure the habit is impossible to maintain without some means of lighting your cigarettes,” Terence declared. A number of students giggled and soon they were all in each other’s ear, whispering and flashing their little eyes at Miss Sunshine.

“Very well.” Miss “unshine opened a drawer and pulled out a lighter. “Is that really what you children want? You want to burn Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo?” Miss “unshine pouted. The children roared in affirmation, throwing their hands up in excitement. Terence smiled at the children’s enthusiasm. He had no idea he was so good with kids.

The children came up and placed their mementos into the shoebox. They, then, with permission from the school principal, bounced wildly out the door to watch the cremation of Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo.

Terence waited until the hollering and hooting diverged into the hallway before proceeding behind. While exiting the room, Terence couldn’t help but notice an odd substance in the gerbil’s cage. Amongst the wood shavings and plastic tubes, were oddly shaped blue pellets. Terence could have sworn he’d seen them before. Where, he could not recall.

***

The sky was a murky gray and the air was stagnant. The children were gathered at the far end of the soccer field by a weed infested gully. A boy named Gregors cradled the gerbil’s casket with tears in his eyes.

“Now children,” huffed Miss “unshine as she wheezed her way into the group of students, “why don’t you all say a little something about Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo before you let Mr. Coon and I take care of the cremation.” Gregors’ lips trembled as he murmured good-bye to the gerbil. Terence approached the trembling child and plucked the rodent’s wrapped corpse from the shoebox.

“Hold him,” he instructed the child. Gregors looked up at Terence with eyes wide as moons.

Miss Sunshine gasped in horror as Terence placed the furry nugget-like creature into the boys outstretched palms.

“Mr. Coon! That can’t be sanitary!” she exclaimed. Terence stifled the urge to wring the woman’s shriveled neck.

“For God’s sake! They’re children! Children aren’t sanitary to begin with! Touching dead animals is what childhood’s all about!” Terence snapped. “No offense,” he added, upon noting the students’ stunned expressions.

“Dude’s got a point,” a freckled boy said.

The kids all took turns holding Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo and saying their good-byes. When they were done, they crossed their legs on the turf, and watched intently as Terence repositioned the gerbil in its casket and flicked the lighter. The students had elevated the shoe box so that it sat on a number of flat stones they had recovered from the gully. The light of the flame illuminated their plump faces, and the earth seemed to vibrate with their fascinated sighs. Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo’s skin bubbled. The gerbil’s corpse folded in on itself like an oozing marshmallow.

The smell of burnt fur tainted the light breeze, which, despite its lack of force, was cold enough to nip the nape of Terence’s neck. He neared the scorching rodent merely for the warmth. The children, too, were shivering on the damp ground. Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo was now nothing but a crunchy, blackened flake of splintered bone. The sight of the skeleton gave Terence an odd feeling. It was as though his subconscious mind was trying to remind him of something. Then it came to him. Like a strike of lightening, the word ‘d-con’ flashed in his mind. It was a brand of rodent poison…

Only a few nights ago, Terence was reading by his fireplace when his clever cat Anubis pawed the remote and turned on the television. She never could resist doing so when Terence was immersed in something other than her affection. Terence was so startled by the sudden light and sound, he dropped his book. Anubis, having accomplished her mission, leapt into his lap for a snooze and a cuddle. The newscast blazing from Terence’s television screen turned out to be rather engrossing. An air brushed news lady with unnaturally pearly teeth announced the shutdown of a restaurant known as ‘Chef Jeff’s.’ Apparently the restaurant had been struggling financially and was caught by the Minister of Health for using the corpses of rats and mice to make their famous hamburger pie. The news cast depicted a shot of the greasy unkempt ‘Chef Jeff’ admitting his culinary sin.

“Our business was crashing and we were experiencing a problem with the rats. We didn’t have the money for an exterminator. We were in a desperate situation. Yes, we used rats in our food! But we didn’t think it would hurt people if they didn’t know.”

The chef couldn’t have been more erroneous in his assumption. He was using a rodent poison called d-con to intoxicate the vermin. The drug came in the form of small blue pellets― pellets the rodents would mistake for food. The scandal of Chef Jeff’s was discovered when one customer fell fatally ill after consuming a hearty portion of the hamburger pie. The d-con in the system of the rats was transferred over to an innocent man with bad taste in cuisine…

A hand brushed against Terence’s back. The hair at the base of his neck prickled and he spun around to find himself intimately close with the puckered face of Miss Sunshine. Terence swallowed as he noticed the absence of the children. Miss Sunshine must have instructed them to file back into the school while Terence was immersed in his flashback.

“Looks like I finally have you all to myself!” Miss “unshine squealed. “he placed her dry, claw- like fingers around his waist. Terence was so disgusted by the woman’s advances, he had to stifle the urge to vomit.

“I saw you in the cemetery last week,” the grotesque woman continued in her sickeningly sweet voice, “you were standing next to a tombstone while people put roses on a casket. How tall you were compared to everyone else…”

Terence had to pry the woman’s talons from his waist. His cheeks flushed with anger as the realization of the whole encounter settled upon him.

“You used d-con to kill your students’ gerbil just to get to me!” His voice was quiet and trembled in the wind. “Good God!” The realization absolutely horrified him. Miss “unshine pouted. The expression created pouches of wrinkles around the corners of her mouth.

“I thought you’d be flattered,” she whined. The woman was completely delusional.

““tay away from me, Miss “unshine! You’re not well!” Terence shouted. He whipped out his

phone and dialed the police.

***

Having explained to the police the disturbing details of Miss “unshine’s actions, they immediately took her into their care. Terence watched as the frail woman sucked on a cigarette nervously in the back seat of the car. Her eyes were raw and staring and her paper-thin lips opened and closed as she muttered incoherently to herself. The police notified the principal and children of Miss “unshine’s condition. Terence was not surprised to see the children less shocked by the news of their teacher’s senility than the principal.

A suitably stable teacher would be found to replace Miss Sunshine. Although the incident resolved itself, Terence left the school feeling chilled to the bone. His mere existence caused the death of an innocent class pet. Mr. Cuddle Poo Poo was a martyr of deluded love―then again, wasn’t all love deluded? Terence, of course, did not feel responsible for the rodent’s demise. The murder was on Miss “unshine’s conscience, not his. Terence knew the woman was insane the moment she demonstrated her attraction toward him. No sane individual could fall that head over heels for a spindly pale giant who specialized in restoring the dead. The rest of the day Terence found himself sighing incessantly. It was a sorrowful sound, and he had no idea why he continued to make it.

The week passed and, come Monday, Ash was back proclaiming he was cured. Jaune laughed in triumph and bundled the man into what looked to be a painfully tight embrace. Then, her blasted dagger of a finger was in Terence’s face, poking and jabbing him boastfully. Terence didn’t believe Ash was cured for a second.

“Wilson, I’d like to see you in my office immediately,” he demanded. “And you,” he sucked in his cheeks and turned his head sharply in Jaune’s direction, “you’re coming too.” As they made their way up the steps, Jaune’s eyes rolled so much, Terence wondered how she could even walk straight.

“Terence, I swear, if you give us one more story about purposeful misprints in the newspapers or men in funny hats following you, I will have you hypnotized!” Jaune threatened.

“Have some respect, woman! The way you treat me, you’re lucky I keep you around!” That hushed Jaune. Her expression grew still and she motioned for Terence to continue. “ You say you’re cured, Wilson?” Ash nodded.

“Yes. I went to Mr. Gibbs everyday. He put me under some sort of hypnotic trance for an hour and then showed me a series of gruesome pictures to see how I reacted. By the end of the week, I stopped fainting at the sight of blood.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Terence hummed, trifling through the papers on his desk in search of his compass and geometry set. ““o you think.” He removed his geometry compass and pricked his finger with the sharp tip. He showed the bead of blood to Ash, who, upon witnessing it, broke into a fit of laughter. Jaune’s open-mouthed expression of shock almost convinced Terence to join him.

“What the hell does he find so funny?!” she exclaimed.

“Blood,” Terence answered, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He too began to laugh. Jaune

growled in frustration.

“I’m working in a bloody mad house!” Her use of the word ‘bloody’ caused Ash to become so weak with laughter, he fell to the ground, body contorting as he giggled manically. When he finally came to his senses, he stood, smiling proudly at both Jaune and Terence.

“What did I tell you!” he said, completely unaware of the last ten minutes he had spent rolling on the ground. “I’m completely cured! Though, I must say, I feel like I’ve just done a million ab crunches.” Confused, Ash pressed a palm to his aching navel. Now Terence was the one laughing relentlessly.

“That’s because you nearly asphyxiated yourself laughing!” he explained. “Oh, this is rich! Now, instead of fainting at the sight of blood you cackle like a lunatic!” Ash stood mortified.

“Why don’t I have any memory of laughing?”

“Because you’ve been hypnotized!” Jaune rolled up her sleeves and took Ash by the arm. “he was not pleased. “I will not have you hooting away like that every time you see a speck of blood!

Families will think you’re deluded! We’re goin’ back to this Gibbs character. If he refuses to set you

straight, imma’ drop kick his ass!” Terence made certain not to stand in Jaune’s way.

Sure enough, Ash was back to his normal hemophobic self the next day.

Melinda Marvolo

Terence stared into the contents of the body bag. An empty eyed girl stared back at him. Her legs were tangled in a broken heap. She had committed suicide: she had leapt from a balcony and died. Stitches ran from her right shoulder, down her navel, and then to her left shoulder in a Y formation.

They were also embedded around the circumference of her head like a gruesome halo.

““he’s beautiful,” Miss Fairweather said.

“ Autopsies always are,” Terence responded. The young girl’s name was Ming. Terence and his intern Miss Fairweather had just returned from the Coroner’s Office, where they had picked up her body. The girl’s sewn corpse gave Terence a funny feeling. He almost felt as though he had known her.

Noticing Terence’s furrowed brows, Miss Fairweather asked,“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm?” His mind had blanked. “Nothing.” The sensation of déjà vu was so unorthodox to Terence. How could he feel as though he had already experienced something when in fact he had not? Miss Fairweather cinched her blonde hair back into a ponytail. She was halfway into a smock when Terence stopped her.“I would like you to sit in on the arrangement that Jaune will be doing with a family in an hour. I’ll prep on my own,” Terence said. His intern nodded, though she seemed somewhat disappointed.

Terence rolled the plastic bag from under the girl’s leaking body, ensuring that her body fluids were contained in the bag. He raised the cold table as high as he could to compensate for his height. The girl’s lips were plump and slightly agape. Her left eye was a smudge of blue and purple bruising and the ends of her glossy black hair were damp with blood. The lights in the prep room were harsh; not a flaw could be hidden under their glare. Terence angled his head slightly. Something inexplicable happened just then. The woman’s face changed―morphed before his very eyes. Her face narrowed, her cheeks became pale and blotchy with freckles and her hair blazed a crimson red. Terence felt the blood drain from his face. His eyes stung and his mouth went dry. Terrified, he held onto the faucet of the sink for stability. He licked his lips and uttered a name he hadn’t remembered until that moment.

“Melinda Marvolo.”

Half-way through the embalming, Terence took a break to ponder the familiarity of Melinda Marvolvo. Perhaps she had been another suicide case. While he was in thought, Jaune walked by. She had to do a double take when she saw Terence slumped back in Ash Wilson’s pass-out chair. If anyone was to feel woozy from an offensive odor or slimy bedsore, it was Ash.

“Boy what’s wrong with you?” Jaune asked. “The only time I ever saw you in this chair was when “hepard spilled an entire bottle of cavity fluid.” Jaune stretched her neck to look behind Terence into the prep room. “He didn’t do that again, did he?” Terence shook his head. “hepard was Jaune’s intern. He had recently joined the Amigone team to finish up an internship he was not permitted to complete by his last asshole of a preceptor, who fired him for accidentally side swiping a coach.

“Did you arrange a funeral for a woman named Melinda Marvolo?” he asked. “Who?”

“Mel―ugh, never mind.” Terence grunted as he stood and stretched his long arms over his head. He wondered if Jaune was pretending she didn't know who Melinda was to cover her own butt. What if Melinda's family had come in to arrange her funeral with Jaune, only to be turned away? Jaune found arranging funerals for suicide victims emotionally painful. Terence wouldn't put it past her to start a file, and then dismiss the family to protect her precious feelings.

“I think I’m going to have sushi for dinner,” Terence proclaimed, randomly. He didn't want to

make it look like he was on to Jaune.

“Maybe you’ll finally finish up that soy sauce in the fridge,” Jaune stated. “You’re the only one crazy enough to use it. That stuff is old as hell!" Terence refrained from reminding Jaune that the soy sauce was approximately fifty years old, the same age her. She, too, was 'old as hell.'

““oy sauce doesn’t go bad, Jaune," he corrected her. "And I’m not crazy, I’m eccentric.” Terence then returned to the prep room to place Ming’s viscera, which had been soaking in a tub of cavity fluid, inside her body. Ash barged through the doors just as Terence was clamping Ming’s skull cap in place.

He had with him a stretcher containing the lumps and bumps of a body beneath a zipped up cloth bag.

“I’m back from a house call!” he declared, enthusiastically. He then winced when he saw Ming’s

face turned inside out.

“Good. Hold this.” Terence placed a calvarium clamp into Ash’s palm and began sawing indentations on either side of Ming’s skull. “When you get a moment I need you to find a file for a Melinda Marvolo,” Terence said.

“I don't recall her name. Why do you want her file?” Ash questioned. “I believe Jaune is concealing information about it."

"What? Are you sure you're not just being paranoid?" Ash unzipped the bag. Terence ignored his question and assisted him in transferring the body from the stretcher to a fresh table.

"Pick up some sushi for dinner,” he commanded. Ash did a mocking salute and paraded out the prep room door, keeping it open for Shepard's entrance.

"How can I assist you?" piped the boy. He could only have been just nineteen. He also looked to be of native descent, with his high cheekbones and tanned skin.

"You can start suturing her naval closed," he commanded. "Be sure to use plenty of Dryene and

incision sealing powder. And whatever you do, don't spill―"

"Oops!" A bog of white incision sealing powder erupted from Shepard's direction. "I'm so sorry!" Shepard cried. "There was a clog in the nozzle of the bottle. I guess I squeezed it too hard." Terence coughed as the powder diffused in his direction.

"Get out of here!" he growled. Shepard scrambled out the door, ripping his gloves off as fast as he could.

Come dinner time, Terence was still choking. He could hardly stop long enough to fit a piece of sushi in his mouth.

Having noticed Terence's struggle, Ash remarked, "Use too much wasabi again?" Terence shook his head. A stream of white particulates tumbled from his hair with the motion.

"Shepard tried to asphyxiate me for the second time," Terence explained. "The boy's a sadist. I think he gets a kick out of watching me suffer. It took me an extra half hour to clean up his mess."

"Ah," Ash said before sticking another piece of salmon nigiri in his mouth. Terence couldn't help but notice the colour of Ash's hair. It was red. Normally, his hair was curly and the colour of sand. His eye-colour had also changed. Stunningly brown eyes peered at Terence over a set of chopsticks. Ash's eyes were green, not brown. The entirety of his appearance had grown more feminine. Graceful hands, blush cheeks, soft lips, and elongated eye lashes replaced Ash's usual masculine features. Sitting before Terence was no longer Ash Wilson, but Melinda Marvolo.

"Do I have something on my face?" Ash took a napkin and began dabbing the corners of his mouth. Terence blinked, wiping away Melinda's image. Ash's brows knitted together. He appeared burdened by Terence's lack of responsiveness. "You tired or something? Your eyes are looking a little red." Terence licked his lips. Something in the sushi was making him feel funny. The sushi chef was likely cutting costs by using old fish. For all he knew, he had been poisoned.

