I wasn’t actually planning on putting an excerpt of this story online, given that it is a rather short short, but after having a look at how books are formatted over on Smashwords, a Smashwords edition sample doesn’t really let you get a proper taste of how the story actually works. So I’ve popped the first part of the story up here–complete with footnotes you can read. So… enjoy!
It is difficult to say whether Lex woke up or reanimated, as strictly speaking, neither is true. His consciousness became slowly aware, that is true, but as it had not been sleeping, it did not awaken1. He was lying flat on his back, with stones pressing into some very sensitive places. Breathing in, he got a faceful of plastic, weighted down by the damp smell of freshly dug earth.
“Oh God!” he thought, “I’m in a body bag2!”
However as we know, Lex’s questing hands failed to find the garbage bag’s non-existent zip.
At this point in the narrative, one would either expect:
a) Lex to break through the admittedly flimsy plastic of the garbage bag, or
b) Lex to bemoan his fate before dying of suffocation,
However, in this case, Lex takes option:
c) Ignore the obvious choices ‘a’ and ‘b’ and try to slow his breathing–indeed, only breathing when he needs to.
That is, until he realises he doesn’t actually feel the need to breathe. Then he chooses option ‘a’.
As Lex scrambles through the loose earth above his freshly dug–if shallow–grave, we, gentle reader, might as well take a brief trip back to the previous evening. It will, after all, take him some time to get the earth-clods out of his boxer-briefs3.
It is 11:26 PM in a darkened bar, the walls painted a dark purple and drapes of black satin hang from the ceiling. The ‘Dead Man Walking’ serves all kinds of drinks to all kinds of clientele: White Russians, Singapore Slings and Bloody Marys being quite common–but not Sex on the Beach, as the nearest beach is eighteen kilometres away4.
Tonight however, the bar has been booked out by a rather strange assortment of people, more than half of them in white make up and black lipstick–but almost none of them Goths. So far, the bar staff have served one Salty Dog, two Princes of Darkness, an Overlady of the Hoard, four Lieutenant-Baronets and fifteen thralls–and one Biker names Charles who left quite hurriedly after one beer5.
1. Strictly speaking, it had been dead. (back)
2. Had Lex been in a bodybag, he presumably would not have been buried, and eventually a man with a large scalpel would have unzipped the bag and said, “Looks alive to me, Bruce.” Actually, he was in a garbage bag (manufactured by Rowlin and Coates, 47 Turnpike Avenue, Hamsford, NSW: “One size fits all”). (back)
3. Mitch Dowd bamboo, small, green. (back)
4. The Australian Topographical Association charts show the distance to be exactly 18 kilometres, 2 metres and 21 centimetres, but no sane person listens to Topographers anyway – and besides, it’s still too far to travel for a quick fuck. (back)
5. Charles later refused to ever speak of this incident, and moved to Auckland, New Zealand, where he lives with his wife, six white rabbits, a golden retriever named ‘Bob’, two sheep and a duck. (back)
Want the rest? Grab a copy of Mr. Perfect over at Smashwords today!