Suckers - Jack Kilborn [35]
When the screaming finally stopped, I screamed a little more, and then realized the only way I was going to get out of here is to do what women have been probably doing with me ever since I’d been sexually active.
I’d have to fake it.
Unfortunately, the only way to fake a sexual movement is to perform a sexual movement. So I locked my knees on either side of his hips, his giant scrotum tucked beneath my legs like a fleshy bicycle seat, and began the humping motion. I also began to cry.
The coffin went with the rhythm, back and forth and back and forth, and it was a high end model which meant springs in the cushion which meant this felt even more like the real thing. Even though I couldn’t see I squeezed my eyes shut and invented gods in my imagination so I could pray to them to make this end. I tried to think back on happy times, but too many of my happy times involved sex and that didn’t help me block out the unhappy fact that I was fake dry-humping a corpse. I tried thinking about happy times when I was a kid, and unwillingly focused on the time I was six years old and my mother bought me a Hoppity Horse for my birthday, and how I used to love bouncing up and down the neighborhood and, oh goddamn it…
I threw up in my mouth. Energy drink and pizza mixed with stomach acid. I swallowed it because adding puke to this situation was possibly the only thing that could make it worse.
Scratch that last thought. My pelvic gyrations had loosened up some trapped air in the nether regions of the cadaver, prompting extreme flatulence. He ripped one so loud it sounded like a trumpet. But is sure as hell didn’t smell like one. You think you know stink? Dead guy farts are number one on the stinkmeter. It was so bad, I’m sure if I could see I would have seen green gas.
“Do it! Give it to him!”
I wasn’t sure who the head monk was cheering on, me or the dead guy. But I knew in order to properly fake it, I had to add some vocals to the rhythm.
“Oh, daddy!” I moaned, trying not to breathe. “Oh, yes, daddy!”
Someone slapped on the top of the coffin, urging me on. There was more corpse farting, more crying, more humping, and finally I couldn’t handle this anymore without a complete nervous breakdown and I cried out “Oh, god!” and then went still.
Eventually, miraculously, the coffin lid opened. I made it. I was alive. Amazingly, wonderfully alive. Now I needed to find my gun and eat a bullet.
The strongarm monks pulled me out of the coffin, my arms slupping from the dead man’s chest cavity, glistening with guck.
“Congrats!” head monk said, giving me an attaboy slap on the back. “You really rocked his dead world!”
I wiped my hands on his fake robe.
The rest of the perverts queued up for their shot at playing Megaball, and I managed to stumble into my pants. I even got my gun back. I cocked the hammer and stared deep into the blessed release promised by the inside of the barrel, and then remembered I only had one bullet left, and if anyone should die, it was old caretaker guy.
I looked around for the bike pump, flitting with the idea of filling his nads up with air before sending him to hell. Or maybe I would just pump him up and let him live. Live out the remainder of his pathetic life with unusually large testicles. The humiliation he’d suffer. The stares. The laughter. Plus, it would be impossible to find pants.
Regrettably, the bike pump was nowhere to be found. Neither was old caretaker guy. And I’d apparently won the loser trifecta, because Bill, the man I’d been hired to follow, was also MIA.
Some pinhead hopped into the coffin with Frankengroin, and I picked up the flashlight and made my way to the exit before the groaning began. I needed some fresh air. I also needed a hatchet and some steel wool, so I could access and scour the last half an hour from my brain.
Conveniently, the exit was a large door marked EXIT, which opened up to some concrete steps. I took them up, and they ended in a maintenance closet, which opened up into the mausoleum. It was an easier—and faster—entrance