You Are Undead. (Sign Here Please): You Are Dead., #4

By Andrew Stanek

Part four of Andrew Stanek's internationally condemned You Are Dead series is here! Director Fulcher has a plan to put Nathan's papers in order once and for all, but Nathan has one chance to stop him: through the awesome power of local politics. The Triumvirate of One, the Cult of Pacman, and the bag on Nathan's head, all in You Are Undead. (Sign Here Please).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Stanek
• Release date: Mar 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386075462

Book preview

Prologue

There is a lot of life on Earth. The place is overflowing, teeming, practically bursting at the edges with the stuff, so much that we can barely give away one form of life, the pneumonia bacteria, with a free coffee. I would know, I’ve tried, though I may not have explained it to the recipients, subsequent public health inquiry, and federal judge in exactly those terms. Forget that part. The point is this. We have more life than we know what to do with: beetles and trout and mushrooms and muskrats, crocodiles and tsetse flies and whales, dogs and amoebas and falcons, life that’s big, life that’s small, even life that’s lurking behind you, hiding behind your furniture and ready to strike when you least expect it. We have so much life it makes me sick, and not just because of that pneumonia I mentioned earlier. There is even - and this is the really critical part, so pay attention - a peculiar variety of life called man.

With all this life around, man has long since gotten down to his dangerous and massively inadvisable habit of thinking and, equally recklessly, started to wonder what it is, exactly, that makes him special among living beings. You see, we’ve long since figured that something must make us special and extraordinarily important in the presumed hierarchy of life. We, humanity, have spent the last five thousand years kicking around other living creatures, murdering trees to build our highly unnecessary structures on top of habitats of furry woodland creatures that we bulldozed while eating the remains of other critters that we raised and slaughtered forcefully, often while laughing, and no one seems to be stopping us or even trying - except for hippies, and they can hardly be counted. Therefore, we have deduced that we are obviously in charge around here and are at the top of life’s aforementioned presumed hierarchy and shrews and jellyfish and bears or whatever can pretty much just suck it. Humans are special. However, we aren’t entirely sure why, and therein lies the problem.

All the other forms of life seem to be remarkably better than we are at all of life’s obvious and highly important tasks. We humans aren’t the fastest runners among species. That’s cheetahs, probably, which can move so fast that they’re often leaving the office from their cheetah-jobs before you can be bothered to finish your morning coffee. Neither is it our invention of language that makes us special. Whales have that. Nor are we the most numerous among the animals. That’s ants. Nor is it our development of tool usage. Certain bird species beat us to it by hundreds of millions of years. Nor are we the only ensouled creatures. Badgers have souls coming out the wazoo. Nor are we the first species to invent thinly concealed hatred for others and malicious sarcasm. That’s dogs. Nor can we even claim to have killed the most other humans. That’s the malaria parasite. Nor is it even the crowning pride of human accomplishments: our satirical internet-based electronic novels. That’s long been done by reputable collections of a million monkeys with a million typewriters. So since we don’t seem to be the best at any of the obvious tasks and challenges that life has set for us, man is left with a niggling doubt that he sort of got extremely lucky, and it’s just a matter of time before he gets mauled by a cheetah.

In the old days, man used to reassure himself that he was, in fact, better than, say, a cheetah, by tracking one down and killing it for the sheer fun of it, but these days there are hardly any cheetahs around and even if you do manage to shoot one, the zookeepers are bound to get awfully mad at you. The best you can do in the way of demonstrating your dominance over a feline is to affix a demeaning caption to a common house cat and post it on the internet, which isn’t nearly as satisfying, and even then you probably end up owing the cat money somehow, so it isn’t as good of a solution. So most of us having cunningly started to simply not think about it. Those people who do think about it tend to be loathsome beardy types with multiple degrees and suspenders, but despite thinking about the problem so hard that it’s been almost six years since any of them has taken a bath, they still haven’t reached any conclusions. They don’t know what makes humanity special among the vibrant kingdoms of life.

And yet, the answer is obvious. What makes humanity special is bureaucracy. No other grouping of life has invented bureaucracy. Bears do not have to fill out paperwork before doing their business in the woods; the malaria parasite doesn’t hold a public consultation before infecting an adorable African child; birds don’t have to file a flight plan with the bird aviation authorities for taking off, at least not usually, and even when they do it’s usually exceedingly simple because most birds couldn’t remember and stick to a flight plan to save their lives. Humanity alone has invented bureaucracy, the institution that creates and promulgates paperwork and forces it into every facet and corner of our daily lives. Bureaucracy hasn’t even occurred to any of the other animal species, except for elephants, and they almost immediately judged it to be a bad idea. Rules, regulations, requirements, forms, orders, administrative tribunals, paperwork, stipulations, provisions, and procedures - these belong to us and us only.