"I need you to find that file on Melinda Marvolo," Terence declared, before standing. "Alright. You're the boss, Terence. Just don't let this file keep you up tonight, okay?" Terence

assured him it would not, though he knew it would.

***

The view of the city was beautiful from where Terence was standing. The lights of the buildings were like stars in the dark. He felt as though he was standing in the middle of the solar system. A door slid open from behind him. A girl stepped out. She was dressed in a thin nightie. The girl was Ming. Her arms were bare and the night air was crisp, but she didn’t appear to be cold. “he walked past Terence―who was invisible to her eyes―and toward the edge of the balcony. Her features were relaxed and her stride was steady. She was at peace with the decision she was about to make. She mounted the banister, her back facing Terence. Her arms came up as though she was a bird about to take flight. Ming hesitated before jumping. Had she just become aware of Terence’s presence? “he turned gracefully to

face him. Terence watched in awe as the body of Ming was swept away and replaced with the body of a strong red haired woman.

“Melinda Marvolo.” Though his lips hadn’t moved, Terence heard his own voice utter her name. Eyes brown and fierce, the woman gazed deep into Terence, blew him a kiss and then fell backwards to her death.

The dream ended abruptly. Terence sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. He felt like the woman’s gaze had fixed itself to the front of his skull. There was something so familiar about this Melinda Marvolo. Just then, Terence’s “phinx cat, Anubis, leapt onto his bed and burrowed her head into the crook of Terence’s arm.

“I don’t suppose you know who this Melinda woman is,” Terence said to his cat. Anubis mewed."I thought not." Terence groaned and trudged to the bathroom. Face stale, he ran a wet cloth over his forehead, and analyzed his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. His colourless gaze was frightening enough without the red veins throbbing in his sclerae. "I'll never rest until I find that file," he whispered intently to himself.

Terence entered Amigone funeral home, his funeral home, at two in the morning. He labored through the night, rifling through every box of files he could find in storage. Not one of them was for Melinda Marvolo.

It was early when Ash discovered his employer passed out at his desk. Mountains of file folders cluttered his office.

“Terence?” Ash shook his boss lightly. Terence stirred and squinted sleepily at his co-worker. “When did you get here?” Ash asked. Terence pressed the heels of his hands to his temples and yawned.

“Uh, like after midnight or something,” he replied groggily. “Can I ask why?” Ash probed.

“Melinda.” Terence rested his head on his desk. “Who?”

“Melinda freaking Marvolo!” Terence shouted. He pressed his forehead to the wood and clutched the back of his head. “I spent the whole night searching for her file and found nothing!” Terence stood and began pacing the room. Ash appeared concerned.

“Oh yes, her." Ash cleared his throat uneasily. "Terence, are you sure this woman actually

exists?” he asked. “Maybe you should take a day or two off and relax.” Terence wasn’t listening.

“Where’s Jaune?” he demanded. Ash was silent. Terence was freaking him out. “Wilson?! There is a file somewhere in this building for Melinda Marvolo and if it’s not here, Jaune must have done something with it.”

““he’s at a dentist’s appointment,” Ash said quietly. “Terence, are you okay?” Terence paused at the mentioning of Jaune’s appointment. He remembered a white sign with a smiling sun imprinted on it. “olar “miles Dental Clinic. A series of images, smells and sounds surged through Terence’s mind. The space themed interior of the waiting room, the bright lights, the plastic chair beneath his fingertips, the grit of lemon flavored baking soda between his teeth, and the eyes of Miss Melinda Marvolo.

“Terence? Terence, are you okay?” Ash waved his hands in front of his boss. “You brilliant man,” Terence said.

“Pardon―” Terence grabbed Wilson roughly and kissed him on the forehead, an action which he would never ever do again.

“Melinda Marvolo was my dental hygienist,”he explained. Ash was speechless.

“I have to go.” Terence grabbed his jacket and fled the office, leaving Ash confused and red in

the face.

Terence popped his collar on the way out. It was cold and the sky was an ominous smudge of charcoal. He was halfway across the parking lot when he ran into Jaune.

“Where do you think you're going, mister?” she asked. “he flashed her freshly cleaned teeth,

which appeared especially white in contrast to her dark skin.

““olar “miles Dental Clinic,” Terence replied. Jaune laughed.

“What?! There's no such place. You're kidding, right?” Terence shook his head. Jaune’s expression hardened. “he looped her arm through Terence’s. “Okay, dear, I think you might be a little bit overworked.” Terence told Jaune about the recurring memories of Melinda. He did so to justify his decision to visit the dental clinic. He, of course, also accused her of withholding Melinda's file.

"I don't know why you're hiding that file, Jaune. But you better believe me when I say I'm going to find out." Jaune shushed him. There were tears welling in her eyes. She hugged him and rubbed his back, the way a mother does to her upset child.

"Unhand me!" he demanded, pulling away from her. "I'm your employer, not a cute puppy dog!"

“I'm sorry, Terence. It's just...you're scaring me,” she sniffed. Her glasses were beginning to fog

up.

"Feeling scared is normal for someone who has had her heinous act discovered," Terence stated, brushing off Jaune's embrace. " If you thought you couldn't handle the emotional implications associated with a suicide case such as Melinda's, you should have handed the arrangement file over to me. But instead you cast her family away. You were selfish and stupid! How the hell could you do that to her family?!" Terence's raving voice was so loud, he scared off a flock of tiny birds, perching on the hydro lines above. A drop of rain hit the end of his nose. Jaune took Terence forcibly by the arm, and

led him back inside to the staff lounge. Terence chose not to resist. Sooner or later, he'd sneak off to the dental clinic and get his answers.

"Sit tight, and I'll pour you a glass of cold water," Jaune ordered. Terence rolled his eyes. There was no use arguing with her. He sipped the water; it was so cold it made his teeth ache.

“How vigorously do you brush your teeth?” Terence stood so fast, his chair flew out behind him. It was Melinda’s voice. That’s how he had met her. His teeth had become so sensitive to temperatures that he could only eat his food luke warm.

“Oh, Dearie, please sit down.” Jaune stood the chair upright and pressed her hands down on Terence’s shoulders. "I'm going to call you a doctor." Melinda’s voice continued without fail.

“If you brush your teeth too hard, you start to wear away at your gum tissue and enamel. When this happens, the layer under your gums called dentin becomes exposed. Dentin contains many tubules which are connected to your nerve endings. When these dentin tubules become exposed, your teeth will be sensitive to hot and cold temperatures.” She was intelligent, very intelligent. Terence remembered that about her.

“Drink your water, it will help you think straight,” Jaune said. “It’s too cold,” Terence replied.

“I’ll make you some tea then.” Jaune took a mug from the dishwasher and filled it with steaming

water from the hot water tap.

“That’s how I met her,” Terence sighed. “Anything cold or hot made my teeth hurt, so I booked

an appointment at the Solar Smiles Dental Clinic.” Jaune took a seat beside Terence.

“You poor man,” she cooed. Clearly she was convinced that he was delusional. “Listen to me, Terry, you're sick. I just got off the phone with your psychiatrist and he’s agreed to meet with you right away. Never you mind about driving. I’ll give you a ride, okay?” Terence shot from his chair, in an outburst of annoyance.

"For God's sake, Jaune! Give it up!" he shouted. "Admit you made a mistake, and I might just consider allowing you to resign!" Ash entered the lounge with his lunch in hand. His face Creased in confusion at the sight of Jaune stroking his boss’ shoulder. Terence was clearly irritated with her.

“Uh, what’s going on here?” he pried. The two interns were behind him, peering in, nosily. “I’m batshit crazy, that’s what’s going on!” Terence declared, sharply. “ Bugger off before my

unsound mind causes me to beat you all with a tea cup!”

***

The psychiatrist’s office appeared larger on the inside. The doorway was tall and narrow and the inside was stark and spacious. Terence’s psychiatrist was a man named Bancock O’reilly. He reminded Terence of a vulture, what with his long skinny neck and wrinkled bald forehead.

“I spoke with Jaune over the phone. “he told me you were experiencing more of your paranoid

delusions,” said Bancock. His voice sounded like a muffled radio.

“They’re not delusions. They’re flashbacks,” Terence corrected him.

“I see.” Bancock raised his eyebrows in disbelief and stared down through his glasses at a bunch of papers. The bald patch on the top of his forehead was fully exposed. Terence had an urge to pick up a sharpie and scrawl a smiley face on the shining surface.

“Well, we better test you for drug use. Are you aware that tetrahydrocannabinol can cause false memories?” droned Bancock.

“You mean the green stuff? I don’t do marijuana. Just give me the bottle and I’ll pee in it.”

Terence took the bottle and stuck his tongue out at Bancock. He hated psychiatrists.

Terence left his appointment with no answers. He wasn’t anywhere near close to discovering who Miss Marvolo was. Bancock had told Terence that there was a possibility the memories of Miss Marvolo were real.

“If you did once know a woman named Melinda, it is possible that you have been suffering from dissociative amnesia,” Bancock informed him. Terence had heard of this condition. After experiencing a traumatic event, a person would lose fragments of his or her long term memory. One of the treatments for this condition was called clinical hypnosis. In Terence’s opinion, hypnosis was a complete load of crap. For this reason, Bancock’s attempt at hypnotising Terence―allowing him to explore memories he had hidden from his unconscious mind―failed. While listening to Bancock’s monotone voice, Terence fell asleep, experiencing no new memories.

The rain came down in sheets, but Terence chose to walk back to Amigone funeral home instead of calling Jaune for a ride. The woman needed to learn that she was not his mother.

For the remainder of the week, Terence experienced no new flashbacks of Melinda Marvolo. He, nonetheless, stood by his accusation against Jaune. He tried locating the Solar Smiles Dental Clinic, but could not seem to find it. His GPS didn't recognize the name, nor could he find anything on the internet about it. Terence concluded that the clinic must have changed names. And so, Terence began visiting every dental clinic in the town of St. Louis du HA! HA!.

***

Terence had just arrived back to the funeral home after a disappointing lunchtime journey to another dental clinic. So far nobody at any of the clinics had heard of a Melinda Marvolo. He sighed, hypo-injecting one of the faces of Miss Fairweather's poorly embalmed bodies. He knew he shouldn't

have trusted her to embalm while he was pursuing answers. Terence inserted the tip of the needle into the corner of a cancer victim's nose and began slowly injecting the cheeks with embalming chemical.

Terence rolled his eyes, but continued injecting when he heard the increasingly loud clack-clacking of Jaune's footsteps. He would not acknowledge her presence unless she spoke.

“Terence,” Jaune whispered. Her curvy form emerged at the entrance of the holding room. “he

sounded angry, but also appeared worried.

“What?”

“I just got off the phone with Mr.O’reilly. You tested positive for marijuana in your system.”

Marijuana Mixup

Terence didn’t know how to respond to Jaune’s statement. Did she really just accuse him of

doing marijuana?! He set the syringe on the lip of the steel table and stared at her.

“I’m sorry. I think I misheard you,” he said. Jaune raised her needle-thin eyebrows. The old woman's dark features erupted into a wrinkled snarl of disapproval.

“Then let me say it for you louder," she shouted. "You got marijuana in your pee! You do drugs, Terence! That’s why you goin’ crazy!”

“No!” Terence shook his head. He stripped the gloves from his hands. “There’s been a mistake. That idiot psychiatrist, O'reilly, probably labeled his pee bottles incorrectly.” Jaune didn’t believe him. She never believed him.

“Long term exposure to marijuana can cause paranoia and false memories," Jaune stated. "Says the psychiatrist, with whom you frequently collaborate. Are you paying him to discredit

me?!" Terence shouted. There was a silence. Jaune glared at him through weepy eyes.

"Get some help, Terry,” she said, quietly. “he then turned and walked away slowly. The sound

of her heels clicking against the tiled floor faded as she left.

“Melinda was a real person!” Terence yelled after her.

An onslaught of paranoid anxiety spiked colour in his cheeks. Jaune was a control freak. Since Terence was made the owner of the Amigone Funeral Home business, she had been coercing him to see a psychiatrist about his paranoid behavior. Terence often suspected that she secretly coveted his title. She was probably in cahoots with this psychiatrist clown he'd been seeing.

"She's trying to make me look crazy so she can have me locked away in an institution!" Terence thought as he nervously swept his hand through his thick black hair. "With me out of the way she'd finally get to be the big bad boss." If she got Terence out of the way, she also wouldn't have to fess up to the mistake she made with Melinda's family. Terence's mind was ablaze. So much so, that he almost ran into Miss Fairweather on his way out of the prep room. She stumbled out of his way, her round pixie-like face frowning with concern.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To confront my psychiatrist about a mutinal collaboration involving a tainted bottle of pee,” Terence snapped before stomping up to the main level of the funeral home and out the doors to the parking lot. Each moody step he took toward his car produced a jingle from the keys in his pocket―a sound that made him feel like a Christmas Clydsdale.

Terence drove onto the scenic road so shaken he was barely able to concentrate on his driving. He took in a long breath, focusing on the soothing hum of his car's engine. During his drive to the office of Mr. O’reilly, Terence experienced a flashback.

A tired looking senior with a scraggly yellowing beard and dark skin had entered the funeral home for the second time in one week. When Terence saw the familiar man's image aglow on the security camera, he immediately knew something was awry. This man had shown his face twice without making a funeral arrangement. An inspection was in order. Terence was on his way down the stairs from his area of surveillance, when he caught the man stealing fistfuls of candies from one of the glass dishes situated throughout the funeral home.

“Those candies are only free to people stupid enough to pay thousands of dollars for a fancy box. We don’t cater to charity cases,” he informed the man. That’s when Jaune had arrived with her black patronizing stare. The ‘charity case’ turned out to be her demented father. The next day she told Terence that his overly tense and paranoid behavior concerned her. Terence tried telling her he was fine, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she phoned a psychiatrist named Bancock O’reilly, who diagnosed Terence with a borderline paranoid personality disorder.

Now, thinking back on this incident, Terence figured Jaune had probably bribed Bancock to make the diagnosis. “he wasn’t really concerned for his mental well being, she just wanted to discredit him enough to take over his business.

Terence bounded up the stairs to the main level of the St. Louis Health Centre. His long legs allowed him to skip three stairs at a time. The saggy faced receptionists scribbled obsolete words in fading newspapers. They remained unblinking behind their glass boxes as Terence’s form swooped by. Terence entered the office of Mr. O’reilly without so much as a knock. The psychiatrist’s squinty eyes blinked in surprise at Terence’s spasmodic entrance.

“Mr.Coon?! What are you doing? Please, make an appointment before―”

“Oh, shut-up!” The man’s nasally undertone made Terence’s head throb. A black haired, white faced youth sat across from Mr. O’reilly. He turned nonchalantly and nodded in acknowledgement of Terence’s presence.

“Cool suit,” the kid said. Terence had no idea how to respond to the compliment. Bancock

rubbed his knobby hands through his hair― it was obvious that he was adjusting his toupee.

“Mr. Coon, I’m here with a patient. Can’t this wait?” he droned. Terence took a seat beside the

heavily pierced youth.

“No, it most certainly cannot!” he declared. Terence shuffled uncomfortably in the chair. He could feel the eyes of the tattoo laced teen staring him down. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Either your pee test was wrong or you deliberately fudged it to make me look bad!” he hissed. “I do not do marijuana!” Bancock licked his thin purple lips.

“Christopher, can you give us a moment?” he asked the youth. Christopher shrugged and

slouched out of the room.

“The name’s ‘eaper,” he mumbled. The chains on his tattered jacket jingled as he walked. The psychiatrist then began to talk to Terence as though he was five.

