DEAD(ish) Page 3

  "Lola wants her money, fuck-knuckle!"

  "Then Lola shouldn't try to get me killed, should she?"

  He shrugs.

  "Lola's an impatient girl."

  I roll my eyes. Fuck, mafia movie with a drug-fucked psycho chick playing Godfather.

  "Hatch, why the fuck are you doing a chick's bidding? You tied to her apron strings? She promised to tie you up and whip you when you get out, if you're a good boy?"

  He sneers at me.

  "Just get Lola's money, fuck-knuckle – you got lucky this time. Next time, that accident might just hit you right in the chest!"

  He pokes me in the chest to make his point, and I slap it away. Hard.

  "She'll get her money faster if she gets me the hell outta here, Hatch. Tell her that – and she might use the special studded whip, ya?"

  His jaw tightens, and I know I've crossed the line. He hauls off and smacks me right in the jaw. Down I go, and all I remember is my head hitting the concrete and a sky full of stars.

  ****

  (Linda)

  Stuff it. I don't care if I caused all this. It's not my fault. It's Mike's. HE'S the arsehole, not me. I'm sitting in front of the computer, repeating this mantra – 'Mike's the arsehole, not me!'

  You know, I think I'm starting to believe it!

  Obligatory Shower Scene

  (Trent)

  Have you ever tried to get undressed without moving one arm and its shoulder? To put it simply – it's bloody near impossible. I finish up struggling out of my PJs with a minimum of screaming and ditching the sling. My bottom lip hurts like hell from me biting it, and I concentrate on that pain to distract myself from the stabbing fire moving through my shoulder and neck. By the time I'm into a shower and enjoying the feeling of being in less pain and slightly clean, I have company.

  "Hey, gorgeous!" purrs Linda.

  I close my eyes and sigh. She's stark naked and substantial enough for me to feel her moving slightly against the front of my body, from my chest right down to the tops of my feet. She raises herself up on tiptoe and whispers a kiss over my lips.

  "Hi Linda," I say, for lack of anything intelligent to say. "Umm..."

  "Don't worry," she whispers in my ear, "I won't hurt ya, honey. I'm just here to offer a hand. See you when you get out, lover."

  She giggles and disappears.

  God. I couldn't help but be turned on, and any attempt to masturbate it away would hurt like hell with my shoulder like this.

  "Wench!" I mutter, as I turn off the water.

  "I heard that!" she calls from outside the cubicle.

  I try not to laugh, it hurts too much. I eventually settle for a snort.

  "I'll be good!" she says, "Now come out of there, I had a brilliant idea!"

  I groan, because Linda's brilliant ideas are usually painful for someone, but carefully get out onto the bathmat. Linda's holding the hugest hairdrier I've ever seen.

  "Just relax!" she says, and grins.

  She aims the hairdrier at me and turns it on. And hell, it actually works. Slowly but surely, I get toasty warm and dry.

  "Spread em!" she demands.

  "I'm fine!"

  "You can't stay wet down there, Trent, your balls'll go moldy!"

  "You're not going to let this rest, are you?"

  "Fuck, no!" she says, with a huge grin on her face.

  I shrug, and bite back a scream of pain.

  "I've really got to stop doing that!" I squeeze out.

  "Awww, poor Trenty-baby... now spread em!"

  That girl's got a one-track mind.

  Dreaming

  (Mike)

  I'm sitting in a spa bath with three other people, all of us naked, all of us downing shots of vodka and bourbon. We're all getting drunker and drunker, and friendlier and friendlier. Linda rests her head on Geordie's shoulder and slides her hand over his chest.

  "Geordie baby, are you completely gay, or do you swing a little?"

  "OH you naughty girl!" he squeals, "I'm all Laz's, darlin'!"

  She looks over to Laz and grins, raising an eyebrow.

  "Mind if I give him a test?"

  Lazarus looks at Geordie, who shrugs a little and smiles.

  "Only if I get to test out your hunk, honey!"

  She blows me a kiss.

  "Oh, Mike's all mine... but I'm happy to lend him out... you need his leash on?"

  Lazarus whistles and Geordie giggles and I blush.

  "I think I can handle him, honey... what do you think, sexy-legs?" he purrs, turning to me and slipping a hand further up my leg.

