Suckers - J.A. Konrath

ecause 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
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