“‘emember when we discussed those trust issues of yours?” Terence wanted to murder the

man with his own expensive stapler.

“Of course I remember,” he growled.

“Then I'm assuming you also remember the anti-psychotics I prescribed you. You need to take them," Bancock said sternly. Terence pressed his bony fingers to his forehead in frustration.

"I don't need your pills and I don't do marijuana," he articulated through gritted teeth. Bancock picked a piece of lint from the drab sweater he adorned. He leaned forward in his desk, so close Terence could smell the sour scent of coffee in his breath.

"I know this is hard for you, Mr. Coon," his voice was low and calm, " I can see you’re clearly in denial about your substance abuse. But you need to trust―”

“How much is she paying you?” Terence cut in. “Pardon?” Mr. O’reilly laughed uncertainly.

“Jaune. How much is she paying you to discredit me?!” Terence yelled. “The last time we met the top of your head could have been used as a mirror. I’m not stupid. You paid good money for that fancy patch of hay on top of your head. “o until you tell me what’s really going on here, I’m holding your hair as hostage.” Terence stripped the toupee from Mr. O’reilly’s noggin. The psychiatrist’s face was a stew of horror and contempt. His fingers immediately flew to his naked head. ““ee you around, Baldy!” Terence said before exiting the stunned man’s office. He slammed the door behind him, the hair dangling in his hand. As he turned to leave, he almost impaled himself on one of the spike’s protruding from ‘eaper’s coat.

“Wow,” the goth exclaimed, his eyes fixated on the hair. “Did you just scalp that guy?” Terence

huffed. He didn’t have time to explain himself to the troubled youth. “Totally,” he answered. The youth nodded in approval. “‘ighteous.”

***

Terence drove back to the funeral home, no closer to solving the marijuana mixup than when he had left. All Terence gained were Mr. O'reilly's hair cap and the admiration of a goth boy. Hungry, Terence sat down in the staff lounge for his lunch. He was picking away at a piece of salmon he had

poached for himself the other day, when Ash waltzed in with the same old perky bounce to his step. He was also humming to himself.

“That looks like a healthy lunch,” he stated, pouring himself a glass of water. Terence trickled the soy sauce over his rice. He wondered if Jaune had sent Ash to see Mr. O’reilly as well. The sight of blood caused Ash, a funeral director, to faint and become ill on a regular basis. His fear made him useless when it came to embalming. Lucky for Ash, he excelled at making arrangements and dealing with distraught families. His hemophobia had to constitute a trip to the psychiatrist.

Ash interrupted Terence's train of thought, “Uh, Terence, that’s kind of a lot of soy sauce.” “Hmmm?” Terence looked down to see his rice saturated with soy sauce. His salmon was

floating in a small puddle of it. He shrugged and continued to eat his lunch despite its overall brown display. The soy sauce had been in the fridge so long its flavor had diminished. Terence required more of it to make his rice appropriately salty anyway.

“Has Jaune ever sent you to Mr. O’reilly?” Terence asked, suddenly. Ash choked on a sip of water. The question appeared to make him uncomfortable.

“Yes, she did. He ran a group therapy session for people with severe phobias. Jaune thought he could help me.” When Terence didn’t respond, Ash continued. “ During the sessions, I fainted and vomited so many times, he had to call an ambulance. But, on the plus side, I met my girlfriend, Carina.” Terence’s elbows were resting on the table. His long fingers were intertwined. He raised an eyebrow at his co-worker.

“Thank-you for that highly personal information, Wilson,” he said. Terence found Ash to be hyperhonest, which is why he tended to trust Wilson more over his other staff members. Jaune also trusted him. In fact, she loved Wilson. She was smitten by his perfectly aligned teeth and square jaw. The only ulterior motive she’d have for sending him to Mr. O’reilly would be to get a hug in return. Now that Terence thought about it, she did seem to have a thing for handsome ailed men.

"Do you think Jaune approves of me as her employer," Terence asked. If anyone knew Jaune best, it was Ash.

"I doubt she likes being told what to do by anyone, let alone a younger man. That's just the way she is. That being said, she cares about people like you and me as she would care for her own children. She'd never do anything to hurt anyone." Terence didn't like this response one bit. If Jaune wasn't out to get him, then Terence had to accept the possibility that Melinda was a false memory brought on by the effects of THC. He had to accept the possibility that he had been ingesting marijuana without knowing it, and, he had to accept the possibility that he had threatened a psychiatrist for no reason. Worst of all, he would have to apologize to Jaune for falsely accusing her.

“Wilson,” Terence sighed, “I think I may have stolen a man’s hair to no avail.”

***

That evening, a visitation for Ming, the young woman who had committed suicide, began at 5:00pm. Terence was pleased with the appearance of the girl. Her hair had been expertly twisted into a braid, which sat alongside her shoulder. Her cheeks were pink and blossoming, and her lips were turned up in a slight relaxed smile. The bruises on her face had been concealed beautifully. Behind Terence, Miss Fairweather bit her lip anxiously.

“Does she look okay?” she asked. Miss Fairweather applied the cosmetics as well as the hair in accordance to the family’s wishes. Terence was speechless. He had no idea how to express his pride in his intern. He cleared his throat.

“Very impressive work, Jodie,” he said before awkwardly patting her on the back. Terence had

never seen Miss Fairweather blush so heavily.

“Y-you just called me Jodie!” she gasped. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Yes!” Miss Fairweather smiled so intensely, the corners of her eyes crinkled. Terence

laughed. For some reason he found Miss Fairweather’s flushed face and intense joy amusing.

The family arrived late. They hobbled slowly into the funeral home in single file. Their eyes were fixed to the ground and their mouths were unmoving. Terence had made sure to contact his Chinese consultant, Henrietta Cho, to help communicate with the family as well as serve the needs specific to their culture. The short, swift moving woman bustled about with the family’s trays of durian and dragon fruit as well as their cases of sweet buns. Terence found the way she moved funny. He also felt funny.

His confusion, paranoia, and sickening apprehension regarding the marijuana mixup had magically vanished. These feelings had been replaced with a sense of giddiness, a trait that was very atypcial of his usual character. At one point Jaune caught Terence chuckling and asked if he was feeling alright. Before Terence could respond, Ming’s family approached him with a tray of homemade dumplings. The eldest of the entourage, a shriveled silver-haired woman, took the tray and held it out before Terence.

"You have made my daughter look at peace. Please accept this offering as a token of our gratitude," she said.

"Why thank-you." Terence accepted the dumplings with a triumphant laugh. The family was a little taken aback by his inappropriately jolly countenance. Smiling, they hurriedly filed back into the visitation room. Terence threw his arms around both Ash and Jaune. Ash studied him curiously.

"Don't you have some paranoid theory about the method in which those dumplings were prepared?" Ash questioned. Terence laughed his sonorous laugh.

“Don't be silly! This has been a most successful night,” he smiled. “I want you both to know that I appreciate all of your hard work. I love you both.” Before Ash and Jaune had a chance to respond to Terence’s bizarre sentiment, Henrietta came to announce the family’s readiness to close the casket.

Funnily enough, neither of them acknowledged her presence. Terence enthusiastically took Miss

Fairweather by the shoulders and steered her into the visitation room to assist him with the closing of the casket. The two of them bowed as they approached the casket.

“Before we proceed, I would like to invite the family to say their last goodbyes,” Terence proclaimed. The mother stepped forward, her face shining with tears. She bent forward and kissed her daughter lightly with her quivering lips. At that moment, the ornate scenery of the visitation room faded to a colorful whirlwind of nothingness. A pair of warm lips pecked Terence on the cheek.

“Hi, Terence.” It was Melinda Marvolo. Terence inhaled sharply. Was this another memory? ““hhh.” Her eyes were impossibly beautiful: deep brown and flecked with gold. Her hands were all over him, stroking his chin, and clutching his waist.Terence felt like he was standing on a cloud in zero gravity space. Melinda wrapped her strong fingers around the knot of his tie and pulled his mouth to hers. The union between their lips seemed to trigger the opening of a worm hole into another cosmic dimension.

Curtains of light beamed from the unfolding space as Melinda wrapped her leg around his pelvis and―

“You're high!” Jaune cried in outrage. Terence startled. Her mouth was in his ear, whispering derogatory remarks. She had a painfully firm grip around his wrist and was dragging him from the visitation room. The relatives and friends of Ming stared at him, aghast.

" Ladies and gentlemen. Please forgive Mr.Coon. I'm afraid he's suffering from a high fever and delirium," Jaune lied. "We assure you, everything is under control. Feel free to stay as long as you like." Terence's tongue felt heavy in his mouth. His head was fuzzy. Terence didn’t know why, but he began to laugh uncontrollably.

“Get him out of here!” Jaune ordered Ash. As Terence walked by the doors of the side entrance, he caught sight of his reflection in the dark glass. His eyes were bloodshot.

“I was closing the casket with Miss Fairweather,” Terence said to Ash, on their way to the staff

lounge. Ash shook his head.

“No, Terence. You were hallucinating. You threw your arms around us, told us you loved us, and then waltzed into the visitation room to close a casket that wasn't supposed to be closed. You've been acting strange this entire night." Terence’s stomach roared. He felt as though he was digesting his own proteins.

“I’m starving,” he groaned. Ash watched as Terence devoured everything in the fridge, including the dumplings, which had been previously brought to the lounge by Henreitta. He then passed out on the lounge table.

***

Terence awoke the next morning in the same place. His employees had obviously chosen to abandon him. One thing was for sure: Terence had not been himself. Melinda Marvolo had never been a real woman. She was a false memory― a weed induced hallucination. “omeone was slipping cannabis into his food and drink and it wasn't Jaune. She had made her stand against drugs quite clear in the past.

She also couldn't have been holding back a file for a woman who never existed. Terence owed her an apology. When he stood, the entire room flipped and his face ended up plastered to the floor. Managing to sit upright, he leaned his head against the counter below the sink. He had a migraine― a throbbing, skull splitting migraine. Ash’s blurry form floated toward him― at least he thought it was Ash. A hand took his and the next thing Terence knew, he was staring into a sink drain filled with his own vomit.

“You look horrible!” Ash gasped. Terence clutched his head and groggily slumped into a chair. He could barely open his eyes. The light was so piercingly painful.“ Jaune told me about the marijuana Mr. O'reilly found in your system. Just how much did you do yesterday?!” he asked.

“I didn’t do this to myself, Wilson,” Terence whispered. There was a disgusting film lining the roof of his mouth. Desperate for a mouthful of cool water, Terence stumbled out of his chair toward the sink. Ash stopped him.

“I’ll get it,” he offered.

““omeone’s drugging me.” Terence lowered himself back into the chair and closed his eyes, resting his pounding head on his forearms. His brain was going to explode.

“Who would do that?”The sound of the glass thumping against the wood of the table made Terence jump. Terence sniffed and looked up at Ash’s hazy features. He took the glass of water and drank it down in one thirsty gulp.

“A man who would go to any lengths to get his revenge against me,” he stated.

"Are you suggesting Melvin Bowinkle?" Ash gaped. "Yes."

Ash gave Terence a loaded ice pouch for his head and drove him home. On his way out of the car, Terence managed to coat his neighbor’s petunias in a layer of stomach bile. Finally in bed, he took as many Advils as his liver could handle, rested the ice pouch on his feverish forehead and slept through the rest of the day.

Hours later, he was aroused by a thump at his door. Still dizzy, Terence maneuvered his way toward the source of the knocking.

“Terence, I think you're on to something with this Bowinkle guy.” Ash was at the door. He was

dressed for work and his hands were in his pockets. He teetered back and forth on his feet.

“What? What time is it?!” Terence looked to his left wrist only to find that he had taken his

watch off before slipping into bed the other day. The sun was up and the air was brisk.

“It’s 7:30am. Did I wake you?” Terence grunted in response and beckoned for Ash to come in.

His curly haired associate strolled into his living room. “May I?” he asked, pointing to the seat of a

straight-backed chair. Terence nodded. Ash undid the bottom button of his suit and sat down. He looked at Terence, his legs crossed. “You’re looking better,” he said. Terence rolled his eyes and flopped into a chair across from Wilson.

“What are you doing here, Wilson?” he demanded. Ash sat forward. “Terence,” he began, “I think you’re a bizarre man―”

“Okay―”

“ And I think that lately your paranoia has been getting a little out of hand. And yes, I think the marijuana definitely has something to do with it. But at the same time, I know you to be a proud man who is passionate about his career. You would never throw everything away for drugs. I think you’re right. I think Bowinkle is behind this.” There was a silence in which Terence’s sphinx cat, Anubis, came purring to his side.

“How do you know for sure?” Terence asked, stroking the creature’s warm bald head. “‘emember how he and Jaune used to tease you about that old soy sauce in the fridge? You’re

the only one who uses it,” Ash said.

How could Terence forget?! Melvin used to tell him if he continued to consume it, he would get gut rot. Terence would, in turn, tell Melvin that there was only a trace amount of alcohol in soy sauce, which was no where near potent enough to give him gut rot.

“You're more likely to get gut rot from that crap you're brewing in your bathtub,” Terence would say. He had always suspected Melvin of having an alcohol problem. His suspicion turned out to be correct. Terence discovered Melvin inebriated one day at work and dismissed him. Though he eventually admitted to being under the influence, Melvin hadn't thought his dismissal to be fair. This he told Terence when he returned to the funeral home, accompanied by two old widows adorning a perfume to which Terence was extremely sensitive. The man was an egotistic hypocrite. He took short cuts when preparing bodies, leaving them in a putrid state, buttered up old people as a way of holding a good social status, and treated everyone else with an air of apathy. He didn't deserve to be a funeral director, and yet he believed himself to be the best there was.

Ash continued, “When he came to Amigone Funeral Home several weeks ago with those strong smelling women, there was a moment―after you lost consciousness―where he could have snuck something into that soy sauce. " Upon hearing this postulation, Terence’s eyes widened.

“Oh lord,” Terence mumbled, massaging his temples. Terence had thought Melvin’s form of revenge had been the grannies and their toxic perfume. But What if Melvin had only brought them there to distract Terence from the real source of biological warfare―marijuana. “ I think it's time we had a little chat with Melvin. Where does that conniving little puke work these days?” Terence asked Ash.

“Tinkie and Tots Funeral Home.”

"Excellent. We'll go there during lunch," Terence said.

***

It was noon when Terence pulled into the parking lot of Tinkie and Tots Funeral Home. In comparison to Amigone Funeral Home, the property was miniscule. The building itself was an odd spectacle. Tall and triangular, it was built into the side of a lopsided hill. Lace-like wooden deckles adorned the edges of the roof, giving it an eerie countenance. Everything about it was angular and narrow.

“What a snake house,” Terence snickered. Beside him, Ash was wringing his hands

uncomfortably.

“I don’t know about this, Terence. I don’t like that we had to lie to gain about going to lunch,” Ash said. Terence ignored Ash and rang the doorbell. A craggy old woman and her ashen faced husband emerged from behind the door.

“Well howdy! I’m Tinkie and this is my husband, Tot. What can we do for y’all on this fine day?” The woman, Tinkie, had hair so thin it was transparent. Tot looked like a vegetable. It was no wonder Melvin worked at this place.

“We were just wondering if we could have a visit with Melvin. He’s an old friend of ours,”

Terence explained in his sweetest most innocent voice.

“Why of course!” Tinkie beamed. Her smile was hideous. Her lashes were encrusted with layers of mascara.“Ya’ll head down to the basement. Good ol’ Melvin’s workin’ away on a body. Don’t hesitate to holler if ya’ll need something.” The woman winked at Terence. He stifled a gag before making his way down the creaking steps to the basement. The click-click of a duotonic injector grew louder as the two of them neared the prep room.

