Death Co: 15 (We Need a Body)

15. We Need a Body

     We walk out of my old apartment and to a door just down the hallway. I never paid much mind to my neighbors and certainly didn’t interact with them. Stephen confidently opens the door and steps in like he owns the place. We’re greeted by a creature that can only be described as some sort of evolutionary mistake. Seriously Big Guy? What were you thinking with that one? “That is not a dog.” The thing looking up at me looks more likely to roll over and die than walk five steps. It’s got a wrinkled face, smashed snout, and the snorting sound its making can be heard for miles.

     “It’s a pug.”

     “I don’t care what it is. It’s going to slow us down.”

     “Do you know of another dog we can just take for a few hours?” The kid has a point.

     “As much as the idea of breaking in to another house and stealing another dog is appealing…” I say, lacing each word with venomous sarcasm. Jesus it’s hard to be pleasant.  

     “We’re not breaking in. Mr. Mortimer, I’m here to take Lucy for a walk.”

     “Lucy, really?”

     “Shut up for a second.”

     “Stephen? Is that you? Have you come to take Lucy for a walk?” The man who walks in looks like he’s on death’s door himself. The fact that he is up and walking is nothing short of a miracle. His joints shake at every possible juncture, causing him to vibrate uneasily with each movement. Watching him move makes me want to vomit, and I would, if that were a thing that I could still do.

     “Yes, it’s Stephen Mr. Mortimer. We’re going to take Lucy for a walk.”

     “Who’s your friend?” He asks suspiciously pointing a long, crooked finger at me. That’s the elderly for you, always suspicious. I don’t blame them, realistically death is coming for them, and this geezer has no idea how close he’s actually come.

     “I’m from the counseling program.”

     “Oh, well isn’t that just wonderful. Glad to see you getting some help Stephen. You know I worry about you.” The words come out dusty and with barely enough force to reach my decrepit eardrums.

     “I know, I know. I’ll be back in a little while alright?”

     “Well alright then.” The old man takes out a bottle from inside his lavender bath robe and swigs from it generously. His meandering takes a turn for the drunk as he stumbles back into what is presumably his living room. Stephen shoots me a look, and we walk out the door. As we do so I check my list.

     “Funny thing that, it would have been a double-play.” A term we use for collecting two bodies in the same building. You get to ring a bell, there’s some confetti, it’s a really good time… “Your apartment, then his. Looks like that last swig is going to be enough to finally do Mr. Mortimer in. I guess we don’t have to worry about returning the dog anytime soon.”

     “Do you have any respect for life?”

     “You’re one to talk. You’re a decent kid, could have made it in probably. Why throw away eternal happiness and pleasure on a whim?”

     “Because some prick got my father off a murder charge and painted me as insane. It takes a toll.”

     “You’ve got me there.”

     “Yeah. So we’ve got the dog, now what?”

     “We need to hide you from the ever-watchful eyes of death. The dog was the easy part. We’re going to replace you with another stiff, preferably of a similar height, and hope no one notices the glitch.”

     “No way! We’re not killing someone else to save me from hell. Isn’t that a bit paradoxical?”

     “Don’t worry; we just need to find the right one.”

     “I’m not killing anyone.”

     “And just why the hell not? There are plenty of people who are on their way out anyway.”

     “I’m not going to end up like him.” An idea dawns on me. It’s beautiful in its simplicity. The almighty creator himself would have to revel at its poetic justice. If ever there was a wrong deed done with the right intentions and moral outcomes, this was to be the one.

     “You’re right. He’s going to end up like you!”

     “What?”

     “Let’s go pay a visit to dear, old dad, shall we?”