“Shaney?”
Oh. Hell.
Chapter Two
That’s exactly where Shaney had to be. Hell. The utterance of his name had solidified Shaney’s theory that his premature death had deposited him into his own personalized form of purgatory. Humiliated past the point of recovery in front of that Adonis-like man, knocked stupid by space junk, lip-locked in the name of CPR by a man with a scraggly beard covered in bits of dried food and, here now, appearing in the flesh, the Antichrist.
“Shaney,” the voice demanded, but Shaney was busy pondering how he’d finally bitten the big one.
Was it carbon monoxide poisoning from the ancient heater in his apartment? Food poisoning from improperly handled shellfish he’d purchased from the back of that truck? Had he slipped in the shower and cracked his melon? Was his lifeless, stark-naked body now laying half in and half out of the tub, as his brains decorated the white tile floor? Would the blood dye the dingy grout a blood red or more of a dirty, soap-scummy shade of rust? Would this be a bleach job, or did it call from something more caustic, more industrial? This evoked an image of Shaney’s landlord, Mr. Crowley, hovering over Shaney’s bloated, broken corpse, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. “Nope. Don’t think bleach’ll do it this time.”
"Shaney!” The voice of his probation officer, Mr. Anderson, boomed through the room. The man couldn’t do quiet. “You can't hide in that pillow forever.”
Shaney snorted quietly. He’d tried and failed at greater things.
“I spoke with your doctor, and I know you're at least conscious. No word yet on brain damage. Though, I’m not sure how it could get any worse." There was a snicker in that grating voice.
Burrowing deeper into his pillow, Shaney mentally commanded his monster to emerge and swallow the man’s head whole. Maybe he should name the monster. Everyone deserved a name. Just nothing stupid like ‘Shaney.’
"Hey, it wasn't his fault!" Todd exclaimed and whatever he’d been sitting on skittered across the floor. “He could have been killed. He got hit in the head by…um…What did you get hit by, Shaney?”
Shaney was about to say a chunk of a satellite when Mr. Anderson answered, “A George Foreman Grill.”
Todd’s snort filled the room, followed by an unmanly squeak, and then an explosion of laughter. “Seriously?”
It did feel like someone was boxing the inside of his skull. He was disappointed that he hadn’t actually been hit with space debris. That would have made the news. Although, there still was that monster gestating in his head.
“Yes,” Mr. Anderson said without a hint of amusement in his voice. “I just came from the thrift store where I spoke with Mrs. Lambert.” Pause. “What do you think she had to say?”
Shaney licked his dry lips. “‘Get well and come back soon?’” His words floated in a balloon filled with hope. Nothing wrong with positive thinking—or fairy tales.
“Not. Even. Close.” Shaney could practically hear Mr. Anderson’s teeth clench on each word.
Here it comes...Brace for impact.
“She said they no longer needed your help. Not that they didn’t need any help. Just not your help.”
The man knew how to emphasis the right words. Shaney’s hope-filled balloon deflated with a final flatulent splutter. Another community service gig gone. At the rate he was going, he’d be on probation into his thirties. Man, he’d be so old.
“But it’s not his fault that he got hurt! He should sue them for an unsafe work environment. And pain and suffering and loss of…something.” Once again, Todd came to Shaney’s defense. You just had to love the guy.
Shaney heard the slow intake of breath, and then the long drawn-out exhale that indicated Mr. Anderson was about two minutes away from losing his shit all over everyone in the general vicinity. Definitely not pretty and about as fun getting your arm sawed off with a butter knife. Shaney wondered at the mechanics of such a feat but his ‘probe officer’ cut him short. Some days it certainly felt as if the uptight man was right up his ass.
“Maybe if, oh, I don’t know...” Mr. Anderson let the sarcasm roll thickly with the words, "you hadn’t kept calling the thrift store ‘The Morgue’ and offering viewings of the ‘deceased victims of over consumerism’. Or, if you hadn’t stuck a boxful of tennis balls to the ceiling with peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff to see which held longer.”
Fluff. Hands down.
“Or filled all the hot air popcorn makers with popcorn without the lids to see if you could, and I quote, ‘make it snow’ popcorn.”