“Whatever you do, Wilson, don’t faint. You’ll make me look bad,” Terence told him. Ash took a deep breath and nodded. The prep room was an absolute dump. Splatters of red and yellow gunk coated the sink and cupboards, the floor was amuck with dirt, and the garbage was overflowing with soiled gloves and bloodied cotton.

“Look who it is,” Melvin said, switching off the embalming machine. “Terence, I dare say you’ve lost weight. I bet you’re about the same size as my client on the table over there. Perhaps you’d like the clothes he came in. He certainly won’t be needing them anymore!” Terence grabbed Melvin by his bloodstained smock.

“Listen to me, you little weasel, I know you spiked my soy sauce with marijuana. Your attempt at revenge was about as sloppy as the condition of this prep room. You’re a real tool, Bowinkle. Is it really such a surprise, I fired you? You stole from the bereaved, you came to work drunk, and you tried to trick

everyone else into thinking you’re innocent and I’m a paranoid nutcracker. Do me a favor and grow

some!” Terence dropped the man on his butt. Melvin chuckled.

“Funny you should say that,” he said, picking himself off of the ground. Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes glinted smugly. “Tell me, Terence, when was the last time you checked the garden in your backyard? I think you’ll find something very interesting growing there.” Terence stood gaping. The man couldn’t be serious. “Of course,” Melvin continued, “the cops won’t find it until after they’ve trashed your house.” Before Melvin could utter another haughty laugh, Ash pounced the man like a feral cat, socking him in the face. Blood burst from his lip, smearing his face and staining the pale tuft of hair on his head. Terence grabbed his snarling colleague by the collar, and together they fled the building.

“What got into you?!” Terence yelled. The two of them were breathing heavily in the parking lot. Ash shrugged and coughed violently. Melvin’s blood was all over his knuckles. He looked at his red- spotted hands in horror.

“That’s a lot of―” Ash crumpled to the concrete, unconscious.

***

Terence returned Ash to the funeral home before returning to his own house. It was as Melvin said. His house was in ruins. The tables were turned over and the cabinet doors were open and gutted. It looked as though a tornado had devastated the interior of his house. Anubis mewed in the corner of the kitchen. If she had fur, it would have been standing on end. Two cop cars sat angled on his lawn in piles of disheveled turf. Terence picked up his quivering cat, stroking her until she settled down.

“Anubis,” he whispered in her disproportionately large ears, “I think Daddy might be going away

for a while.”

Drugs and a Date

Terence was in hell. He had been charged with the possession of marijuana, placed under probation, and forced into a three month drug rehabilitation program at the St. Louis Hospital. Terence tried telling the police that he was being framed by his arch nemesis, Melvin Bowinkle, but they didn’t buy it. It also didn’t help that a bottle of antipsychotics, which a psychiatrist named Mr. O’reilly had prescribed for Terence’s so-called ‘paranoid delusions,’was found during the drug bust. The authorities treated everything Terence said as a result of his paranoid condition. Only Ash Wilson could vouch for him. As of late, neither Terence nor Ash could find a defense attorney willing to devote his time to the ravings of a paranoid pothead. Ash was particularly desperate to find Terence a lawyer. After his probation period was over, Terence would have a criminal record. He would be placed in front of the Board of Funeral Services and stripped of his license. He would never be able to practice as a funeral director ever again.

Now Terence was stationed in a circle filled with teenage delinquents and scrag-haired adults who smelled of sweat and tobacco. The councillor, Lucy Sky, was stick thin with lank curtains of hair framing her face. Terence wasn’t surprised to learn she had once been into the white stuff. The session began with each person sharing their drug story. A seventeen year-old named Frank Porno told tales of poorly selected girlfriends and the pressures associated with a party conducive atmosphere. A couple, more sullen lads, simply shrugged and grunted, “Awunno.” After each drug related recollection, Lucy would nod― her floppy hair swaying back and forth―and say, “‘ight on.” The time eventually came for Terence to share his story.

“What about you, Ter, what was your experience with drugs?”Lucy leaned forward, gazing seriously in Terence’s direction.

“A year ago I found out I had Grave’s Disease,” Terence began.

“That sounds grave!” A snarky lad remarked. Terence shot the man down with his chastising

stare.

“This disease is autoimmune and associated with hyperthyroidism, which is a condition where your thyroid produces too much hormone. The symptoms I was experiencing included, heart palipitations, photophobia, weight loss, shakiness, and sensitivity to heat. I was prescribed an antithyroid drug―”

“Wow! Wait a minute now!” Frank Porno threw up his hands. “Dude, that’s cheating!” Terence

narrowed his eyes at the poorly named boy.

“I don’t understand your accusation, Mr. Porno. This isn’t a game,” Terence said.

“Are you stupid!?” Frank cried. “Lucy don’t want us to talk bout none of that prescription shit! We here to talk about the good stuff.” The other group members nodded in agreement with Frank’s outburst, which Terence noticed was riddled with grammatical inaccuracies.

“Frank’s got a point, Ter. You’re not here because of a thyroid drug, are you?” Lucy said. Terence could feel his ears going hot. He crossed his arms over his chest and swallowed the ever growing lump in his throat.

“Fine,” Terence said, slapping his hands against his thighs. “I’m here because I fired an alcoholic named Melvin Bowinkle. He is wicked, deceiving, vengeful, apathetic, and devious as the devil himself! In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were possessed by the hell-angels of Lucifer!” Terence stood as his anger mounted. His uncanny height incurred fear in the other patients. They shriveled in their seats.

Even Frank seemed to be regretting his prior interruption. “In an act of spite, Douchewinkle spiked my soy sauce with hash oil―a cannabis product containing THC and cannabinoids in higher concentrations. I got so high, I hallucinated. When confronting Melvin about his pestilent deed, he alluded to a garden of marijuana growing in my backyard―a garden which he himself had planted! He then anonymously contacted the police exposing my ‘drug possession.’” Terence threw himself back in his chair. His animosity ran so deep he had to tense every muscle in his body to stop from shaking. “That, Miss “ky and Mr. Porno, is why I’m here.”

Part of Terence’s probation deal was that he had to reside in the rehab centre for the three month duration of the program. To discourage him from calling his assumed drug dealers, Terence was forced to surrender his phone to the parole officer.

All Terence had for company were his angry thoughts and the obscenities scrawled on the ceiling. He was in the midst of picturing Melvin’s head as a pumpkin ready for carving, when a sour old nurse banged on his door.

“Mr. Coon,” she screeched, “You’ve got a visitor.” His employee, Ash Wilson, gingerly made his way into the room. He had the look of a young boy who had just been smacked for tearing the heads off of his sister’s dolls.

“How are you holding up?” he inquired.

“Just peachy,” Terence retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I just want to let you know that Anubis is doing fine. I’ve been feeding her the formula you requested and I’ve been bathing her and cleaning her ears every week.” Ash spoke frantically. In Terence’s absence, he had volunteered to take care of Terence’s sphinx cat. Terence chuckled when he saw the scratches on Ash’s arms. Anubis hated being bathed. Ash exhaled noisily and plopped himself on the bed next to Terence. His eyes were rimmed with purple and his jaw was coated in a layer of stubble.

“I trust Jaune is being her normal dictatorial self,” Terence said. Ash yawned hugely and nodded.

Now that Terence, the owner of Amigone Funeral Home, was held up in a hospital ward, his bossy employee, Jaune, was the new head honcho.

“I’ve been interviewing directors to take your place in the prep room all week,” Ash groaned.

Terence slid his feet into a pair of leather slippers. No way would Wilson find an embalmer as skilled and

efficient as Terence. Terence wasn’t about to let his business suffer because of Melvin Bowinkle.

“We need to find me a lawyer, Wilson,” Terence declared. “Come on. There’s wifi in the cafeteria across from the psych ward. We’ll browse the web on your phone for defense attorneys.” Terence paused before exiting his room. “They also have pie,” he added as a side thought.

***

The cafeteria was a vast space. Glimmering lamps dangled from the ceiling and cast a glow that seemed to bounce off of every white surface and shine painfully into Terence’s eyes. He found himself squinting as though he had just walked from a dim room to a sunny winter day. Terence wished the police would let him have his antithyroid medication back; they had confiscated the pills to confirm the legitimacy of the prescription, but they forced him to take antipsychotics. Terence doubted the antipsychotics were really antipsychotics. For all he knew, the authorities were trying to poison him. If he dropped dead, the mayor wouldn’t have to put up with his complaints regarding the cameras in the street lamps.

“I don’t think your antipsychotics are working,”Ash stated when Terence voiced his suspicions. “ I’m not taking them,” Terence said. The echoes of their conversation could be heard

resonating off of the stark tiled walls of the cafeteria. Terence lowered his voice. “The nurses are airheads. They stand audience to my pill popping, but fail to check if I swallowed.” Ash shook his head. A grunt of disapproval slipped his mouth. He confronted the kitchen lady about two slices of pie before suggesting that Terence actually try taking the medication. Ash turned with the desserts, only to find that Terence had disappeared to a round table in the corner. Perched over his eyes were a pair of sleek sunglasses. The lighting in the cafeteria was obviously too much for him.

“Where did you get those?” Ash questioned, sliding a slice of pie across the table.

“I borrowed them from the back of a sleeping man’s head,” Terence responded. He removed the dark visor to inspect the pie. “Why pumpkin?” he questioned, his voice riddled with disappointment. ““quash bugs like pumpkin, you know.” “troking the pie with his fork, Terence mashed through the filling in search for insect particulates.

“A little extra protein never hurt anyone,” Ash declared, shoving a large forkful in his mouth. He then balanced the fork on his plate and folded his hands in front of him. “Give the poor man’s sunglasses back,” Ash commanded.

“The man’s asleep. He’s hardly going to miss them,” he said. Ash was too tired to argue. He took out his “trawberry deluxe phone―the latest from Fruti Tuti smart phones―and started where he had left off his search for a lawyer. Finding someone who would tolerate Terence was going to be difficult.

“Try searching the name Penelope “tar,” Terence suggested. While Ash had been reading the bios of defense attorneys on www.st.louislawfirm.com, Terence had been formulating the phrase ‘nice try’ with the untouched mush of pie filling on his plate. Ash yawned. His normally handsome face drooped with exhaustion.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Terence announced. “Just look up the name. I’ve got nothing more to lose.” Ash shrugged, and obeyed.

Terence strolled around the perimeter of the cafeteria to a side table containing a stack of coffee cups. He avoided cutting through the centre of the room to minimize the number of stares he would get. Being well over six feet tall and grotesquely slender, Terence attracted too much attention. The addition of the dark sunglasses only added to the oddness of his appearance. He selected a ceramic mug from the top of a precariously stacked pyramid and filled it from the coffee urn. The spoon tinkled against the rim of the mug as Terence blended the multiple creamers and sugar cubes he’d put into the coffee. The same tinkling sounded beside him.

“Mr. Coon!” a shrill voice gasped. Terence froze. It was the voice of Miss “unshine.

“Oh Lord,” Terence swallowed. Miss Sunshine had been the grade four teacher who had murdered her students’ gerbil just to call Terence for a pet funeral. Terence had discovered the cruel deed when he noticed traces of radon―a brand of rat posion― in the gerbil’s cage. Miss “unshine was a senile withered dinosaur of a woman, and she was infatuated with Terence.

“Let me guess, you’re a patient here at the psych ward,” Terence said. He could feel his heart beating erratically. He wasn’t sure if it was a result of his current fear or lack of antithyroid medication.

“No, silly! I’m a teacher here at the Hanes Elementary,” she laughed. It was a horrible sound―like the cackle of a howler monkey during mating season. The woman truly was delusional.

“‘ight,” his baritone voice suddenly seemed much higher in his ears. He cleared his throat. “I should be on my―”

“Not so fast, Mister!” Miss “unshine slammed her heavily creased hand over his. Terence swallowed again. The foggy holes that were Miss “unshine’s eyes burned maliciously through his sunglasses.

“I know people,” she whispered in his ear, “bad people. Your cute friend Melvin bumped into me one day after visiting his grandmother here. We got talking and he made me a deal. I could have you all to myself if I did him a favor.” Terence cringed as the woman removed his sunglasses. “That good- looking lad in the corner seems to be searching the web for a lawyer. Even if he finds one and you take Melvin to court, you won’t win the case without my help,” she hinted.

“Forget it!” Terence hissed, snatching the sunglasses from Miss Sunshine.

“Just one date,” Miss “unshine insisted. “One night together and I’ll tell you everything you need to know to prove your innocence.” “he winked. Her lined eye lids were overdone in a repulsive shade of blue. “Think about it,” she said before leaving. When Terence looked down, he found that she had scribbled her number on a napkin. He walked slowly back to the table and placed the steaming mug of coffee in front of Ash.

“Good news!” Ash cried ecstatically. “You were right about Penelope “tar. It turns out she’s a member of the St. Louis Law Firm and is a fan of your artwork. You must have met her during one of your gallery showings. I just got off the phone with her. “he’s willing to hear us out. We have a meeting with her tomorrow at 2:00 pm. Isn’t that great?” Terence placed his shaking hand into his pocket and fingered the napkin.

“Wonderful,” he answered quietly.

***

The office of Penelope Star in the St. Louis Lawfirm was located in the heart of St. Louis du HA! HA!. Terence was permitted to attend the meeting with Ash on one condition: his parole officer, Brutus Bigman, had to tag along. The three of them sat awkwardly in a taxi. The parole officer sat between Ash and Terence. Brutus was so widely built he was practically sitting on Terence’s lap. No one spoke for the duration of the ride. This was fine with Terence, as he preferred the quiet to be alone with his thoughts. He also found the scenery of St. Louis du HA! HA! more enjoyable in the silence.

Stone walls lined either side of the road. Beyond them was a green spread of grass that stretched in between old stone churches and houses. The pointed steeples of the churches and semi- circle windows appealed to Terence greatly. He had spent hours studying the buildings from afar, and capturing their beauty in delicate brush strokes. Sometimes he used the statues that hid under the archways of the architecture as inspiration for his sculptures. If there was one thing he loved as much as his job and his cat, it was his town―even if the majority of its people thought him to be mad. People may not have always seen things the way he did, but that certainly didn’t make him crazy―or did it?

Sure, Terence saw hidden agendas in every innocent bystander. Sure, he heard whisperings that the common ear couldn’t detect, but he also saw beauty where few could. “o what if he was paranoid? Terence saw the world through clear eyes. He wasn’t about to take a pill that would cloud his vision, forcing him into blindness like the rest of the population.

A drop of water broke against the window. Its sudden plop roused Terence from his thoughts. Soon the inside of the taxi was dancing with the white reflections of the rain hammering its exterior. Through the distortion of his rain washed window, Terence could see the silhouette of a plain brown structure. They had arrived. Both Ash and Brutus made a beeline for the building. Terence took his time in the rain. He filled his lungs with its fresh scent, and gazed up at the drops as they fell from the rumbling clouds.

“Hurry up, Terence!” Ash yelled, “You’re going to get struck by lightening!” Terence walked swiftly under the doorway of the building, where Ash and Brutus stood waiting. A wide open space greeted them when they entered. Coming from the cramped interior of the taxi, the place was a haven for Terence. The floors were polished and a green tangle of plants grew from a wall at the end of the room. Terence was about to go over to inspect greenery, when he heard his name called. A tall woman with a dark curly bob clacked her way over to him. She was wearing a pair of six inch florescent pink heels. Terence’s memory of her became clear as she approached him. Penelope “tar: the collector. “he had recently added a number of Terence’s artworks to one of her many collections. Her most infamous

assemblage was composed of shoes. More specifically, dangerously high heels. Her hand clutched Ash’s and then Brutus’, but not Terence’s…never Terence’s.

