It was 3:30a.m. Gus,
the driver, backed the car into the loading dock very slowly so as not to hit
it again. Eight out of ten times when driving, the hearse’s bumper would kiss
the cold, dead concrete of the loading dock. At least the bodies were never
worse for wear from the impact. Especially this particular corpse—a multiple gunshot
wound victim who was shot in the chest, causing her breast implants to deflate
upon impact. The driver chuckled at the thought of the morticians working their
magic to make those twins perky for the woman’s open casket funeral.
The morticians were
no amateurs—they’d seen it all. Gun shot wounds. Stab wounds. Burns. Acid
attacks. Even one came in partially skinned Silence of the Lambs-style. Then there was the breast implants, buttock
implants, chin implants, penis implants, Botox, Restalyne, and cement fillers
from board certified non-plastic surgeon, non-MD bullshit artists, Formaldehyde helped, but ugly could only be
made so pretty for one last makeover before these dead people travelled to
their final resting places.
Gus honked the horn,
signaling the morticians that the body was getting cold. It would get colder,
especially once it was buried six feet under—the morticians were in no hurry.
It had been a busy day and night, twenty-six meth heads came in after holding a
contest to see who could snort more methamphetamine in three minutes without
overdosing. Clearly, none of them had won. Gus honked the horn again, this time
with more gusto.
“Alright, alright,
we’re coming,” Mortie, one of the morticians shouted. He hated the joke that he
knew was coming.
“Yo, Mortie the
Mortician. Your parents named you well,” Gus laughed. Mortie deadpanned, not
helping Gus with the punch line of the joke he’d heard night after night,
almost hourly in fact, with each delivery Gus had made for the past four years.
“How they knew you’d become a morgue makeup artist is beyond me. They’re
geniuses.”
“They’re dead. Unlock
the trunk,” Mortie retorted. He leaned forward into the rump of the hearse to
slide the temporary metal casket out of the car. “Hey Jackson, we’ve got a live
one here.”
Jackson, too, had grown
tired of Gus’ singular, repetitive joke he’d heard over the past decade of
working together. He stopped at the loading dock doors for a few beats for Gus’
self-congratulatory chuckle had subsided before going over to help him with the
casket. The two men lifted the metal box on a gurney, without any help from
Gus, who busied himself with smoking his joint. It helped him work as the
driver for the dead.
“So, this one is the empty
fun bags?” Jackson asked Gus. Gus nodded his head.
“How bad are they?”
Mortie asked. “Did you get a peak at the hospital before you left?”
Gus nodded his head
again. “Ever see balloons full of helium after the helium left the building?”
It was Mortie and Jackson’s turn to nod their heads. “Well, sorta like that.
Wrinkled, shriveled, never to be stretched out again. Good luck!”
Mortie signed the
paperwork Gus shoved at him. Jackson wheeled the body inside to get started on coming
up with a plan to turn her deflated mammaries into mountains once more.
“So, what are we
going to do to get these babies to rise again?” Mortie asked. “Got any yeast
lying around?”
“Not in here. From
the looks of her clothes, I’m guessing our lady of the night friend here may
have some in her vajayjay,” Jackson retorted.
“That’s vile and
chauvinist. How’d you know she didn’t come from a costume party?”
“I checked her purse.
Full of condoms and penicillin.”
Mortie started
rummaging through the cupboards, looking for something to use. Even once they’d
stitched up all of the bullet holes in her breasts, even if they pumped in
enough formaldehyde to perk up her breasts, the fluid would still leak out. Stitches
didn’t take to skin where rigor mortis had set in. No, they needed something
more that they could pump into her breasts that would act like filler without
oozing out. The living were awkward around dead bodies enough as it was, adding
discharge to the mix would, especially at a dead hooker’s funeral send people
running for the hills, and then to their family doctors.
“Putty?” Jackson
suggested.
“Nope, can’t pump it
in.”
“Plasticine?”
“Nope.”
“Play-Doh?”
“Nein.”
“Silicone.”
“We need something
that will reverse sublimated—that will turn into a solid, but start off as a
liquid.”
“Eggs?”
“We can’t use heat.
Her skin would fry, and no one wants to smell that tomorrow.”
Mortie and Jackson
sat scratching their heads. They ran through a litany of options, each one
nixed for being too difficult to handle, too lifeless, too rigid, and even too
toxic.
“Wait, I’ve got it.
Glue. We can use glue,” Mortie suggested. “It can be pumped in, and then, as it
dries without heating, it will turn solid and help the breasts keep their
shape. We just have to pump enough air into the tires, so to speak, to get her
bosom back into it’s plastic surgically altered state. And, since any leaks
will dry, the only weeping will be the tears of the mourners.”
“That’s all well and
good, but won’t we have a problem with her clothes sticking gracelessly to her
breasts?”
Mortie looked at
Jackson as if he’d been sniffing glue.
“Gracefulness is not
something we need to worry about. I’m sure the bereaved in attendance were
accustomed to seeing this broad without clothes. For a change, they’ll be so
happy to see her dressed in something that wouldn’t make Jesus blush, they’ll
overlook and forgive us if the silk of her blouse is glued to her nipples. Now,
let’s get to work. Just like it was for this lady every night, we’ve got a long
night of pumping ahead of us.”
© 2016. Naomi Elana
Zener. All Rights Reserved.
