Part 25 (1/2)
”Andrew who?” I said.
”Andrew Mayhem,” it moaned back.
I turned to Andrew. ”Know anyone named Mayhem?”
”You're a waste of carbon,” Mayhem said. Then to the voice, ”Horace? Horace Folterkeller? Is that you?”
”It's me, Andrew!”
”Horace is my neighbor up the street,” Andrew said to me.
”Whoop-de-freakin'-doo,” I answered.
”I thought you left your wife,” he said to Horace.
”I didn't leave her! I was kidnapped and brought here!”
”Oh. You probably don't want to hear about the new man she brought home, then.”
”New man? I've only been gone a few weeks.”
”Sorry, Horace. Everyone just a.s.sumed you ran off.”
While this conversation was all savagely interesting to me, I decided that looking for an exit was more important than neighborhood gossip. I groped around blindly, hands in front of me, searching for a door or a wall or something.
”Is he nice?” Horace asked.
”Is who nice?”
”The man my wife is seeing.”
”Well...he's got a lot of very nice tattoos.”
”Tattoos?”
”And a nice motorcycle.”
”She's dating a biker?”
”Well, not dating so much as moved in with.”
”What about my teenage daughter?”
”She seems to like him. She's, um, kissing him all the time.”
I nudged something with my toe, then crouched down to pick it up. Some sort of slimy hose. I gave it a squeeze.
Nearby, Horace farted.
I squeezed it again.
Another fart.
I put two and two together and realized this wasn't a hose after all. I set it down gently.
”Pardon me,” Horace said.
”Buddy, are you, uh, missing anything?”
”Like what?”
”Like your colon?”
Horace sighed. ”I thought they were yanking something out of me. I'm chained to the wall so I can't tell.”
”Aren't you in any pain?” Andrew asked.
”Nope. Feel pretty good, actually. Got some sort of IV, doping me up. When they come for feedings it kind of tickles.”
An IV? Now that I could use. I had a killer headache, and my arm hurt from landing hard on Mayhem. I was sure Horace wouldn't mind if I gave myself a little poke to take the edge off.
I headed toward him, but my feet got tangled up and I fell sideways, turned a small cartwheel, and ended up on my back with my legs in the air.
There was a loud sound-part flatulence/part slurp-and then Horace produced an exaggerated sigh that sort of petered out into silence.
”Horace? You still there?”
”He's in a better place,” I said, unwinding the intestines from my ankles.
”What did you do now, you idiot? How the h.e.l.l did you ever get a private investigator's license?”
”You need a license?”
”G.o.d, I hate you.”
I smelled something p.o.o.py, and realized that something in the entrail pile was leaking.
”Your neighbor had a lot of guts.”
”More than you'll ever have.”
”I mean he really had a lot of guts.” I felt something small and wet, like a skinned lemon. ”What the h.e.l.l is this? A spleen?”
”We need to get out of here. Jesus!”
”Call me Harry.”
”I found a wall. And another corpse. Oh G.o.d, and another one. And another.”