When the introductions were over, she lead them up a flight of stairs to her office. Given her footwear, Terence was impressed with the way that Penelope managed to climb the stairs so elegantly. Ash and Brutus also looked impressed. Although, Terence noted their gazes were fixed on an entirely different part of her body.

““o I understand you have some serious charges against this man, Melvin Bowinkle,” Penelope said. She kicked her stilettos off and took a seat in an oversized leather chair. Her office was quite the spectacle. The walls looked as though they had been painted in red wine, a shade which matched the colour of her lipstick. Terence released a hum of fascination after running his hand over a zebra patterned sofa angled across from Penelope’s desk. He was pleased to see one of his famous cat statues posing in the corner.

“Your friend Ash told me Melvin spiked your soy sauce with marijuana, and planted it in your garden. All in an attempt to spite you,” Penelope continued. Now seated comfortably on the sofa, Terence nodded.

“That is correct,” he said. “Do you have proof of this?”

Ash piped up immediately, “I heard him! We confronted Melvin. He practically admitted to planting the marijuana when he said ‘something interesting was growing back there.’” Penelope loosed her beautiful eyes on Ash, who blushed under her gaze.

“Unfortunately, that’s not a confession.” “he opened a black folder on her desk, scrutinizing its contents. “I did some digging on Melvin and found that you, Mr. Coon, dismissed him about a year ago for coming to work under the influence of alcohol.”

“Yes, I told you that yesterday,” Ash interceded.

“Forgive me, I had to be sure.”Penelope tucked a stray black curl behind her ear before continuing. “Am I right in assuming you got nowhere with a statement of allegations?”

“It didn’t even go to a prosecutor,” Terence said, glaring at his parole officer. “In fact, I wonder if the police even investigated the charges.”Brutus’ face was dark and unfeeling.

“Mr. Coon has a history of paranoia,” he stated simply. “An investigation would have been futile.” Penelope raised her thin eyebrows at this response.

“I disagree,” she said. “An investigation is never futile.” Her red lips parted in a smile that would have proved frightening if she hadn’t been gorgeous. Terence could tell, this woman was cutthroat clever. She was just the sort of person he needed to take down Melvin.

Turning her attention back to Terence, she said, “I am very persuasive and am on good terms with the prosecutor. I can have Melvin convicted. But if you don’t have any evidence I can use against him, I’ll have you know I charge extra for lies and feats of deception.” Brutus sprung from the sofa like a startled cat.

“How dare you!” he scowled. Both Penelope and Terence laughed in harmony.

“I’m only joking, Officer,” she assured him, winking at Terence, who averted his eyes to the shaggy carpet. A sudden melancholy had fallen over him. The only way he could bring Melvin to justice was to accept Miss “unshine’s deal: a date in exchange for information. But how far would this romantic evening have to go? Terence felt sick with dread at the thought of waking up next to a face folded with age and tobacco stains. Nonetheless, he pulled the napkin from his pocket. Though it was damp from the rain, Miss “unshine’s number was still clear.

Terence retold his encounters with Miss Sunshine. When he was done, both Ash and Brutus were shaking their heads; their eyes lidded with cynicism. Penelope, on the other hand, appeared intrigued.

“This woman could be your ticket out, Mr. Coon,” she said. “If you attend this date, I could arrange for a voice recorder to be attached to your person. A recorded confession of her conspiring with Melvin would be just the sort of leverage we need.” Ash was in aversion to this plan.

“The woman’s insane, Terence. How do you know she’ll keep her word? How do you know she

won’t murder you like she murdered her students’ gerbil?” Ash’s face was flushed with concern.

Brutus crossed his thick arms and said, “ I would like to take this opportunity to remind Mr. Coon that he cannot leave the hospital premise without my accompaniment.” Terence was about to object, but stopped. Brutus was a hulk of a man. If Miss Sunshine did get the sudden psychotic urge to murder Terence, Brutus could take down the woman no problem.

“Brutus can act as my personal bodyguard,” he suggested. No one had any objections.

““o it’s settled then.” Penelope clapped her dainty hands together, slipped into her podiatrist’s nightmare, and strutted across the room to where Terence was situated. “You, Mr. Coon, are officially my client.” “he pumped his hand to seal the deal and then suggested that Ash have the tainted soy sauce tested for marijuana. “If you can get me some documents to prove the presence of marijuana in the soy sauce, I can have Melvin charged with drug conspiracy and assault.” Ash nodded his head; his curly hair cascaded in agreement. Before treading back into the tumultuous storm, Penelope gave Terence a mini voice recorder to bring with him on the date.

“Good luck,” she said.

***

As promised, Terence got a hold of Miss Sunshine. Ash surrendered his phone over to Terence for the time being. Terence had just barely finished punching the number into the screen before Miss “unshine’s voice erupted over the speaker.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my offer!” she squealed. Terence felt as though there were ants crawling through his intestinal track.

“Meet me tomorrow in La Café de Crèpe at 6pm,” he instructed. “I’ve made reservations.” Miss Sunshine responded with an oh-la-la, followed by a seductive laugh that had Terence tasting his lunch all over again.

“Be sure to wear one of those sexy suits,” she sang before hanging up. Terence shivered in repulsion, tossing Ash’s phone onto the bed as though it were a sprig of poison ivy. He had already made Brutus aware of the plan. The restaurant was a walk down the block. Brutus would trail behind Terence, keeping his distance at a separate table in the café. Terence didn’t trust Brutus, but he also didn’t trust Miss “unshine. He didn’t even trust La Café de Crèpe, or any sort of eatery for that matter. He went to bed, his head laden with worry.

It was 7am when Terence was roused by the sound of Ash’s phone buzzing. His awakening relieved him as his sleep had been plagued by nightmares― all of which included two constants: Miss Sunshine, and a leather whip.

“Good morning, Terence,” Ash greeted. “No, it’s not.”

“What?”

“It’s not a good morning.” Terence groaned. He still had to attend another torturous session of drug rehab later in the afternoon. “Whatever you have to tell me, make it quick. A nurse will be up shortly to watch me pretend to take my pill.”

“I took the soy sauce to your psychiatrist, Mr. O’reilly, to get tested,” Ash declared, proudly. “And?”

“I got a rush on it and it came back positive for marijuana. We can use the results as proof

against Melvin.”

“How did you get a rush?” Terence questioned. There was a moment of silence on Ash’s end. “You found Mr. O’reilly’s hair, didn’t you?” Terence had once believed Mr. O’reilly to have forged the results of his drug test. “tealing the man’s toupee had been an act of compensation.

“Yes,” Ash admitted. “I returned his toupee in exchange for a rush on the test.” He didn’t sound particularly sorry. After discovering Mr. O’reilly’s innocence, Terence had thought about returning the hair, but had then decided that it would make a lovely component to one of his sculptures.

“Very well,” Terence responded. There would always be other annoying men with ugly hair pieces. “Thanks for your help, Wilson.” Ash wished Terence good luck on the date before bidding him adieu. The mentioning of the date made Terence’s palms sweat.

His anxiety only increased as the day went on. He ate little on account of the knots in his stomach, and found himself unable to sit still during the group therapy session. When the time came for him to put on one of his ‘sexy’ suits, he struggled knotting his tie. His hands were like those of a Parkinson’s patient. Outside, the lights of the street lamps and passing cars added to his agitation. The air was damp, and Terence couldn’t decide if he was hot or cold. Brutus walked several paces behind him. Terence could almost feel the man’s eyes on his back. His phantom-like presence gave Terence the sensation of being hunted. The sooner this rendez vous was over, the better.

“Yoo hoo, Mr. Coon!” A spotted hand swung through the air with the swiftness of a metronome.

Miss Sunshine stood as Terence weaved his way through the maze of crowded tables. The restaurant had a rustic interior filled with the buzz of dinner conversation. Terence did not at all find Miss “unshine’s apparel flattering. Her polka-dot blouse was low cut, revealing the sagging nature of her bosom. Her skirt was so tight it looked as though someone had bundled her legs together with plastic wrap. It was also short, proudly displaying the distended spider veins in her legs.

“Hello,” Terence said, his voice strained. As he took a seat he pretended to scratch his chest. He was, in fact, really ensuring the security of the recorder to his sternum. Terence had reserved a booth in hopes that he would have a sufficient amount of leg room beneath the table. He, of course, did not.

“You’re looking very smart this evening,” Miss “unshine purred. In the corner of his eye, Terence could see Brutus’ prowling gaze, peeping up from behind a menu.

He swallowed, “Thanks.” Terence flinched as he felt her hand stroke his inner thigh.

“Please don’t do that!” he cried. Miss “unshine pouted, her painted lips curling like a slug under salt. Terence sighed. If he upset Miss Sunshine he was certain to get no information. “I have a muscle cramp in my leg,” he lied. Miss “unshine’s face brightened.

“I know just the massage technique to fix that.” Her grip on his leg tightened.

“Waiter!” Terence shrieked. Miss “unshine withdrew her hand, again wearing her displeasure on her face. A frail man with a beak-like nose scuttled to their booth almost instantaneously. He bowed and flourished the pencil and pad of paper in his hands. A tiny pair of circular spectacles perched on the centre of his nose. His name, Pascal, was indicated on a gold plate which he wore pinned to his shirt.

“Bonjour Madame et Monsieur. Je suis Pascal et bienvenue au Café de Crèpe.” The man produced a pair of menus, which he gracefully placed in front of Terence and Miss “unshine. “Voudriez- vous des boissons?”

Terence responded, “Une verre de vin si vous plaît.”Miss “unshine had a puzzled expression plastered to her face; evidently, she didn’t speak a lick of French.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she said.

“La même pour elle,” Terence translated. The waiter nodded and spun away, twirling through the bustling restaurant like a ballerina.

“Mr. Coon!” Miss “unshine exclaimed. “I had no idea you spoke French.” Her cheeks flushed red. “You’re just full of surprises!” Terence could feel his own face turning red as Miss Sunshine bobbed her eyebrows―which were no more than crudely penciled lines―up and down. “What did you order us?”

Terence swallowed, “Wine.”

“I didn’t know you drank!” Miss “unshine gasped. “Neither did I,” Terence responded weakly.

“Mr. Coon, you’re shaking!” Terence slowly lowered his menu. He had been using it as more of a shield from Miss Sunshine and had in fact made no attempt to read the dinner options. Pascal emerged, two glasses neatly tucked between his fingers.

“ Here comes the wine.” Miss “unshine patted one of Terence’s siezuring hands. “A little alcohol will settle those nerves of yours,”she assured him, batting a crusty eyelash.

“Est-ce-que vous avez prêt commander?"Pascal asked, filling the wine glasses to the brim with a deep red solution that smelt, to Terence, like fermented pineapple. He also noted its resemblance to blood.

“What are you ordering?” Terence demanded.

Miss Sunshine was already halfway through her glass of wine when she answered, “La crèpe d’amour: The crèpe of love.” “he giggled flirtatiously and twirled a strand of thin, tightly-permed gray hair between her fingers. Did this woman think she was sixteen? Pascal commended her on her choice and turned to Terence expectantly. Terence asked for the special, not knowing what the special was or even if there was a special. Apparently there was, as Pascal nodded, scribbled something on his pad, and danced away.

“Mr. Coon, you have not touched your drink,” Miss “unshine observed. Terence glared at the suspicious red serum rippling in his glass. He dipped his finger in the liquid.

“There, I touched it.” Miss “unshine was not amused by this display.

“I won’t start digging up dirt on Melvin until you drink that wine,” she threatened. Before pressing the glass to his lips, Terence demanded that Miss “unshine take a sip first. He couldn’t rule out the possibility of his drink being poisoned. She readily took a gulp and then passed the cup over to Terence, unharmed. He took a deep breath and swallowed the liquid in one go. It tasted purely bitter and felt hot in his stomach. On the plus side, the alcohol did lesson his anxiety.

“There!” he said, slamming the base of the glass onto the table. “Now talk.”

Miss Sunshine began by telling Terence the circumstances under which she met Melvin. After visiting his ailed grandmother, Melvin met Miss Sunshine in the elevator on his way out. Miss Sunshine had been singing a song which she had composed herself. It was entitled thusly: To Swoon to Swoon for Mr. Coon.

“ Melvin complimented me on my lovely singing voice, and told me he knew you,” she said. “he chuckled and shook her head.“He was a naughty boy, Mr. Coon. You see he stole his grandmother’s marijuana card. His grandmother used the card to get medical marijuana to treat her multiple sclerosis.”

Pascal arrived just then, the special expertly balanced in one hand and the love crèpe in the other. Miss Sunshine cut into her crèpe as soon as it was placed in front of her. A concoction of chocolate and strawberries oozed out of it. Terence discovered that his own crèpe was loaded with escargot: snails swimming in a pool of ooey gooey butter and cheese.

“How’s the crèpe?” Miss “unshine asked, licking a blob of chocolate from her lip.

““pecial,” Terence replied. He hesitantly took a bite. The snails tasted rather like mushrooms.

“Please continue,” he said after swallowing.

“Not until I get a kiss,” she declared. Her smile was devious. Terence wanted to respond, “you can kiss my ass,”but bit his tongue for fear of her taking him literally. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. Her lips puckered like those of a fish. Terence plucked a particularly juicy snail from his plate, pressed its salty body against her mouth, and made kiss imitations. When she opened her eyes, Terence was convincingly close, the snail melting under the table. She smacked her lips, her cracked tongue tasting the salty residue that the snail had left behind.

“Why that kiss was positively scrumptious!” she said.

“Indeed,” Terence agreed. “Now please, tell me the rest of the story.”

As soon as the command was out of his mouth, Terence began to feel funny. With each word Miss Sunshine said, he grew more and more woozy. Soon he was too busy holding back his vomit to even hear her words. He wanted desperately to excuse himself, but found that even the tiniest of movements caused him insufferable pain. His skin burned with fever. He was so hot he felt as though he was on fire. Miss Sunshine appeared to be in the dark about his current condition. Her lips continued to flap, but the words that tumbled out slurred together in Terence’s mind. Her face was a haze before him and he found that he could no longer remember why he was with her. Only one thing was clear in his mind: he had been poisoned by the waiter.

The toxin must have been added to his crèpe. Terence had ordered ‘the special’ without knowing for sure that there was a special. Pascal hadn’t known either because he wasn’t a waiter. He was an assassin. The special had been special alright―specially prepared with an aconite substitute for oil. Terence was dying. Upon this realization, he let out a panicked gasp. Not knowing why, Terence stood. The lights of the restaurant melted together. As he stepped out of his booth, he sensed that people were watching him. Their faces appeared to Terence as messy smears.

“I―I’ve been poisoned,” he announced weakly to the smears. A woman screamed. “o did a man. Soon everyone was screaming. Terence too tried to scream, but his mouth filled with vomit and he fell to the floor choking. His heart was thrashing in his chest, pounding so viciously he could feel it in his ears. A man came to him as he lay, sweating and in pain.

“I’ve called an ambulance, Mr.Coon. They’ll be here soon.” The voice was familiar somehow. A stabbing pain erupted in Terence’s shoulder. He wanted to shriek in agony, but was in too much pain to do so. Black spots filled his vision and then all was dark.

***

Beep, beep, beep, beep. A squiggly line shot up with each beep on the monitor beside Terence.