And therein lies the secret. Humanity controls the world because the world runs on forms. The moving of paper and signing of the same doesn’t merely create legal fictions, but actually and in material fact has the power to change the world. In other words, the universe is controlled by a bureaucracy - not a political bureaucracy, as you might have figured, but a universal bureaucracy of cosmic proportions, comprised of supernaturally-empowered civil servants in stiff suits and ties who enforce the laws of physics and reality in general. Nothing in the entire universe happens, from the falling of a single drop of rain to the death of an entire galaxy without these bureaucrats. From the synthesis of tiny chemicals to the spectacular explosions of distant suns, the cosmic bureaucrats must file forms for every single occurrence in the entire universe - or it does not happen.

But over time, the bureaucrats found the paperwork to be too much even for them and their vaunted efficiency, so they found a suitable rocky planet orbiting a small yellow sun in the distant reaches of the infinite cosmos and on that planet brought forth, through stringently vetted administrative procedures, life. Over time, the life - conceived in bureaucracy - went from tiny to large and from bacterial to human, and the humans, after far too much of that dangerous thinking I warned them about, decided it would be a good idea to invent politics, and with it came bureaucracy. Now, when humans die, they are recruited into the infinitely unfolding ranks of the cosmic bureaucracy.

A certain Mr. Nathan Haynes of Dead Donkey, Nevada, knows all this, including how dangerous thinking can be, so he decided not to think about it, or indeed anything else. This explains a lot about Nathan’s life. And so, it was on one morning filled with cheerful ignorance, that Nathan was thrust back into the gaping maw of bureaucratic adventure.

Chapter 1

Nathan’s house was in a state of extraordinary crisis. His washing machine was broken. Nathan himself was standing just down the hall from his living room, not far from the greenest of his several green chairs, and surveying the washing machine with his hands on his hips.

Come on now, he said to the washing machine, trying to reason with it. You’ve got to work, or otherwise I won’t be able to do my laundry.

However, the washing machine responded to Nathan’s passionate entreaties with a silence that Nathan thought was very rude. Nathan made a humphing sound. The nerve of some people!

Alright, he said. But the next time you need detergent, don’t come asking me!

He picked up his basket of laundry and started to think about which of his neighbors’ houses he could break into to use their washing machines, then, laundry under his arm, stomped back into his living room.

Nathan had recently returned from a lengthy, and it must be said, largely pointless expedition to Las Vegas. There had been atheists and psychics and a bus and a balding, impish man named Ivan Fedelmid involved, most of whom Nathan had now forgotten, but on his return, Nathan found that his washing machine had broken. Despite Nathan’s best attempts to level, argue, and reason with it, the washing machine had remained broken, and so Nathan’s laundry remained undone. For Nathan, this was a very big problem, because one of his three life’s ambitions was to do his laundry. You don’t want to know what the other two are, although I’ll tell you later in the book anyway.

Given that he’s not a particularly smart or resourceful man by himself, Nathan probably would have carried on shouting at his washing machine and trying to bribe it with socks for some time, so it’s fortunate that his phone started to ring at that very instant.

Nathan didn’t move to pick it up. Ever since he got back from Las Vegas, he’d been bombarded with phone calls from a salesman who wanted to sell him a dog riding an elephant. The mistake Nathan had made was buying one dog riding an elephant, so now the people who sold the blasted things assumed Nathan wanted to start making regular bulk purchases. Although Nathan had tried to explain he’d already long since broken into the q-tip factory, which was obviously what he’d needed the dog riding the elephant for, the salesman wouldn’t seem to take no for an answer, and continued to offer him vast discounts on bulk swarms of the things. Naturally, it hadn’t occurred to Nathan to cancel his phone service. He continued to pay the Dead Donkey phone company extortionate sums of money for the privilege of receiving nothing but spam phone calls via his landline, like most of us do, even though the majority of those were actually prank calls from the Dead Donkey phone company itself, since they weren’t very good at actually connecting calls and figured it was up to them to pick up the slack. So Nathan had done what most of us do and bought an answering machine, so he could listen to recordings of the spam phone calls later and ensure that not a single one of them was missed.

Nathan’s answering machine beeped. His recording played mechanically.

For a few seconds there was just the sound of Nathan’s recorded voice humming a cereal jingle. Real Nathan joined in. It was a good one.

Oh, er, right, the recording said after a while. This is the residence of Nathan Haynes, I think. I’m dead at the moment, and can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Then there was the annoying beep that answering machines emit in the vain hope of deafening whoever might be trying to record a message on your machine so you don’t have to talk to them.

An unfamiliar voice crackled over the answering machine. The voice was smooth, refined, dignified, and slightly accented.

Ah, yes, Mr. Haynes, the voice said. I’m contacting you as a courtesy to tell you I intend to call on you at some time in the near future, probably before lunch today, to murder you. I’ll be around shortly. All the best.

Then there was a clicking sound and another beep. The answering machine stopped.

Nathan’s face lit up into a smile. That must be Nathan’s new serial killer! That was just the thing Nathan needed to take his mind off of his broken washing machine. Nathan was very excited by the prospect of meeting his new serial killer. Oh, he hoped this one was a good one. He hadn’t been satisfied with his last two serial killers at all.