  I shrug and wonder what I should be doing to stay in character. Probably keep acting shy, I think, but fuck it – I've been wanting this piece of arse for months. I draw back a little only to pounce, tangling his legs with mine to dunk him underwater, with me on top of him. I pull him up against my chest, and he spits out water and laughs.

  "Linda, I think I should've asked for his leash!"

  Linda's not listening, though. She's in mid-snog with Geordie.

  A few minutes later I'm in a world of bliss until Linda calls my name and Lazarus punches me in the groin, straight up into my prostrate. It hurts like fucking hell and I scream and curl into a ball, wondering why Lazarus is so suddenly pissed with me. Then I wake up and I'm in jail again, and Linda is standing by my bed, smirking.

  "What's the matter, lover? Did I wake you from a nice dream?"

  Bitch.

  The Body

  (Linda)

  Trent's decided to go all noble and chivalrous on me. Hell, why do men have to DO that at the worst possible time?

  He's out of hospital, and he's barely looking after himself, and he's determined to continue with the case. My case. The one that nearly turned him into dead. I tried yelling at him, I tried arguing, I tried telling him he's a bloody idiot. But he just shrugged and said he was going to keep investigating. Stubborn little shit.

  ****

  (Trent)

  Thank God, I'm out of the house. And better yet, Linda is off tormenting Mike, or something. She's a nice chick in some ways, Linda – and a pain-in-the-arse psycho chick in others. I think maybe I liked her better when she was moping. Now she's bustling around 'helping' me and she's got sex on the mind despite a distinct lack of hormones, and ... god. Remember what I said about not letting her near your trousers? Well, it's hard to run away with a broken shoulder. You know?

  I haven't yet worked up the courage to go back to the jail – too many nasty memories. So I decide on following up the other loose end. Lazarus and Geordie. I'm about to grab my car keys from their nail when the reach makes my shoulder stab painfully and it occurs to me that driving was probably on the list of things that I shouldn't be doing that I didn't listen to. I call a cab, grab a beer, and wait.

  ****

  I clamber carefully out of the cab, chucking a $20 note back to the driver.

  "Thanks for being gentle, mate," I say, and shut the door.

  I glance over at Mike's place. A second-storey window's broken. Kids, probably. I've never understood the fascination with breaking stuff – stealing I get, but random destruction's beyond me. I think about going to check it out, but I couldn't be bothered right now. My shoulder's starting to ache, and I just want a cup of coffee to wash down a painkiller or two.

  The front door of Lazarus and Geordie's place opens, and Geordie trots out toward the mailbox. a bit unsteady. He's dressed in a short bathrobe and, as far as I can tell, nothing else.

  "GEORDIE!" I yell, waving gingerly.

  He looks up and peers at me carefully, then grins.

  "Trent, baby!" he yells, "what are you doing in that ridiculous sling? It makes you look pale, dearie – positively wan!"

  I walk across the road to him and get air-kissed. Whew. Waves of alcohol are wafting off him.

  "Oh, my god, what have they done to you?" he asks, taking in the bandages. "Come on, you need a nice cup of coffee – you head in, I'll just grab the mail and follow. And
make yourself comfy, you hear?" he bellows the last bit after me.

  God, can you imagine Geordie doing anything covert? Ever?

  I head for the lounge chairs, pausing to take a couple of huge pills out of their foil. Horse-pills, my father used to call them when they were this size. I sit down, and despite my best intentions, start to relax as Geordie comes in, dumps the mail on the counter and starts to fuss around me. He brings me a pillow, asks me ten times if I'm comfortable enough, and finally decides that what I really need is coffee.

  "Here you are, dearie!" he grins as he hands me the mug, "I put in lots of milk to cool it down and," he winks, "I irished it up a little for you! Best medicine in the world!"

  I take a cautious sip to wet my throat, and nearly choke anyway. Cripes, Geordie wasn't joking about irishing it up – there's enough whiskey in here to kill any pain. I swallow the pills and wash them down with the alcoholic coffee, and then remember the warnings about codeine and alcohol consumption. Ah well, it's not like I was planning to drive home anyhow.

  "Mike is going nuts," I explain to Geordie, "Poor man is stuck in a cell with only his guilt and a vengeful ghost haunting his arse. Oh, and getting shot at when he ventures out, of course. Geordie, if there's anything you know that might help Mike out – or might help me help Linda leave this world for the next – would you tell me? Please?"

