the dead man

the dead man woke up. it was dark. he had an overwhelming urge to play a game of checkers. remembering his recent unpleasant experiences in the elevator, he walked down the five flights of stairs to the lobby on the second floor. daniel boone was behind the desk at the foot of the stairs and the dead man nodded to him. genghis khan, ed gein, and winston churchill were slumped in chairs around the lobby. churchill was smoking his eternal cigar and the other two were just staring into space. the television and the big cabinet radio were both turned off, and the checkerboard was nowhere in sight. neither was the gray cat. “anybody up for a game of checkers?” the dead man asked hopefully. “no, man,” ed gein told him. “nobody wants to play checkers with you.” “where is everybody?’ the dead man asked. “where are the teds?” “they went across the river to newark,” genghis khan said, “to see the new hoochie koochie show.” “the hoochie koochie show? at this time of night?” “where you been, brother?” ed gein asked. “this is the modern world, not like old times. the action runs all night, if you just know where to find it.” stonewall jackson wandered in, and joined the conversation. “i remember when the blue laws had teeth in them, and you couldn’t smoke a cigar or buy a pack of gum on sunday.” “that must have been before my time,” winston churchill growled. “must have been,” stonewall agreed. the dead man went down the last flight of stairs to the street. there was a bit of fog in the air. a little girl approached him. she might have been the little match girl or she might have just been anybody from nowhere. “they stole my duck,” the little girl said to the dead man. “what?’ “the bad men stole my duck,” the little girl repeated, with a sob. “they did, did they?” “i will give you ten million dollars to get it back.” “you don’t have to do that, honey. i will do it just because i am a good guy. show me where these rascals are and i will fry up their bacon in the devil’s own grease.” “follow me, then,” the dead man followed the little girl down a long flight of wide stone steps. the fog got heavier. at the bottom of the stone steps the little girl pointed to a warehouse . its door was cracked open, and a dim light showed through. “they are in there. but be careful.” “they are the ones who are going to have to be careful,” the dead man assured the little girl. the dead man pushed the door of the warehouse open. and there, sitting around a card table with a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, were his old nemeses - pope ignatius xv, and his two henchmen, allen dulles and sir edward gray. “got him again, boys! “ pope ignatius cackled. “fell for the oldest trick in the book!” allen dulles crowed. “please, fellows, don’t do this to me,” the dead man begged. “we got you fair and square,” pope ignatius intoned. “now, listen up , and listen good, because we will only go through this once. get down to waterloo station and get the 4:45 to istanbul. it will make a stop at vienna. a woman will get on wearing a green hat and carrying a red briefcase…” three days later, after the most desperate, hair raising, and yet tedious and interminable hours of his existence, the dead man crawled back up the stairs of his hotel. churchill was still in the lobby, along with two of the teds - bundy and roosevelt. the dead man started to tell his sad story but none of them wanted to hear it. “why do these things happen to me?” he cried. “only to me?” “stop your whining,” ted bundy told him. “why don’t you pull yourself together and try to make yourself useful for once and make something out of your life?” “out of my life? but i am already dead - dead!” “nobody wants to play checkers with you, man.”