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Coon.” A short old lady in a white coat with carmel-coloured hair stood crossing her arms next to Terence’s bed. “It’s rare for a man to have Grave’s Disease, let alone go into thyroid storm.” Terence looked down at himself; tubes were protruding from various parts of his body. A strange plastic clip covered his index finger.

“It wasn’t thyroid storm,” Terence grumbled, “I was poisoned.”The doctor laughed. Terence

made it clear to her that he was not joking.

“When you were admitted you presented with tachycardia, and hypertension. Your heart rate was through the roof, along with your blood pressure and thyroid hormone levels. It was a miracle you didn’t go into congestive heart failure!” Terence looked at her incredulously. “ We did the blood work, Mr.Coon. There was no poison in your blood stream.” Terence sighed. A white curtain surrounded him.

“You’re going to be fine, Mr. Coon,” she said. “You have a number of people here to see you, and I would hate to keep them waiting any longer.” Her exit was followed by the entry of Penelope, Brutus, and Jaune, all led by Ash Wilson. Their thoughts and emotions were written on their faces as clear as the writing in a book. All four of them were concerned, save for Brutus. Brutus was proud as a peacock. He had been the one to call for help, thus saving Terence’s life. It had been his voice in Terence’s ear. Apart from feeling concerned, both Ash and Jaune wore the face of a guilty conscience. Synchronized apologies leaked from their mouths. Jaune sobbed for forgiveness. Like the police, she had thought Terence to be a druggie with related mental health issues. Before Ash could begin his guilty ramble, Terence stopped him. The convoluted feelings associated with him being half naked in the ICU were really of no concern.

“‘ight now I care about one thing and one thing only,” Terence stated, “Is Melvin going to jail?” Penelope stepped forward in her silver studded heels. Terence could feel the smirk on her face crossing over to his own.

“Most definitely,” she answered. “Brutus got the recorder off of you before the paramedics came.” Brutus highlighted his heroic deed by demonstrating the karate move he used on Miss “unshine to peel her off of Terence. According to him, Miss Sunshine had flung herself on Terence’s unconscious body in a fit of sorrow and rage. Penelope then summarized the contents of the recording, beginning

from where Terence could last remember. Penelope had Melvin on four charges: drug conspiracy, two assault charges, and fraud.

“Melvin got in possession of the marijuana from a doctor who prescribes marijuana for medicinal purposes. He stole his grandmother’s marijuana health card, bribed Miss “unshine to play the part of his grandmother, and tricked the doctor into giving her marijuana seeds and hash oil,” Penelope explained.

“He put his own grandmother through hell!” Ash cried. ““he used marijuana to help ease the pain and sleep issues associated with her M“. Without her card, she couldn’t get the prescription.” One thing was for sure: Melvin would be going away for a long time. Terence felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was a free man. His probation would be terminated and he would no longer have to attend drug therapy sessions. Best of all, he would be able to keep his funeral director’s license and continue practicing the one thing he loved: embalming. There was only one thing that wasn’t clear to Terence.

“Why did it take the police so long to authenticate my antithyroid medication?” He addressed the question to Brutus. “I went into thyroid storm because I wasn’t getting the necessary treatment for my hyperthyroidism.” Brutus crunched his eyebrows together in confusion.

“The police didn’t hold back your antithyroid medication. In fact, I had a nurse come in to ensure that you were taking your pill every day.” Ash looked as though he had just been struck in the face.

“You told me those were your antipsychotics,” he said, crossing his arms. “Terence! You told me you pretended to take your pills!” Brutus, Penelope, and Jaune mimicked his stance. Terence remained genuinely confused. He had the distinct memory of a man in uniform coming to his dorm to inform him that he would not be getting his thyroid medication back until the prescription could be authenticated. He relayed this memory to his present party, including a description of the cop.

“He told me there were people watching to make sure I swallowed my antipsychotics,” Terence

recalled. Brutus shook his head.

“I know of no cops who fit that description,” he said. “The found antipsychotics were brought to your psychiatrist, who made it clear that he prescribed them before knowing about your marijuana use,” Brutus clarified. “He told us the marijuana was causing your mental health symptoms, and that you should try going off of the antipsychotics while in drug therapy.” Terence swallowed. The police had held back the antipsychotics, not the antithyroid medication. The mysterious man in uniform was a hallucination. His own paranoid delusion had almost cost him his life. Ash spoke up before anyone else could.

“Terence,” he said, “I think you need those antipsychotics.”

***

Terence endured a few more nights of hospitalization under careful surveillance before his condition was deemed stable enough to leave. Back on is antithyroid therapy, he made a follow up

appointment with his doctor. He also attended an appointment with Mr. O’reilly, free of Jaune’s coercion. After listening to Terence’s story, the psychiatrist renewed Terence’s prescription, giving him careful instructions on when and how much of the antipsychotic he should be taking.

“Although it’s taken a near death experience for you to do so, I’m glad you’ve finally accepted the seriousness of your condition enough to trust me,” Mr. O’reilly said.

“I still don’t like your hair piece,” Terence had answered.

Now, standing in his kitchen, his cat purring and rubbing against his legs, Terence fingered the red and blue capsule. A newspaper clipping of Melvin’s and Miss “unshine’s arrest was attached to his fridge. He placed the colorful pellet next to a glass of water on the table and picked up his cat. Anubis had been beside herself with glee ever since Terence had returned. He fondled her in his arms for a moment and then took a seat. His cat leapt onto the table; she demanded attention.

“What do you think, Anubis,” he sighed, pressing the pill to his lips, “will I go blind?” The cat meowed and rubbed her head against his arm. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.” Terence placed the pill at the back of his tongue and took a long drink of water.

Stan Fry The Limo Guy

The vessels in his eyes were ready to pop. Terence’s life had turned into a living nightmare, all thanks to the death of Cleatus McBride. The decedent’s sister, Birdie McBride was needier than an abandoned puppy. During the visitation she called Terence into the room on five different occasions, merely because she couldn’t decide where she wanted the flower arrangements. During the fifth occasion, Terence made it clear that the flower arrangements were of no consequence; he refused to be disturbed on account of some silly plants. Mrs. McBride collapsed in a fit of tears, and Terence swiftly evacuated the area. Now, the puffy-haired, beak-nosed woman wanted a second limo. Terence was sure, because he’d made her cry, that she’d be reluctant to ask his council. Unfortunately, this turned out not to be the case.

“Mrs. McBride, it is too late for you to order a second limo. You’re going to be here in just under half an hour. How do you expect me to produce a limo in that time?! I don’t just store them up my ass you know!” Terence was becoming frustrated with the woman’s persistence.

“Well…can’t you just borrow one from a different funeral home?” she whined.

“No, Mrs. McBride, other funeral homes borrow from us. Amigone Funeral Home is the biggest funeral home in the entire North County! We’re the only funeral home with limos, and, yes, they are all in use. If you wanted two limos you should have considered that―hmm, I don’t know― maybe before the day of the service!” Terence grit his teeth as he felt a shot of pain deviate up his spine and into his cranium. If this conversation continued any longer, he was sure to get a migraine.

“Terry! What’s all the shouting about?! I can barely hear myself think! Tell me you’re not speaking like that to one of our clients.” Jaune stomped into Terence’s office, her face layered with different species of disappointment: the betrayed sort, the motherly sort, and, worst of all, the sad sort. Terence placed Mrs. McBride on hold.

“What the hell do you want?!” he fumed. “You can’t just march in here and interrupt me while I’m on the phone!”

“Well, excuse me!” Jaune put her hands up in mock defense. “Maybe if you didn’t shout like an angry fascist preaching his doctrine, I wouldn’t have to!”

Terence groaned and rubbed his face, sourly. He felt as though someone was hammering a gong in his brain. He took a deep breath.

“Mrs. McBride demands I give her a second limo for the procession today,” he explained, calmly. ““o?” Jaune crossed her arms, not impressed. Her response piqued Terence.

““o?! How the hell am I supposed to give her two limos?! We only have one limo available!” Jaune marched over to Terence’s desk and picked up the phone.

“I know a guy,” she whispered before cheerfully greeting a hysterical Mrs. McBride.

“Wonderful,” Terence said, to himself. He then waltzed haughtily out of his office and announced his plans of ibuprofen overdose to the coffee pot.

***

Mrs. McBride showed up with a trifle too much hair spray in her hair. The word trifle, in this case, meaning one bottle excess. She had the most crooked grin of anyone Terence had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Clearly she had more money for her brother’s funeral than for her dental care. Cleatus McBride certainly didn’t have a penny to his name. Any penny he had was spent on packages of cigarettes; evident from the yellow-brown stains Terence discovered on Mr. McBride’s finger nails, mustache and everywhere else. If that hadn’t been enough to convince Terence of the man’s profound addiction, the lung purge certainly was. The frothy white foam gurgling from his blackened lips was a sure sign of lung disease―fatal, obviously. It was a suicide as far as Terence was concerned. Chronic obstructive lung disorder? “ure, the disease killed him. But it wasn’t as though Cleatus became diseased from simple misfortune, no. He inhaled the disease by choice. Addiction was a form of suicide. Those who refuse to stop, eventually do―when they finally manage to kill themselves.

The immediate family to Mr. McBride gathered in the visitation room to say their last good- byes. Naturally, Mrs. McBride had a list of demands for Terence’s eyes only. First, she wanted all the yellow flowers from the flower arrangements plucked and placed in Cleatus’s casket.

“Yellow was his favourite colour,” she sighed.

“I gathered as much from the colour of his teeth,” Terence mumbled.

He did as she wished and more. The cheeks weren’t rosy enough, the coffee had gone cold, was this really decaffeinated? and could Terence please pluck an eyelash from Cleautus’s dead eyelid for a keepsake? It was during this plight of endless demands, that Terence realized Cleatus’ reason for smoking. If Mrs. McBride didn’t shut-up, Terence too would consider the addiction.

“Mrs. McBride?” Jaune entered the visitation room with Pastor Farley in tow. For once in Terence’s career, he was happy of Jaune’s interruption. The pastor was a weedy forty-something year old man with a ginger comb over and a terrifyingly round, baby-like face. He opened his arms and turned his palms outward; the gesture seemed universal between the pastoral sort. It reminded Terence of the mating dance seen in certain exotic bird specimens.

“Come, my child,” Farley boomed. Terence snickered. Pastor Farley seemed more suited for the role of a pastor in an amateur theatre production. Birdie glided into his arms and the two of them left speaking in hushed voices.

Terence released a breath― which he’d clearly been holding for a substantial length of time―and sort of fell rather than sat in a chair far too tiny for his towering frame.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jaune barked. Terence wondered about her weave. Had it always

been the colour of caramel, or had she updated it? Her hair seemed to change every time he blinked.

“Ibuprofen overdose.” “What?!”

“Didn’t you speak to the coffee pot this morning?” Terence had a mental chuckle over Jaune’s puzzled baboon face. “he undoubtedly questioned his sanity, all the while cursing the fact that he―a somewhat deranged man―was her boss.

“Where’s Miss Fairweather?” Terence struggled to reorient his boney legs out of the chair.

“Washing the lead car with Wilson in the garage.” After a quick glance at his watch, Terence left to fetch his intern, Miss Fairweather. He was going to need her help pushing Cleatus’ casket through the aisle of the chapel.

As he made his way to the back of the funeral home, he subconsciously picked up an old coffee he’d left on a side table between the washroom doors. Judging by its temperature and gritty texture, he surmised it was probably a day or two old. He drank it, regardless.

“Miss Fairweather, I am in need of your―” A man Terence had never seen before stood with a hose dangling from his weathered hand. “Who the hell are you? Where’s Wilson?”

“My name is “tan Fry the limo guy, at your service.” The old man bowed weekly. He looked like

he was on death’s door. “I thought I’d give that handsome young feller with the curly hair a break.”

“You really shouldn’t have,” Terence grumbled. Pasty and wrinkled like a balled up piece of paper, the man reached forward to shake Terence’s hand, who, in return, cleared his throat awkwardly and placed his hand in his pocket.

“I’d shake your hand, but I’ve contracted scabies from a dead body and would hate to infect you,” Terence said. “tan Fry blinked and simply nodded his head, though he clearly didn’t understand. “Miss Fairweather?” Terence stood expectantly, his foot tapping on the concrete, gasoline-stained floor. She trotted to his side and struggled to keep up with his long strides.

“Do you really have scabies?” she asked, as they entered the visitation room. “No.”

“Then why did you―”

“Take the back end of the casket, Miss Fairweather.” The intern grumbled and pushed the back of the casket while Terence guided it slowly toward the chapel. The pastor lead the way one delicate

step at a time. Out came the sopping tissues as Terence and Miss Fairweather followed the palm waving Pastor toward the front of the chapel. Terence almost wished there was an intro Sara Macglaughlin song to overpower the sound of gurgling snot ejections... almost. Terence visibly shuttered on his way out of the chapel and found he was unwilling to take a breath of air until the heavy wooden doors were shut, containing the pews of grief stricken mucus hounds.

“God!” he gasped. He turned to Miss Fairweather. “Is it over yet?” “he smiled a sweet youthful

smile and shook her head slightly.

It seemed to Terence that the weight of gravity had increased. The air was like molasses: a substance so viscous he could scarcely move. With a dilapidated grunt, he relinquished his body to the monolith of gravity and became a two dimensional stain on the carpet. Miss Fairweather was uncertain of how to respond. Her eyes flitted from her seven foot long preceptor’s flattened mass, to the friendly neighborhood spider on the ceiling.

“Allaster.”

“What?” Miss Fairweather started at Terence’s verbalization. He was, after all, just a stain. A talking stain was start worthy.

“That’s the spider’s name. Allaster.”

“Oh…why are you lying on the carpet? You usually only do that on Mondays.” “Everyday is Monday,” he replied, as a matter of fact. He did so, without the slightest

movement—perfectly still and tenebrous. His statuesque state ended when Wilson decided to step on him as though he were, in fact, a stain.

“Oof.” Terence stood, and, upon his lackluster attempt of an exclamation, brushed the carpet lint from his suit. Wilson heeded his manager no attention; he was far too busy debating whether to satisfy his hunger and eat a hurried lunch before the procession , or starve temporarily so he could take a longer lunch. Lately he had been experiencing some unpleasant bloating associated with rushed meals…but, if he waited to eat, the wambling of his stomach might interrupt the graveside prayers…

“Wilson.”

“Wha―?!” Ash turned to meet Terence’s squalid expression. “Have you met Allaster?”

“Allaster? What? Who?” His curly head bobbed in all directions, searching for a face to put the name to. Terence yawned and turned a finger upwards.

“The spider.”

“Oh, no! We are not going through that again! Get your head on straight, Terence!” Quivering

slightly, Wilson vacated the area shaking his head and whispering ‘not again’ over and over to himself.

There was an ominous silence which was followed by a statement from Miss Fairweather, “I’m starting to get the sense today is a story and the climax is nearing.”

“Careful,” he hushed her, “you’re edging dangerously close to breaking the fourth wall. We have an audience.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “The spiders!”

***

Spiders. They were a bad omen—for funerals, anyway. Whenever Terence saw a spider on the day of a funeral, he knew something was bound to go awry. The last time Allaster made his appearance was the day Terence led the family of Ziggy Ziggler (deceased ex gang member and white trash rapper) to the wrong lot. The odds of two Ziggy Zigglers having graveside services on the same day must have been astronomical. Nonetheless, it happened. On another occasion, Allaster crawled up Terence’s pant leg while he was wheeling a casket into the chapel of a somewhat heretical church. The tiny tickles of the spider’s legs on Terence’s thighs had him giggling uncontrollably. To this day, the St. Gorgenstein church believes Terence to be the devil incarnate.

Allaster was back…or maybe it was one of his/her babies. Either way, spiders at a funeral meant

trouble.

