Short Story: The Deadest Man Alive

 by O'Keefe

  Literally, I am the deadest man alive. No one on this dear earth is deader than I. What makes me so dead and yet still living is the fact that much of me was blown to Death by a well-timed capsule explosion. What happened was, while I was fighting in some war God knows what it was all about, the enemy - whoever they may have been - had engendered a regular Trojan Horse by sending us our own nation's capsule with a mess of  explosives in it. I was lucky to be so far away as that doorways opened. All soldiers within a twenty-foot radius were vaporized, whilst I was thrown into a wall - minus my arms and legs. Of course, bionics had saved me, and now I look like a regular dude. Rubber was placed over the steel and aluminum of my limbs, and it looked and felt very much like skin. It was from China, of course, so I could probably hide a bomb in myself and fool the x-rays, what with all that lead in the paint.           
  Since my closely-fatal accident, I've been keeping out of war. I don't understand them, really. I do, however, understand urban gangs. I am now part of one of the largest and most respected gangs in the country of Versuge. I am actually vice-president, second only to the mob boss himself, Gustave de Grendel.
We're as close as a child is to his mother - if the child hated her. But hey - at least I'm next in line.
  Anyways, we often gather on Saturday evenings, conflicting with my bowling tournament, and so for a rather special meeting I was a little late. I burst into the conference room one eight o'clock at night to find the gang lolling around,watching episode sixty-seven of Star Wars: The Force Goes Back to Sleep. They dared not to begin without me, even though President Grendel was with them. The gavel was reserved specifically for me to slam.
  The specific conference room we situated ourselves in was atop the Pinnastro Spire, the tallest building in the whole wide world. A tall, thin working of light weight aluminum,it reached over five thousand floors, and had to be supported by strong magnets at the base. That's why folks like me couldn't go too close to the bottom of this fine structure. We were at the very tip of it; a pyramidal room wrought from glass, overlooking the world. The horizon seemed so small from here. I could even see the Schmutz Cube from here; the energizer of all Versuge. That Cube (it well-earned the capital "C") was what transmitted the electricity to everything in the country, from the space jets and cruisers to a child's play thing. It also transmitted electricity to me. I had no need of batteries, nor of recharging myself. The Schmutz Cube did that all for me. I did have to pay a hefty bill, though. 
  But the view wasn't the reason why we chose this monumental hideout. The reason was this: right below our very feet, in one of the highest rooms, second only to ours, was the President of the dear country of Versuge's office cubicle. President Gladiator was at this very moment doing his things (which largely consisted of doing nothing) and while he would have the SSSS ("Super Special Secret Service") check the room for bugs, we would just cut a hole in the floor and look right down at him. Sometimes we would even drop things on his head and then cover the hole quickly before he looked up and saw us. That's basically how we got our jollies around here. 
  Anyways, as I burst into the room, my bowling sneakers a'squeaking, Grendel looked up from Dark Sith Lord Spooky Scary being diced by a lightsaber (which had one too many blades sticking from it) to see my glorious self perspiring before him. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "Where've you been?"    "You know the answer all too well," I replied, tossing my bowling ball atop one of my comrades. Needless to say, he howled. "Why don't you just schedule the meeting on another day? Any other day would suffice."
  "Can't," replied Grendel stiffly. "I help the elderly all other weekdays."
  "Why not Sunday?" I challenged. "I know none of you are church-going folks."
  "That's the day I visit my mother, God rest her soul."
  "Hmph."
  "I wish I had a lightsaber," commented Gregory McGuffin wistfully, staring at the sickly-intricate light sabers flashing on the three-dimensional, holographic screen. I now take the time off for a welcome tangent. When in the course of human events had someone not desired a lightsaber? Although much in Star
Wars is now obsolete, the idea of the lightsaber, along with its makings, is yet to be obtained. A certain Lenard Church, a lofty politician, poured millions of voters' money into the project of making one (his campaign slogan was "Who Wants a Lightsaber?"). His scientists had already contained enough power in a single metal tube to emit a beam of hot laser for one hour - and that exactly. It had to be recharged then - thankfully the Schmutz Cube did all that. But the streak of light did not cease at an assigned point; rather, it extended forever, becoming frightfully frail after a meager distance of five feet. Church's men realized the beam had to be contained in a vacuum, or a ring of laser closely bound together. These men of science quite frantically searched for the mysterious way in which to accomplish their ideas, which Church coined as "the Force". He merely desired a simple blade, unlike many on the show, the majority of which reaching into higher dimensions.
  Anyway, back to the story. With a wave of his massive hand, Grendel turned the film off.
  "Oh, come on, dude!" complained Rasputin Mendel, a portly man with bionic chicken feet.  "Quiet, underling!" barked the man known as Grendel. "The gavel is about to be sounded!"  I sounded it.
  "This meetings now in session!" said Grendel. "Please take a seat."  All took a seat.
  "Now", he continued, "let us discuss the topic for this evening, shall we?"  "Where's Portamenteau?" asked McGuffin, looking around the room quickly.
  "He was caught loitering at the vending machines," I explained hastily. "He was trying to exchange a slug for a candy bar. He has five years now."  "Oh nuts," muttered McGuffin.
 "Hey dudes," interrupted Larry Lakavoila, checking a news warning on his phone, which appeared as a small holographic screen hovering over his wrist. "It appears a meteorite is scheduled to crash into the city."
  "From the Duncan Debris?" I asked. He confirmed my answer with a slight nod, as if he were about to puke. The Duncan Debris was an asteroid that was blown up many years ago by ancient North Korea, which was trying to nuke the moon instead. Now, the asteroid, formerly known as Duncan, was a collection of rocks heading out in a ring. Every decade or so a rock from the explosion would either hit earth or burn up in the atmosphere. