from "Waiting For Oblivion"
Charlie got his garden tools and began puttering. Henry unfolded a lawn chair near the ornamental cherry and opened three packages of gourmet dog biscuits. "Some special crunchy munchies, for our special guest CB," the old man crooned. "The yellow ones are chicken, the red ones are beef, and these lovely green ones are mint flavored. Come out from there, now, and be sociable. You must be hungry, eh, CB? You've been hiding under that tree for days."
"How do you know he's not here for your decrepit backside, darling?" Charlie offered, deadheading his roses.
"Because I haven't murdered you yet, my dear," Henry replied, laying down a third helping of biscuits as the dog came out, three blood-red tongues licking three sets of chops. "Come lend a hand here. I've only got two, and he's got three heads."
"Lend a hand for what – oh for heaven's sake!" Charlie was laughing outright, now. Kafka watched in amazement as the fearsome foe of the damned, tongues lolling in matching goofy dog grins, rolled over for belly rubs.
"All your paws in the air," she muttered. "Wavin' like you just don't care. Time to make the rounds," she yowled, "you ferocious monster."
After a final backscratch wriggle on the warm grass, Triple C got to his feet and followed Kafka into what had once been the house's kitchen. It was now a loading bay, where the remains of the day had once arrived to be prepared for their final destination.
The only stuff moving through it these days were groceries in and garbage out. The only cold storage in the building were the deep freezer in one corner of the bay, and the fridge freezer upstairs in the apartment's kitchen.
"We start at the bottom and work up," Kafka told the dog, firmly. "Since the most difficult cases are usually in the basement. Even before this latest mess, they tended to be pretty pissed off. I've heard everything from suicides with daddy issues to executed killers with no regrets except for getting caught."
They started down the stairs, Kafka continuing the briefing. "I rarely found anyone down here, till the plague came. Charlie and Henry got very particular about which jobs they would take, the closer they got to retirement. Now, though, I find someone every time I make the rounds – and I've started making rounds every hour."
"That's not good." Triple C's combined voices were an impressive three-part harmony.
"Neither is what I'm feeling right now," Kafka hissed, pausing near the entrance to the old embalming room. A wall of anger ruffled her fur like a hot wind. Behind her, Triple C growled, a deep, minor chord she could feel through her paws.
Lurking in the basement were a half dozen disincarnated souls, bickering with each other about who deserved to go first. Bragging about who would have the biggest funeral. Most of all, though, angry, their inflated senses of self-worth furious that their privileged lives were over, when hordes of others had been spared.
Kafka quickly opened the portal, while Triple C moved to prevent any last minute escape attempts. What came through, however, was not the sucking vacuum of the endlessly hungering void, but a strange combination of belches, groans, shrieks, and farts.
Kafka exchanged puzzled glances with Triple C. Yet even as they braced for rebellion from the angry souls, they saw the disincarnate become transfixed, almost hypnotized by the sounds. Listening, Kafka soon understood the looks of helpless horror taking over the faces of the doomed.
The hellish dyspepsia was not random at all. It was playing Girl From Ipanema. Kafka no sooner recognized the tune than it was interrupted by an automated voice.
We're sorry, all of our demons are currently sated. Please remain in limbo, and the next available destroyer of souls will deal with you as soon as possible. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Girl From Ipanema resumed, segued into Call Me By Your Name, followed by a repeat of the hold apology. As the infernal indigestion swung into Mmmbop, Kafka frantically tried to close the portal.
It was too late. With the half dozen souls stuck in the queue, there was no going back. The insatiable void would not be denied, even if, at the moment, it was overstuffed.
"Because I haven't murdered you yet, my dear," Henry replied, laying down a third helping of biscuits as the dog came out, three blood-red tongues licking three sets of chops. "Come lend a hand here. I've only got two, and he's got three heads."
"Lend a hand for what – oh for heaven's sake!" Charlie was laughing outright, now. Kafka watched in amazement as the fearsome foe of the damned, tongues lolling in matching goofy dog grins, rolled over for belly rubs.
"All your paws in the air," she muttered. "Wavin' like you just don't care. Time to make the rounds," she yowled, "you ferocious monster."
After a final backscratch wriggle on the warm grass, Triple C got to his feet and followed Kafka into what had once been the house's kitchen. It was now a loading bay, where the remains of the day had once arrived to be prepared for their final destination.
The only stuff moving through it these days were groceries in and garbage out. The only cold storage in the building were the deep freezer in one corner of the bay, and the fridge freezer upstairs in the apartment's kitchen.
"We start at the bottom and work up," Kafka told the dog, firmly. "Since the most difficult cases are usually in the basement. Even before this latest mess, they tended to be pretty pissed off. I've heard everything from suicides with daddy issues to executed killers with no regrets except for getting caught."
They started down the stairs, Kafka continuing the briefing. "I rarely found anyone down here, till the plague came. Charlie and Henry got very particular about which jobs they would take, the closer they got to retirement. Now, though, I find someone every time I make the rounds – and I've started making rounds every hour."
"That's not good." Triple C's combined voices were an impressive three-part harmony.
"Neither is what I'm feeling right now," Kafka hissed, pausing near the entrance to the old embalming room. A wall of anger ruffled her fur like a hot wind. Behind her, Triple C growled, a deep, minor chord she could feel through her paws.
Lurking in the basement were a half dozen disincarnated souls, bickering with each other about who deserved to go first. Bragging about who would have the biggest funeral. Most of all, though, angry, their inflated senses of self-worth furious that their privileged lives were over, when hordes of others had been spared.
Kafka quickly opened the portal, while Triple C moved to prevent any last minute escape attempts. What came through, however, was not the sucking vacuum of the endlessly hungering void, but a strange combination of belches, groans, shrieks, and farts.
Kafka exchanged puzzled glances with Triple C. Yet even as they braced for rebellion from the angry souls, they saw the disincarnate become transfixed, almost hypnotized by the sounds. Listening, Kafka soon understood the looks of helpless horror taking over the faces of the doomed.
The hellish dyspepsia was not random at all. It was playing Girl From Ipanema. Kafka no sooner recognized the tune than it was interrupted by an automated voice.
We're sorry, all of our demons are currently sated. Please remain in limbo, and the next available destroyer of souls will deal with you as soon as possible. We apologize for the inconvenience.
Girl From Ipanema resumed, segued into Call Me By Your Name, followed by a repeat of the hold apology. As the infernal indigestion swung into Mmmbop, Kafka frantically tried to close the portal.
It was too late. With the half dozen souls stuck in the queue, there was no going back. The insatiable void would not be denied, even if, at the moment, it was overstuffed.