“Terence!” “Hmm?”

Jaune and Miss Fairweather were holding open the wooden doors of the chapel , gesturing for Terence and Ash to make their way in. Ash was standing adjacent to him, fidgeting hungrily with a loose thread on his trouser seam. The service had finished and it was time for Cleatus McBride to make his big exit.

Like clockwork, Terence had everyone out of the funeral home, and standing at their vehicles, lined up and ready to process. The smell of idling cars in the bite of the cold winter day had Terence tipsy and grasping onto the strings of reality. He should have taken more than just ibuprofen. He nodded at Wilson, who was driving the hearse, to Jaune, and to Stan Fry, whose skin coordinated with the colour of the exhaust smoke. A dozen car doors clicked and the procession crawled like an assembly of corpulent caterpillars through the streets of St. Louis du HA! HA!.

***

Miss Fairweather cleared her throat. Ash was eerily quiet. Although the two of them had been to Layland Cemetery a number of times before, Ash carried a tense demeanor. His face was still― forcefully still.

“Are you going to talk to me or am I going to have to make conversation with the guy in the back?” Miss Fairweather blurted. “What’s going on? You’re usually so loquacious.”

Ash laughed, “Loquacious, eh? What kind of twenty year old girl uses the word loquacious?!”

“Me, I guess.” Miss Fairweather enjoyed Ash’s half smile. “he found it to be tremendously endearing. She often forgot what a handsome face looked like, as she was so accustomed to seeing Terence’s strange, aquiline features. Though, she didn’t fancy herself much of a catch for any man. “he had the frizziest blonde hay atop her head of anyone she’d ever known. Her face was disproportionately chubby compared to the rest of her body and her sphere framed glasses were more dorky than quirky, and she had been going for quirky.

“I’m just…I don’t know,” Ash seemed at a loss for words. “Hungry, tired, and on edge, I guess.”

“I don’t suppose the on edge bit has anything to do with Terence’s capricious behavior today?” “Capricious…God, that’s the perfect word. And yes, it does entirely.” Ash fiddled with one of his

soft-looking curls. He was so cute. She wished her hair was as perfect and curly as his was.

“Terence has this mad idea that spiders are some sort of bad omen. But, get this, only in funeral homes. He claims all of his funeral mishaps happened because he saw a spider in the funeral home moments before,” Ash explained.

“Well, he’s joking. I mean, that’s just his sense of humour.” Ash shook his head.

“That’s what I thought, at first. Terence isn’t a superstitious man. In fact, he mocks superstitions.

One day I’ll take you up to the attic and show you the old stand-up mirror he busted. He wrote ‘“even

years my ass’ along the top.”

“Then, what’s with the spiders?”

Ash shrugged, “I honestly don’t have a clue. Terence is hard to place. “ome days he just looks gone—like his mind is out of his body. It creeps me out. He can appear so sane, but then so completely out there. I wonder if he doesn’t just pretend to be sane.”

“Pretend?”

“Yeah, you know…take his medication, keep wild ideas to himself…I don’t know. Pathologically speaking, he’s not in the best shape. Jaune and I keep careful watch over him. Oh…God, please don’t tell that to him, he’ll think―”

“He’ll think the two of you are conspiring against him, I know.”

***

Terence was beginning to wonder whether Jaune and Ash were conspiring against him. Every time he passed them, their voices lowered to static-like whispers. Jaune had been the one to suggest Terence see a psychologist. Much to his chagrin, Terence had agreed, but only to keep Jaune quiet. Now that he was on a colorful medication that made him feel half alive, she probably expected his behavior to be less erratic…or perhaps more erratic. Terence wasn’t convinced the psychologist was actually certified. Jaune had connections. “tan Fry the limo guy probably wasn’t really a limo guy. He

looked more like something that crawled out of a life support unit―a bucket of smashed assholes. Terence wouldn’t be surprised if the psychologist was really an ex drug dealer, pumping Terence full of psychedelics. An unsound funeral director could not be. The law forbade it.

“Pastor McDaniels and I entered a golf tournament here last spring,” Pastor Farley said, as they drove past the vast green turf. Terence knew what he was trying to do: break the ice. Terence would have rather had a root canal than talk about golf.

“I once found a drowned possum in that ditch,” Terence replied as they passed a gully filled with rotten leaves and dirtied snow. Pastor Farley shrieked a girlish shriek. At first, Terence thought the shriek to be in response to his statement about the drowned possum. It wasn’t until he glanced into the rear view mirror that he understood. The hearse was about to crash into them from behind. The metal crunched and the car surged forward. Terence swallowed his breath; his heart melted in his chest and his stomach felt as though it had turned inside out. Terence veered the car to the side of the road; his actions were reflexive. He jerked the wheel a little too far left, and only managed to stop after steering into the ditch.

“What the hell just happened?!” exclaimed Pastor Farley. What the hell?! Terence suddenly questioned whether Pastor Farley was even a pastor.

“We were rear-ended by the coach and veered into the ditch where I found the drowned

possum,” Terence explained, as Pastor Farley clearly hadn’t been paying attention.

“But…doesn’t your hearse driver know how to drive?!” Pastor Farley was quite obviously in a

state of shock.

Terence heaved his car door open and stepped meticulously out of the vehicle to avoid the mud.

“It wasn’t the hearse driver,” he said, watching as each car in procession stopped one after the

other to the side of the road. “It was “tan Fry the limo guy.”

The front of “tan’s limo looked like a crushed soda can. Bits of the vehicle’s skeleton were visible

beneath the shredded metal.

Birdie flew from the defeated black beast like a crow from a graveyard. Her face was so scrunched and wrinkled with emotion, she looked twenty years older.

“He’s dead! Oh, God, he’s dead!” The voice belonged to Jaune…at least, Terence thought it belonged to Jaune. It was hard to tell amongst the crowd. Terence weaved his way through the gasping and the crying until he was standing beside his traumatized co-workers.

“Nice view,” he said. Jaune jabbed Terence forcefully in the ribs.

“This is not the time, Terry!” she hissed. “Our limo driver just died! We’re lucky no one got

hurt.”

“Is the guy in the hearse okay?”

“Terry!” Clearly Jaune wasn’t in the mood for Terence’s humour.

Terence sighed, exhausted with the whole situation, “Alright, I’ll handle it.” Before addressing the procession, Terence made eye contact with Ash and mouthed the word spiders.”

“If I could have everyone’s attention, please,” Terence boomed. His voice was like a bass violin when raised. “ There will be a slight dilemma in our procession due to the fact that our limo driver has just died and caused a bit of an accident. I will stay here and call the police. In the meantime, Mrs.

Fairweather, our capable intern, will lead the procession.”

“What about us?!” cried Birdie. “We were in that limo when he died! How are we supposed to

get to the cemetery?!”

“Via taxi,” Terence responded. ““erves you right for ordering a second limo,” he mumbled. “But―but, there’s six of us! We can’t all fit into one taxi!” Birdie wailed. Her voice was as

infuriating as the sound of a fork scraping against a plate.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have scarfed down all those sandwiches during the visitation!”

Terence snapped. Birdie collapsed, sobbing furiously. Jaune bent down to comfort her.

“Don’t worry, Dear, we’ll call for two limos,” she said, tenderly. “he murdered Terence with her

eyes before pulling out her phone to call the taxis.

***

Stan looked so peaceful, his face sort of mushed against the steering wheel. He was so still; so quiet. Why couldn’t more people be like “tan? Terence should have foreseen his death. The old man was the colour of raw tofu.

“I see you got ditched too,” Terence said to the skeleton of…something. Perhaps it was the possum Terence had seen. While waiting for the police, Terence wondered how it was Miss Fairweather had been able to drive the lead car out of the ditch. He could still see the imprints of the tires in the mud. He leaned against the dented sheen of the limo and crossed his arms, enjoying the serenity of the trees, gulley, breeze…then came the sirens.

“Ugh!” he huffed “God damn spiders!”

Terence Syndrome

He ignored his reflection. Why waste time staring into a piece of glass? It wasn’t as though he could change his face. Shadowed eyes. Hungry cheeks. Terence wasn’t dead. He couldn’t make his face fuller with tissue-builder like he could to an emaciated decedent. How painfully ironic it was for a funeral director to resemble a corpse. He could eat more, yes. But his overactive thyroid wouldn’t allow him to put on weight. At the very least he had a full head of hair. Dark and thick and as healthy as ever―unlike the rest of his body. It wasn’t really a surprise that he spent most of his days stationed in the body preparation room. He was with his own kind down there. Colourless shells. Embalming was lonely work. But it hadn’t always been.

Terence typically preferred the company of the dead over the company of the living. He enjoyed the silence most of all. No criticisms. No judgement. Just peace. Lately, however, Terence was getting restless. His intern, Miss Fairweather, had been his company between the white walls. He didn’t like to admit it, but he enjoyed her presence. Now, she was off writing her licensing exams, and Terence was inexplicably sad.

He realized his melancholy at the lunch table with his employee, Ash Wilson. The day was terribly mundane. Terence spent his morning vacuuming lamp shades and hunting down spider nests in the basement. Even the weather was lacking in enthusiasm. No sun. No rain. Just overcast skies. Terence was underwhelmed.

“I said, why isn’t Dracula drinking his blood?” Ash cocked an eyebrow from across the table.

Terence sighed heavily―it was more of a yawn, really. Even the Dracula gag was getting old. “It’s tomato juice, Wilson,” he stated.

“That’s it?” Ash threw his hands up over his head. “Where’s the ‘At least I don’t look like the offspring of a clown and a Bee Gee?’” Ash’s impression of Terence was more accurate than Terence would have liked.

“You’ve been spending too much time around me, Wilson,” he said. He sighed again. The sound

reminded him of a dying wind.

Ash shook his head, “I don’t believe it.” “What?”

“You miss Jodie.” “Who?”

“Miss Fairweather.” Ash’s inquisitive stares were making Terence uncomfortable. Having no inhibitions, Terence was forthcoming about this fact. Ash stood grinning. He was always grinning about something.

“Quit smiling, Wilson!” Terence barked. “This is a funeral home, not Yak Yak’s!”

““omeone needs a girlfriend!” Ash teased, thumping him on the back. Terence was not amused.

***

After what seemed like an age of monotony, Terence returned home. He entered his kitchen and found his bald cat, Anubis, lapping drips from the kitchen tap.

“I’m sad,” he declared to his cat. The cat heeded him no attention. Typical of a cat. “For a specimen with large ears, you’re not very good at listening,” Terence said. Anubis padded from the counter to her empty food dish, a look of urgency in her eyes. Terence scoffed and filled her food bowl.

““tupid cat,” he muttered.

He went to his studio, which was also his room, in hopes of a sudden passion to paint. He picked up a paintbrush. He put down the paintbrush. Nothing. Couldn’t he at least portray his ennui in broad daring strokes? Defeated, he sank into his mattress. He was so tall his feet almost dangled off the end of the bed.

“Girlfriend?” he thought. “What an absurd idea. The girl would have to be the result of a bad science experiment to even consider me.” Terence had never particularly longed for romance. In fact, the thought rather revolted him. Ever since the incident with the wrong Lindsey― back when Terence looked human enough to cohabit a bed―his love appetite had decreased significantly.

Lindsey Corbitt was her name. She was a dashing young dame with a unique style of garb and a taste for seafood. What Terence admired most about her, though, were her dimples. She smiled valleys. Her cheeks were like pockets of smooth yogurt, in which someone spooned just enough out of either cheek. She liked Terence. She really liked Terence. She watched him sketch in art class, and admired his sculptures. Terence tutored her in Biology―a class, unbeknownst to him, she was already passing.

Lindsey also had a friend. Her name was Lindsey Darple. She, too, really liked Terence. Whatever it was attracted her, Terence didn’t know. Perhaps Lindsey Darple only liked Terence because her best friend Lindsey Corbitt liked Terence. Whenever Terence riddled over her affections, he only succeeded in giving himself a headache.

It was during the Halloween Costume Ball that Terence encountered the wrong Lindsey.

Naturally, his annual attendance to the event was due to the pumpkin sculpture contest, which he dominated every year. In fact, he won the contest so frequently, he was later forbidden to enter. That year, he won with a gruesome display depicting a pumpkin man carving a human head. The wrong Lindsey adored his entry. The wrong Lindsey had also decided to go to the ball disguised as her friend, the right Lindsey―dimple Lindsey. The Lindsey who liked sushi, Lindsey. This other Lindsey wouldn’t let Terence go. She brought him cup after plastic cup of funny tasting punch and then insisted he come back to her house for a scary movie marathon. Whatever was in the punch had Terence too disoriented to disagree. He stumbled behind the wrong Lindsey, all the way to her bed, where, eventually, the right Lindsey―dimple Lindsey; Lindsey who wore fedoras, Lindsey―gave wrong Lindsey a real set of dimples.

Terence would never be able to shake the image from his mind. Lindsey Corbitt used her father’s pocket knife to ‘spoon just enough yogurt’ from either side of her best friend’s face. Terence shuddered. To think, he tutored her in biology!

Terence knew he was better off alone. He closed his eyes and eventually the heaviness of his dismal thoughts put him to sleep.

He was later awoken by the ringing of his phone―a screaming annoyance at three in the

morning.

“Dammit!” he swore. Terence hated being on call. “Amigone Funeral Home, Terence speaking,”

he answered.

The voice of a young woman followed his greeting, ““omeone has died.” “Okay. Who?”

“Her name is Lavender “trauss.” “Where is she now?”

““t. Louis Hospital.”

Terence grasped for the notebook and pen lying beneath his clock on his bedside table. He quickly flipped to a clean page and scrawled the information down.

“Ma’am, what is your name and relationship to the deceased?”

“My name is Lavender “trauss. My relationship is…complicated. May I come in first thing tomorrow?”

Terence wasn’t sure he had heard the woman correctly. Had she just said her name was the same as the decedent’s?

“You have the same name as―”

“Yes, I do. May I come in first thing tomorrow morning?” “Alright. How about 9:00am?”

“That’s fine. Good night.”

She hung up the phone, leaving Terence in a state of disorientation. He returned the phone to his bedside table and looked to his cat, who was resting by his feet.

“Her name is the same as the decedent’s, and their relationship is complicated,” Terence

repeated. He chuckled before returning his head to the pillow. How enigmatic.

“Anubis,” Terence said to his indifferent cat, “Daddy’s not sad anymore.”

***

Ash was the first to notice the change in Terence’s disposition. The sky was heavy with rain and when Terence entered, he headed straight to the preparation room for a towel. Ash happened to be fishing towels from the dryer.

“You're wet,” he stated, handing Terence a fresh towel.

“How very observant of you, Wilson,” Terence retorted. He rubbed the towel through his hair, and then butted Wilson out of the way to finish folding the remainder of the laundry. “Go drink coffee with Jaune. Now that Miss Fairweather’s gone, there’s no one to distract her from bugging me.”

If there was one thing Ash was good at, it was keeping Jaune out of his way. Terence liked to call Jaune DQ: Drama Queen. To her, spilled milk was an epic travesty. She was always whining to Terence about something. Lately, she couldn’t stop nattering on about how wonderful it would be to have anti- lint sprays positioned in all the bathrooms. As if anti-lint spray was a deciding factor for families in search of funeral homes.

“Go for coffee with Jaune?! You’re serious?! What’s gotten into you since yesterday? That must have been some girl you met!” Ash chuckled and rubbed his developing beard. Terence found the scratching noise it made most offensive.

“The girl died yesterday. Her executor will be in soon for arrangements,” Terence explained. “Oh, and Wilson, shave your damn face! If I have to cringe one more time from the sound of you stroking those bristles, I’ll hold you down over the coffee table and scrape it off with a butter knife!” Ash left the room laughing and rubbing his beard.