  "Oh, poor little Mikey!" Geordie says in a sing-song voice, and downs another whiskey in one long swallow.

  Definitely three sheets to the wind.

  "Anything?"

  "I don't like Mikey, really," he says to me, like a Catholic in a confessional.

  Does anyone actually like the schmuck?

  "He's more Laz's kind of guy," he says, "Big and tough, and strong..."

  I nod, wondering how to get him back on track, or if I should come back some other day when he's a bit more sober.

  He sits up straight and points a finger at me.

  "Poor little Mikey deserves everything he gets!" he says, swaying. "Killing Linda like that? He hasn't even ponied up our share of the cash, has he? Poor little Linda, I liked that girl... ha, if she was really poor she'd still be alive, wouldn't she, Mikey-baby would never have barbecued her arse... oh, such a nice arse, too!"

  Luckily, I can't say a thing, I'm frozen with horror.

  "Such a juicy arse – all tender, and beautiful with a plum sauce!" Geordie croons, looking off into the distance. "Oh, I miss my Linda!"

  He covers his face and starts to sob.

  The arseholes ate Linda?

  Fallout

  "They ATE me? They ATE my body? That's why I can't find my body, because it's... it's sewerage!?"

  Linda's not impressed.

  "Those DICKHEADS!"

  She punches my wall, and her hand goes through without breaking anything – then she clenches her jaw and rips electrical wiring and insulation out through a large hole when she pulls it back out. Something fizzes, and the lights dim and go out.

  I sigh. Somehow I get the idea that telling her to calm down wouldn't be a brilliant move.

  "I'm sorry, Linda," I say helplessly.

  She collapses into a little heap on the floor, and heaves with sobs.

  I kneel down next to her, and put my hand on her shoulder in a weak attempt to comfort her, but my hand goes straight through – she's completely insubstantial.

  "Linda..."

  I have no idea how to comfort a woman who I can't hug, or kiss, or even touch. So I hover uselessly, a couple of tears of my own welling out of my eyes. No one deserves this kind of crap, but especially not Linda.

  "Fuuuuuuck!" she wails.

  ****

  (Linda)

  So that's it. Mike's in jail, and he's scared shitless. Out here, he can pretend to be a decent member of society. In there, everyone knows him for an arsehole, you see. They won't kill him, though. They'll just make his life hell for a few years, and that'll do for payback. Unless, of course, wherever I'm going will let me come back once a year and tattoo come-on lines on his back. That'd be fun.

  You've been sweet. You've sat there and listened to this whole sordid story, and you've never once told me I'm a bloody idiot. Thanks for that.

  Bye.

  (technically) DEAD

  Cooper's dead. But what's a nerd to do when Heaven doesn't believe in technology, and hell's hotter than an overclocked CPU? Heaven sends Linda to sort him out, and she's... unimpressed.

  Contains frequent foul language, general nerdiness, and Australian spelling.

  DEAD (as a doorpost)

  John's dead, and he couldn't be happier. Re-united with his dead wife, far away from the troubles of life... except he can't remember how he died. Linda thinks that's dodgy as all hell, and sets herself the task of finding out how - and why - he really died.

  Bad Fuck

  A collection of short-short stories about love, sex, and what might really happen when the lights go out.

  A harem slave gets an education.

  Aliens open a free brothel.

  A naked redhead appears where she shouldn't.

  Rapists find more than they bargained for.

  A one-night stand fuels more than the usual level of regret.

  Fourteen stories, length varying from 300 to 1000 words. Contains sex scenes, swearing, and aliens doing rude stuff.

  Maisy May

  How does an emo teen with an ex-druggie mum, a non-existent father and a penchant for fast cars fit into a traditional Aussie church? Why has the new boy, Mr Perfect Pastor's Kid, caused her to question every belief she holds dear? And why the sudden interest in Leviticus?

  Maisy May is a novella - a short novel - for teens and adults. It is the first in a series of three about Maisy.

  Contains occasional profanity, and sexual and religious themes.

  Cupcake of Love

  Kyle doesn't believe in love at first sight... until it happens to him. A cupcake foretold it, and sure enough, he's smitten. But his beloved seems to be stir-crazy, and his new fairy godmother is worse.

  Did destiny bring them together? Will common sense tear them apart?

  This is a short story from the Life in a Fairytale collection of shorts, coming soon.

