part 1

So a dead guy walks into a bar. He’s pretty fresh, and for a while it’s hard for me to tell. His baggy shirt is torn and stained dark with blood, and he’s pale as fuck, but this is Seattle. Pale people get in fights all the time and they usually need a drink after. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, size him up. He’s in his late twenties, a big guy, not fat but broad, and he’s got about six inches on me. I’m a little guy, so it doesn’t take much, but he’s still pretty damn tall. I give him one last once-over and go back to my drink. A man has a right to drink, and I have important work to do. After all, I’m still sober. I try to lose myself in thought again, but five minutes later he’s still there, standing in front of the counter, mouth hanging open. The bartender is a little bit wigged, but he figures the guy’s just dosed out, maybe suspects he’s trying to pull one over. I have my own suspicions.

The bartender scowls over as he pours tequila for the aging stripper at the other end of the bar. Patty. She’s a regular, and I nod at her. She raises her glass in salute and downs the shot. It’s still a few hours before closing, but it’s a Sunday night and only the losers like me are out. I glance back at the guy again. His chest doesn’t move, and his brown eyes are blank, unfocused. I hold up a finger, and the bartender grudgingly wanders over, filling a dirty glass with beer. I slide the glass over to the bloody guys. He doesn’t react until it scoots to a stop, just past him, sloshing most of its contents over onto the countertop. The man’s head twists sharply towards the glass, and he grabs it up greedily, shotgunning it down his throat. As he chugs, I watch the dark stains spread across his shirt, beer and blood leaking out of the holes in his chest. He doesn’t seem to notice, gripping the glass blankly, but the bartender does, recoiling as shock and realization spread across his face. I move to stand. I have work to do. I nod at the bartender and pull a crumpled twenty from my pocket. It’s not enough to cover my tab, but in about a minute he’s going to owe me. I put a hand on the dead man’s shoulder, feel him cold and clammy, and remind myself to wash my hands after I’m done with this.

“Hey, buddy, let’s get you cleaned up a bit, okay? Come on.” He turns slowly towards me, confused, searching for a sign of me in the vague instincts of his oxygen-starved brain. Finding nothing, he stumbles against me, and begins to shuffle towards the bathrooms. I follow, fingering the gun in my pocket. I would mean a lot of mess, and a lot of paperwork, using it here, but it would get the job done quick. A snapped neck might do the trick, but there would be no guarantee, and I would have trouble explaining it to any family that came knocking. I consider briefly, pausing as he bumps gently against the door. I could just call it in, but I’m not technically on duty, and the night shifters and I don’t really get along.

No, it’s going to have to be the gun. He hits the door again, heavier this time, perplexed as to why he can’t get through. I open the door and lead him in, kicking the stall doors to make sure no one’s passed out inside. All empty. Good. I grab his neck, searching for a pulse, just to make sure. You hear about that sometimes. It’s rare, usually someone on heavy shit, bad dose of PCP or something, gets hurt, starts causing trouble. The agent is young and he gets scared, and he does something stupid and his mind starts telling him it’s okay. The guy was dead already, he tells himself. The coroner says otherwise, later. I always check; anyone with half a brain does. This guy though, he’s done.

I close the door and lock it, considering the man. He is staring at the mirror, fumbling with stiff hands at his chest and at the glass, like he just can’t figure out how all those holes got in him. I pull out the gun, and I press it close against his head. I do my job.