“That’s my Terence!” he exclaimed.

***

Lavender Strauss had Lavender hair. She walked through the doors of the funeral home as if she was uncertain of whether or not she was in the right place.

“Hello. I’m Terence.” Terence rose from where he was sitting. The girl jumped as though he was a statue that had just come to life.

“Ah,” she hummed and chewed her nail.

Terence gestured for her to follow him to the arrangement office. She trotted delicately behind. She was like a kid trying to sneak a cookie from behind his mother’s back. Terence was uncertain what to think of her. She had the air of a young girl, but the lines around her mouth spoke otherwise. Her mouth was a sagging frown. She was the most miserable purple-headed person he had ever seen.

“Can I offer you a beverage?” Terence asked as they took a seat behind a long thick table. The girl refused. She fiddled with the key chained around her neck. When she did not speak, Terence cleared his throat, awkwardly.

“You said last night your relationship with Lavender was complicated. Explain.” He wasn’t one to beat around the bush. When it came time to collect information, Terence asked his questions direct and clear. “ome directors labeled him as ‘cold’ for doing so. Terence liked to inform them of his overactive metabolism, which often left him feeling too warm.

“I’m Lavender “trauss. I’m dead.”

Terence blinked, incomprehensibly. His thin fingers were crossed over a blank file. Lavender

stared into her lap. “My boyfriend pushed me over a balcony and I fell to my death,” she explained.

Terence stood and pointed a finger westward. “Psych ward is down that direction. You turn left

onto Wayward “treet and then hang a right―”

“I’m not crazy,” the girl declared. “he did so with no exclamation, completely certain of her sanity. “I came to you for help. I thought, being a funeral director, you would be the expert on death and would be able to help me.”

“You need a psychiatrist, not a funeral director,” Terence said. He sighed. Again with the sighing.

Why did he insist on producing the lethargic sound? A woman with purple hair walked into his funeral home declaring she was dead. How could it get more interesting?

“You have Cotard’s “yndrome. Otherwise known as Walking Corpse “yndrome,” Terence informed her. He’d read about the condition in the news. An epileptic teenage girl spent three years of her life believing she was dead. Her illness was caused by lesions in her brain. Woman were more prone to the disease. Especially women with head injuries…

“If your boyfriend did push you off a balcony, you likely survived the fall with a head injury.

You’re not dead. You’re just ill.”

Terence folded his arms and searched the girl’s face for a reaction. It was sparse. Had she even heard him? The woman may not have been dead, but she looked awful. Her skin was so pale it was practically translucent. Her skin tone reminded Terence of his prep room walls―stark and shining.

The key around Lavender’s neck jangled as she stood. “he was dressed all in black, as though

she was about to attend her own funeral.

“I’m dead. My boyfriend killed me, and nobody knows. I want him brought to justice.”

“And how do you propose I do this, Miss “trauss?” questioned Terence. “I cannot report the murder of a woman who isn’t dead.”

Miss Strauss peered at him from the other side of the table. The look in her eye made Terence feel as though the table was a barrier she was hopeless to cross. She was fading.

A sigh ruptured her throat as she made her way passed the coffee machine and paper cups to the door. “My name is Lavender “trauss,” she repeated, passing her hand over the table’s surface. “I’m dead. I know I am dead because I went to the hospital and no one could see me.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Terence exclaimed. “I can see you!” Miss Lavender paused and turned her

head. Her eyes seemed to look through Terence. She made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“That’s because you’re special. If you change your mind, I’ll be outside the police station tonight.” Her voice followed her through the exit of the funeral home. Terence could only stand, rooted to the floor of the arrangement office.

“Well, that arrangement didn’t last long. Direct cremation, I assume?” Terence didn’t hear Jaune. He hadn’t even registered her entry. He was transfixed. Never had he seen a woman with skin as pale as the walls of his preparation room…

“Terence!” Jaune’s voice was an explosion in Terence’s ears. “What do you want?!” he exploded back.

“Your arrangement?” “Yes―she’s shopping around.”

Terence snatched the empty file and pushed past Jaune. As he walked out the room, he heard

her scowl, “I told him to get those anti-lint sprays!

***

Curiosity got the better of Terence. Curiosity and boredom. The two went hand in hand. It was cold, dark, and wet. Terence was staring at a craggy bundle of bricks when he could have been dreaming by his fireplace.

The Police “tation. It was an old building. “ad, almost―in a way he could not describe. The air was wet and clung to Terence’s face like a sticky residue. He took a seat on a step, his breath pluming down in hot spirals. He stared at a clump of soggy cigarettes wondering if Lavender Strauss would actually show, or if she was simply a mad woman. Perhaps both. What had she meant Terence was special?

Terence sniffed, ““he’s a mental case.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and sprung to his feet. “You came!” Lavender beamed. Her smile was pretty. It was ageless.

“Yes.” Terence cleared his throat awkwardly and bunched his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Her hair was dewy and there was a certain glow to her skin. A sheen.

“What do you want?” Terence said. The words trickled out of his mouth. He sounded weak.

Disinterested.

Lavender plucked the chain from her neck. “he forced a hand from Terence’s pocket and

pressed the key from around her neck into his palm. The coolness of the metal made Terence shudder.

“Give this to the police,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, not unlike the whistling of the wind between alleyway walls. Before Terence could argue, a man collided into him. He was an old jittery thing, fleeing from the ever growing blackness above. Terence scoffed. As if a little water would hurt. He turned to the red-bricked corner of the station. A greasy stream fell from the overflow of the entrance, where Lavender had been standing. She was gone. Terence searched the streets, key in hand. He felt like a fool, standing agape by a police station. “hould he go in? Terence hated the police. He didn’t trust anyone with a badge or a gun, never mind both. Terence doubted they much cared for him, either.

The rain streaked the skies. Terence didn’t mind the wetness, but the cold was beginning to seep through his skin, and he didn’t much like the sound of his teeth chattering. It was the foul weather that drove him into the station. The foul weather.

The station was very brown and smelled of veneer. A bored-looking officer sat behind a desk, his eyes sagging down at a newspaper. He yawned and looked at his watch. There was a row of plastic chairs by the entry archway. A moaning lad in a tattered coat was seated in the first. A junkie, no doubt. He looked at Terence, his eyes raw and wavering.

“Is this real life?” he slurred.

““adly,” Terence responded. His gaze focused on Terence for another minute or so, and then followed the flight of a buzzing house fly. Terence clucked his tongue in bemusement and approached the man behind the desk.

“Wake up!” he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the wood. The officer blinked. “Mr. Coon?”

“Officer Finnigan.”

Finnigan apologized for his lethargy and awkwardly shifted his newspaper. His baby face declared him the coffee-fetching shoe-polisher of the station. Everybody at the station knew Terence by name.

Terence often went for nighttime strolls. The night was serene―thought conducive. It was on one of these evenings that Terence stumbled upon an injured cat. The creature made an appalling noise as it stumbled into someone’s yard, its fur matted with blood. Having dedicated a section of his shriveled heart to animals, Terence pursued the wounded creature to ensure its safety. As it turned out, the cat lived in the house it was limping towards. Yard lights blazed the moment Terence stepped foot

on the lawn. A woman in a housecoat opened her front door and screamed upon witnessing the macabre figure hunched over her bleeding cat. A big fuss was made and the police were called. The woman, Mrs. Archer, claimed Terence trespassed on her property and beat her cat. Terence denied her accusation. Of course, no one believed the creepy looking mortician over the sweet little lady. Finnigan and a another officer named Dipson hauled him away in a police cruiser to spend the night in the clink. From that moment on, Terence wasn’t allowed out past 11pm.

“What can I, uh, do for―”

“You can start by shutting up.” Finnigan shrank. He was easily intimidated. It was the reason

Dipson kept him around―to make himself look powerful. “Where’s Dipshit?” Terence asked.

“Uh, in the back.”

“Go get him!” Terence growled.

Finnigen scuttled away, his movements sharp and quick like a startled cat. Dipson emerged from the back with a stale expression and a cup of coffee in his hand.

“What do you want, Coon?” he scowled. His voice was boisterous and angry. The man could say ‘sweetie pumpkin-poo’ and it would sound vehement.

“I have a proposition for you,” Terence said. Dipson stared indifferently into his mug. He then handed it to Finnigen—who teetered into the back for a refill.

“I’m not interested in your game, Undertaker. Now get out of my station before I drag you out myself!” Dipson was full of empty threats. A thick gloss seemed to coat his dark skin. Perspiration.

Coffee was a diuretic. It was also a distraction. Sitting on a chair all day until your rear became numb was a special breed of torture. Dipson had nothing better to do than drink excessive amounts of coffee and watch as it leached out his pores.

“There is a woman with Cotard’s running ramped in the streets.” “Cotard’s?” Dipson’s fat lips scrunched together in cynical union.

“Walking Corpse “yndrome. “he believes she’s dead. Murdered, actually. By her boyfriend.

Pushed off of her own balcony. According to her, nobody knows she’s dead,” Terence explained. Dipson

dished a notepad from his bulging pockets. He scribbled something down and then glared up at Terence.

“Why should I believe a man who beat up a sweet old lady’s cat?”

“I would never hurt a cat,” Terence responded, “as for the lady, she was far from sweet. You’re a moron for arresting me with nothing but circumstantial evidence. What did that lady do? “uck your―”

“Mr. Coon! That is quite enough! Do you want to be charged for insulting a police officer?!”

“Police officer?! You?!” Terence laughed. It was a cruel sound.

“Get to the point, Coon.” Dipson was aflame with rage. His face was dripping with angry sweat.

Terence didn’t even try to contain his pleasure.

“Her name is Lavender Strauss. She has purple hair and the complexion of a well polished tooth.

“he’s quite insane.”

““ounds like your kind of girl.”

“Indeed.” Terence narrowed his eyes and folded his skeletal arms. “he was, wasn’t she? ““he gave me a key. It’s some kind of evidence, or whatever.” Terence sighed. Lavender “trauss.

““o? Evidence for what? Her murder? You’re nuts. Crackers. A real frickin’ schizo. This so-called ‘case’ you’ve described is a fantasy.” Dipson tore a page from his pad and discarded it. The crumpled ball hit an approaching Finnigan in the face, causing him to dribble coffee all over his uniform.

“Are you going to drink coffee all day and night?” Terence snarled. He had the tone of an over passionate motivational speaker. “ “it on your ass and watch the single solitary junkie drool all over himself? Are you going to drool all over yourself? Turn into a vegetable from the lack of crime in this perfect little town?” Terence was very close to the man. He could see every pore on the officer’s spongy face. “This key could unlock a homicide case. Your homicide case. What do you have to lose? It’s not like you’re doing anything else. “o what if I’m lying? All I ask for in return is the freedom to walk outside, as late as I want.”

The officer’s brows dipped in contemplation. His eyes were widely spaced; and his nostrils, cavernous.

“Fine,” he growled. “Your curfew has been suspended. But be warned, Coon, if this key doesn’t lead to anything substantial, I’ll have you locked up for falsifying evidence.”

Terence sneered and pressed the key to Dipson’s dewy forehead. It stuck like magic.

““ounds like a win win scenario for you, doesn’t it?” Terence said, before slipping out the door.

***

It had been nearly a fortnight since Terence’s thrilling encounter with Dipson. He’d heard nothing in regard to the officer’s fair with the mysterious key. Every once in a while, Terence would see Lavender in line at a grocery store, or drawing lines on the pavement while chewing her faded purple hair. He’d associated with her on several recent occasions. The most memorable, perhaps, was their coffee date.

“he didn’t drink coffee. “he did. When she was alive. Her mind was so awry with convoluted thoughts. The discussions they had…Terence wish he could have recorded them.

“Being dead isn’t so bad. I don’t have to worry about eating or sleeping. And I certainly don’t have to worry about dying!” she would laugh. Her laugh was a snorting delight. “ince speaking with her, Terence had caught himself almost smiling. Almost smiling! Sneering. Smirking. Terence did lots of that. But smiling? Really smiling? Never.

“You’re not dead,” Terence would state. “You only think you’re dead. I can see you. I can see you breathing. Dead people don’t breath.” Lavender was determined she was a corpse.

“You’re the only one who can see me. People see what they want to see—hear what they want to hear. Their minds cannot comprehend a dead girl walking—a dead girl talking. So they see someone else. You’re different. You’re special.”

Special? Terence knew he had to stop encouraging the woman. But he didn’t want to. He liked Lavender “trauss. He really liked Lavender “trauss. “he was…scintillating.

Terence walked peacefully through the streets at midnight, pondering Lavender Strauss. His mind was so occupied by her, he had scarcely noticed Miss Fairweather’s return to work. It was while pondering the strange woman, that Terence got a call from the police station. He sighed. The midnight freedom had been good while it lasted. How did Dipson get his number, anyway?

“Hello,” Terence answered. His voice was low, but in the quiet of the night it was like a crisp

exclamation.

“Mr.Coon. You’ve done me well.” Dipson sounded…cheerful? “What?”

“You mean the family hasn’t called you? Ah, forget it. They probably expected me to call, anyway. The key you gave me was to a storage unit on 55 McCloud St. , you know, where those teens scorched the abandoned farm?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Get down here as soon as you can. You’re now part of this investigation. I’ve called you

on as a consultant to my division.”

Terence stared at his phone long after the officer hung up. He felt sick.

***

The smell was vile. Was Lavender really…she couldn’t be. Was she really dead? It was impossible. Terence had seen her. He’d heard her laugh. “he couldn’t be dead. It couldn’t be her body in that unit—her body rotting in that unit.

A square of pavement and a blackened pile of wood. The storage unit was a tin dome. It was in the middle of nowhere. Anyone could hide anything behind the walls of those units.

“Always up for a little murder, aren’t you, Mr. Coon?” Dipson flared his nostrils in excitement. “This one’s a real stinker. Though, I’m sure with your experience you practically welcome the smell.”

“With open arms,” Terence grumbled. He timidly made his way past the flashing red and blue lights to the exposed storage unit. Junk. It was filled with junk. A dingy mattress, cardboard boxes overflowing with old board games and puzzles, grungy rugs, tobacco stained trays, a splintered bed frame…the list went on. Lavender was propped on the mattress. Her eyes were wide and leaking. Her face was smothered in a brown grimy fluid. Her legs were bent in opposite directions, broken from the knees down. Blood was caked around her ears and in her purple hair. She reeked.

“Looks like she was pushed off of a roof or…” “Balcony.”

“Exactly.” Dipson thumped Terence on the back. “Poor girl’s parents. They said they haven’t heard from her in ages. “he was estranged. Had an abusive boyfriend. We’re tracking down the owner of the storage locker right now. Might take some time.”

A black curtain fell before Terence’s eyes. A sudden weakness overcame him.

“We’ll also have to track down that crazy lady who gave you the key.” Dipson snapped his fingers in rapid succession. “What was her name again, Finnigan?”

“Lisa Quip, “ir.”

“Oh, that’s right. The lady with that Cotard’s thing. She probably lost her marbles after watching the whole thing go down, the little snoop. We’ll have to bring her in for questioning. “he shouldn’t be too hard to track down—being homeless and all. She usually hangs out around that coffee shop downtown.”

Terence felt his body crumple. His vision was gone. His head was a fog.

“Oh, God! He’s fainted!” Dipson exclaimed. He laughed. ““ome mortician he turned out to be! I would have thought he’d be more resilient to gruesome sights and smells.”

Lying on the cold pavement, feverish with shock, Terence thought, ““o this is what love feels

like.”