  (technically) DEAD - excerpt

  (Cooper)

  I'm dead.

  This is sorta pissing me off.

  I don't know what happened, though. One moment I was on my way to visit my girlfriend with a big bunch of flowers, and the next I saw a big bright light and a cloud and a crowd of dudes in dresses carrying harps. Holy shit, I thought, I'm dead! Then I thought - frack, that looks like a church choir, all low-tech and acoustic and stuff. That's not where I wanna be. Bet they don't have a single computer, or if they do it's like a 386 or something, all filled with dustbunnies. There's no way I'm getting stuck in a low-tech shiny place like that with acoustic music everywhere. That's a freaky version of hell. Shit no. So I ran, or flew or something the hell away, and now I'm back home and I'm still dead.

  I don't like being dead, I've decided. I'm a ghost, that much I've worked out. Like Patrick Swayze in that Ghost movie. Damned if I'd possess Whoopie Goldberg though. That was some scary shit.

  Anyhow, I'm see-through, I can't eat, I can't drink. My body's nowhere to be seen, thank God or Ceiling Cat or whatever, because I think I'd puke. Or throw ectoplasm everywhere, or whatever the hell dead dudes do. I never had a strong stomach for that sorta thing.

  I float around the apartment, looking for something to do. I sit in front of my computer and I'd cry my eyes out if I had eyes and tear ducts and stuff. $8000 worth of sexy high-end gaming hardware, and I can't even touch it. I must be an electrical field or a magnetic field or some shit, right? I'm afraid to go too near it in case I short something out. I'd never forgive myself if I killed Betsy.

  Computer's out, then. TV? Might have the same problem, but the remote's a fair distance away. Should be safe, and besides, the TV is just a crappy thing. And I know ghosts are su
pposed to be able to manipulate stuff. Holy crap, I am a ghost, aren't I? Like the movie, cos I ran away from the light. Kewl.

  I concentrate really hard, think solid thoughts, and poke my finger at the TV remote. It goes straight through. Damn. But I've got nothing else to do and I'm bored shitless, so I keep trying till I get the sucker pressed and the TV's on. Holy frackin' hallelujah. It's 2am now and an old crappy movie's on, but there's no way I'm gonna give myself a hernia trying to change the channel too. I settle down in my beanbag in front of the TV and try to imagine I'm eating caramel popcorn.

  I wake up I don't know how many hours later and it's pitch black and there's no air and I'm panicking like nothing else. A little voice in the back of my head is telling me I'm dead and I'm not going to suffocate, but I'm too busy panicking to pay the bastard any attention. I thrash around, screaming, and suddenly the light comes back and there's air and space around me. I lie on the floor panting. Was that hell or something? That sucked worse than the shiny acoustic place. I look around, and the beanbag's lying next to me, all crumpled like someone's picked it up and shaken it then stomped on it. Just wait a bloody moment – was I stuck in a frackin' beanbag? How embarrassing. I'm just getting to the 'thank God there was no one around to see that' relief stage when I hear a quiet snigger. It quickly turns into a cackle of glee.

  “Damn, boy, that looked like the beanbag was giving birth to a nerd.”

  I get myself upright in double-quick time. A blonde see-through chick is standing in my lounge room laughing at me. She's not half-bad looking, actually – short skirt covering a nice arse, nice tits in a low-cut top. But I prefer women who laugh at my jokes, not my humiliations.

  “Who the hell are you?” I demand.

  “I'm Linda. I'll be your guide to the afterlife, or some shit. And can we hurry up about it? They yanked me away from a hot tub full of hot angel boys and a bottomless bottle of Baileys for this.”

  “Geez, you could just frack off right now if you'd like.”

  “Nothing I'd like better, kiddo – but I've got a duty. OK? Now, first – put some clothes on. Please?”

  I look down, and yup, I'm naked as the day I was born. Crap. I do my damnedest to imagine clothes, but all I manage is a pair of undies. Linda sniggers at me, sits down on the lounge, and tells me to try harder. Slowly I get a tshirt and a pair of boardies clothing me, but every time I look at Linda I remember being butt-naked in front of her and it all disappears again. Shit shit shit! So I stop looking at her, and I manage to keep myself clothed. Well yay me, I learnt to keep my clothes on with a hot woman in the room. Seems like death's not gonna be that much different from life.