When had the serial killer said he was coming over? Then near future? Nathan checked his watch and jumped. Goodness, it was almost the near future now! Also, Nathan seemed to not be wearing a watch, but he’d have to worry about that later. He started to hurry around his kitchen to rustle up something to drink and snacks to entertain his new serial killer and hurriedly muted his TV, which Nathan had tuned to the election news and a trashy soap opera (which, for clarification, were different programs).

Nathan was just trying to remember how to make coffee and stuffing the filters into the cups when there was a knock at his door. It was a particularly loud and insistent rap, intriguing in its own way. Nathan eagerly rushed over to his door and opened it. Standing behind the door was a dignified-looking man, tall, spindly, and with graying hair suggesting the intrusion of age. He was wearing a coat and tails, and a golden monocle over one of his brown eyes, and his hand clutched a wooden cane that he’d evidently been using to knock. He stood up straight when Nathan answered the door and offered Nathan his hand.

You must be Nathan Haynes, he said.

I must be, Nathan agreed. It’s very good to meet you. Are you my new serial killer?

Yes, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, old bean, that I’m here to murder you.

Good! Nathan said brightly. "Today’s been very frustrating for me so far, so that will be a welcome change of pace. Please, come in. Sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?

Whatever you have on hand would be most welcome, thank you, the man said stiffly. Very kind of you. I have to say, most of the people I work with aren’t nearly so hospitable. It’s all screams and running and blood. Miserable, and between you and me, I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.

As the monocled serial killer spoke, Nathan directed him into one of the less green of his several green chairs. Then, Nathan poured out some coffee and snack cakes and proffered them to his guest while sinking down into his greenest chair. The serial killer remained straight-backed and neat as he sipped at the coffee, every bit the picture of dignity and good conduct. Nathan had a good feeling about this serial killer. This was exactly the sort of serial killer Nathan felt he could respect - someone with a healthy sense of pride in the craft who understood he was a pillar of the Dead Donkey community.

After sipping at his coffee for a moment, the serial killer took a bite from one of the snack cakes, nodded in apparent approval, and adjusted his monocle.

Now let’s make sure everything’s squared away properly before we get down to business, shall we, old bean?

Okay, Nathan said. I don’t think I’m a bean, though. I’m pretty sure I’m Nathan Haynes.

Good, good, the serial killer said, his hand on the tip of his cane. Now, I have been sent here to murder you, and I intend to do so in keeping with the highest traditions of Dead Donkey serial killing. I have been told that you have had trouble with previous serial killers, but allow me to assure you that all ends today - along with your life, if you are so properly inclined. I am a professional, a veteran of the craft of over forty years and, I am also pleased to say, in that time I have never failed to kill anyone. Also, I am the scion of one of the oldest and finest families of serial killers in Dead Donkey, and we simply don’t put up with any nonsense or sloppiness, like these amateurs who have been dispatched to see you off before. We take considerable pride in our work, in keeping with - as I mentioned - the finest artisanal and ancient traditions of murder.

This was all sounding very good to Nathan. He was nodding eagerly.

That sounds very nice, Nathan said.

Good, so we’ve got that squared away, the serial killer said, and adjusted his monocle. He peered across the table at Nathan. Now, I realize it’s a terrible nuisance, old bean, but I have to ask you one or two questions before we get started - just a formality, but you understand, I’m sure. I’ve been informed that you have a bit of a situation with your brain. Is that right?

Yes, that’s right, Nathan said as he sipped on his coffee. I have a thingie, you see, a lesion in my brain, so I have no fear of death whatsoever.

Is that so? How extraordinary! And just to make sure I have the right man, are you the Nathan Haynes who has been killed four times by different serial killers, crushed by a bathtub concurrent with a stroke and badger attack twice, been murdered by robed zealots once, and died in a plane crash?

Yes, Nathan agreed emphatically. There was a lot of paperwork involved, but I got it sorted out in the end.

Ah, yes, nasty nuisance, paperwork. The serial killer shook his head. Obviously, your previous murderers have made some monumental screw-ups to allow you to still be alive at this point, but no longer. Let me talk you through the process, my ancient sprout. I’m going to go ahead and take out my pistol, here.

The serial killer reached into his hefty coat and drew out a large, old-fashioned revolver with an ornately carved handle. Nathan smiled at it.

I’m just going to pop this up against your skull and put two bullets in your head, like so, the killer demonstrated with his pistol, then another three into your chest. Now, some of the murderees I’ve worked with have preferred to run around screaming, but I feel there’s no need. I applaud you for staying calm, Mr. Haynes. No need to descend into barbarism. We can keep this serial killing nice and civilized.

Right, Nathan agreed emphatically, nodding. And what do you need me to do?

After I shoot you, if you could just die for me, I’d be most obliged. I realize it could be a spot of bother for you.

Oh, it’s no bother at all, Nathan said. Since you asked so nicely, I don’t see how I could refuse.

Good, good. And lastly, as a matter of full disclosure, just so you know, I do feel I ought to mention that I have been hired for this job, and it isn’t a social killing. Sorry to disappoint.

Not at all, Nathan said.