Copyright © 2009 Pedro Cerda and Daniel Stiles
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
“You’re going to die,” I inform him. “You’ve already pissed off a whole lot of people, riled ‘em up with your offensive controversy. When you die, it will bring spectacular fame to you and your book. How’s that sound?”
I think he’s flabbergasted, his mind trying to wrap around the brilliance I’ve revealed for him to admire. The longer he’s quiet, the more I doubt myself. Is he trying to imply I’ve crossed the line here?
“It’s not like this idea is so outrageous.” My attention keeps drifting from the road to the rearview mirror. “I’m another struggling author trying to make my mark in a business flooded with conformity and corruption, where more credence gets placed on who you know than on your true skill. You understand how it is. It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.
“What, except you?” His silence suggests all that he can’t say with words. “Right, like if I stab you in the eye it’s going to matter. Don’t make me prove it.”
He shuts up after that. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He can’t stop me from doing what I’ve already decided to do. Of course, parts of this I haven’t fully worked out. One of those happens to be vital. I have to figure out a way to kill a corpse. I wonder if there might be websites offering instruction. A reluctant avenue for me. It’s bad enough the necrophiliac site somehow snagged me for a weekly recurring subscription. This is something I have to come up with on my own. It’s simple. What would Zombie Jesus do?