Dead Men Scare Me Stupid Read Online Free PDF

to help
me, don’t you?”
    “Well, sure, but…”
    “You want to do
your good deed.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You still like
my face as much as ever, don’t you?”
    “I guess.”
    “Well my face
needs a new lawn. So let’s get going. Chop chop.”
    Life had become a
dream for me. Nothing was hard. Everything was easy. I didn’t even have to do
my own walking anymore. My legs were moved up and down for me, as I strolled
down the street, while I relaxed and ate grapes. I didn’t even have to buy the
grapes. They were stolen for me. Nothing I wanted in life was denied me. If I
coveted my neighbor’s ass, I got it.
    Of course there’s
more to be gained from Heavenly Help than mere creature comforts. There’s money
to be made, too.
    In one weekend at
a gambling casino, thanks to a little invisible help, I won $428. I probably
would have won more, but I only was betting one dollar chips. Better safe than
sorry, I always say. And I probably shouldn’t have changed some of my bets at
the last second when I got one of those sudden wild hunches of mine. Those
hunch bets all turned out to be losers. But it wasn’t the amount of money I had
won that mattered, it was the feeling that I hadn’t earned any of it. There’s
no better feeling than that.
    The best part of
all this was that I knew it would never end. All good things must come to an
end for other people. For the suckers. But not for me. The rules didn’t apply
to me anymore. I was the King of the Spirit World. Make way for the King.
    Then one evening
it all ended.
    I had just had
one of the best days of my life. You know those kinds of days where everything
just goes right? Where everybody else’s tax refunds end up in your mailbox?
Where your business rivals spend the whole day stuck in elevators and all their
clients have to come to you? Where the horse you bet on is the only horse in
the race that doesn’t get spooked by something? Where the IRS man who’s coming
to talk to you about stolen tax refunds meets with, like, an accident? You know
days like that? Well it was one of those kinds of days for me.
    I was sitting in
my easy chair, smoking a fine Cuban cigar that had been yanked out of Castro’s
mouth for me, while my little helpers, worn out from their day’s exertions on
my behalf, were tiredly soaking their feet in ghostly buckets of water.
    “Whose idea was
it to be nice to him?” asked Fred.
    “It was my idea,”
replied Ed, pouring more hot water into the bucket, “and it made sense in
theory. Piles of sense.”
    “Well, look where
we are now. Look where your precious theories have gotten us. He’s got us
working our butts off here, and his life is better than it was, not worse.”
    I had been
listening to this exchange. I tapped my foot. “Those clippings won’t paste
themselves into my scrapbook by themselves,” I said.
    “Screw your
scrapbook,” said Fred.
    I was stunned.
Nobody talks that way about my scrapbook. What had gotten into my slaves today?
Griping I could understand. I’ve been known to gripe myself from time to time,
when nothing else would work, but this bordered on insubordination. I rose up
to my full height, towering a full ¼ inch higher than before. My back really
hurts when I do that, but it’s worth it because I’m definitely taller.
    “What’s that?” I
demanded.
    They rose up to
their full heights and looked at me in a way that reminded me of how afraid of
ghosts I am. They had never looked at me like that before.
    “Hey, what’s the
matter with you guys?” I asked, looking worriedly from one malevolent face to
the other, “Are you sick or something?”
    “We’re sick all
right,” said Ed, grimly. “We’re sick of you.”
    “Me? How could
you be sick of me? I’m your pal! Your buddy! Your hero! You came here all the
way from Heaven just to help me.”
    “No we didn’t.”
    “Huh?”
    “What kind of
saps do you think we are?” asked Fred.
    “Well…” I began.
Then I stopped. I wasn’t sure