Better Off Undead by Martin H. Greenberg

Author:Martin H. Greenberg
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

THE PERFECT MAN

Fran LaPlaca

Rob Zombie was playing on the radio, and Oliver’s head was pounding. What in hell did I drink last night? His eyes were glued shut, but he didn’t feel up to opening them anyway. But, God, would someone please turn that horrible music off?

“Hey! Hey, Fancy Boy, he’s waking up!’’

Oh, my God, Oliver thought. The western twang in that voice is worse than this so-called music.

“Stop calling me Fancy Boy,’’ an irritated voice said. “I know he’s waking up. Give him a minute, you dumb redneck.’’

“Hey, new guy?’’ This was a third voice.

What the hell?

“Hey, new guy!’’ the third voice said again. “Cat got your tongue? What’s your name?’’

“Oliver,’’ Oliver tried to say, and he heard the word, but he knew he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“Oliver, huh? Maybe Ethan should call you Fancy Boy, too, that’s a fancy-schmancy name. What’s your line of work, Oliver?’’

“I’m a lawyer.’’

What in hell was he doing, so hung over he couldn’t even open his eyes, talking to a bunch of . . . of what? Voices in his head?

“Ha! Voices in your head! That’s a good one, Ollie.’’ That was the third voice again. “M’name’s Ike, by the way, and the voices aren’t in your head. They’re in Mario’s head. That’s Fancy Boy, as Ethan so elegantly calls him.’’

What in hell did that mean? Oliver decided he didn’t care. The pain was beginning to fade a bit, and he tried again to open his eyes.

“You can’t do it,’’ said a new, depressed voice. “They’re not your eyes. I’m Zach. I’m a poet, and I was the answer to the sensitive part of the ad.’’

He hadn’t been stupid enough to do shots of tequila again, had he? Oliver strained his memory, but all he could dredge up was a pair of gorgeous brown eyes, and a significant amount of cleavage.

Great. A hooker. She drugged me, and now I’m probably on a boat to Singapore. A white slave. I’ll have to service some old, ugly hag for the rest of my life.

“Oh, she’s no hooker. She’s a doctor, actually.’’

How many guys were in this room/cabin/black hole?

“Six now, counting you. And I’m Brett. Brett Jamieson.’’

“Brett Jamieson,’’ Oliver squawked. “The movie actor? You’ve been kidnapped, too?’’

“Not kidnapped, no,’’ the rich, velvety voice of the movie star answered. “Murdered, pal, murdered. Just like you.’’

Good lord. The last time he’d been this drunk was . . . Oliver couldn’t remember when he’d been this bad. Murdered. He would have shaken his head, but couldn’t seem to do that, either.

“It’s true,’’ the second voice said. “And I’m Mario. Call me Fancy Boy and I just may murder you a second time. I’m the good-looking part of the ad.’’

“Mario’s the only one who’s not really here,’’ the cowboy explained. “He’s just the body. Sense memory, Zach thinks. I’m Ethan, Ethan Corbett. And we’ve all been murdered, ol’ son. By those ever-lovin’ brown eyes and great big knockers you’re still dreamin’ about.’’

“And what part of the ad are you?’’ Oliver said sarcastically.

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