The Sinister Mr. Corpse Read Online Free PDF Page B

as
some foamy toothpaste leaked through the hole in his chin. He wiped
off his mouth and noted that he didn't need to shave. He wondered
if this meant that the hair on his head had stopped growing,
too.
    He returned to the bedroom and put on fresh
underwear and white socks, then dressed in a pair of his own jeans
and an unfamiliar orange polo shirt. He returned to the bathroom,
combed his hair, and then stepped back in the bedroom just as Brant
was entering.
    "What did I tell you about knocking?" Stanley
asked.
    "My apologies."
    "Were you spying on me in the shower? Pity
about my dick, huh?"
    "Are you ready for breakfast?"
    "Sure. I'm always up for a good old bowl of
Corpse-O's."
    They left the room, walking into a barren,
sterile white hallway. "So where are we?" Stanley asked.
    "About one hundred feet underground," said
Brant.
    "So it's like we're all buried, huh?"
    "If you wish to think of it that way. I
prefer to think of us as being safe. Believe it or not, not
everybody is entirely pleased with the idea that we've brought a
dead human being back to life, and so precautionary measures are in
order."
    "This is a pretty decent place," Stanley
noted.
    "It's a rental. Surprisingly affordable."
    "So what's with the biohazard sign on that
door?" asked Stanley, pointing to a door at the end of the
hall.
    "That's the lab where your injections are
synthesized. It's a very dangerous process."
    "Can I go in?"
    "No."
    They walked for about a minute, making three
or four turns, and then stopped at a metal door. Brant slid his
security badge through the card reader and pulled the door open
after the beep. They walked into a small room with a long table and
several chairs.
    "Ah, breakfast is ready," said Brant,
gesturing to a plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage, along with two
pieces of toast and a glass of orange juice. "Please, have the seat
of honor."
    Stanley sat down at the head of the table.
The only other occupant of the room was a woman who sat at the
other end, furiously typing on a laptop. She finished what she was
doing and got to her feet.
    "Mr. Dabernath, it's so good to finally meet
you," she said, walking towards him. "Alive, anyway."
    This woman was absolutely gorgeous. She had
long black hair, slender features, and a body to die a second time
for. She wore a tight red skirt and blouse that made Stanley want
to just...
    Remembering his hideous appearance, Stanley
kept those thoughts in check.
    "I'm Veronica Luxen," she said, extending her
hand.
    Stanley shook it. "Stanley Dabernath."
    She smiled at him and didn't seem creeped out
in the least by the way he looked. He watched to see if she
frantically wiped her hand off on her skirt, but instead she
casually placed it on her hip. "So how are you feeling this
morning?"
    "Alive."
    "Ooooh, good one. Make sure you remember
that. It'll be a perfect sound bite." She took a small notebook out
of her breast pocket and quickly scribbled in it.
    "This is your personal assistant," said
Brant. "She'll be handling all of your public appearances and
taking care of anything you need outside of this bunker."
    "I have a personal assistant?"
    "Yes. That would be Veronica. I explained
that about two seconds ago."
    "Don't be a prick. I was just surprised,
that's all. I can't imagine that many walking corpses have personal
assistants."
    "You'll have your work cut out for you with
this one," Brant told Veronica. "Especially his mouth. He has quite
an affection for profanity."
    "Oh, I think I'll tame him just fine."
    Stanley sat there for a moment, thinking
about how desperately he wanted to be tamed. Veronica gestured to
his food. "Go on, eat up. You've got a busy day ahead of you."
    Stanley took a bite of sausage, which was
absolutely delicious. Veronica sat down next to him. "I guess
you've had a lot to think about recently, haven't you?" she
asked.
    "You could say that."
    "I admire your bravery. A lot of people
wouldn't be able to cope with this."
    "What makes you think I'm coping?"
    "Well,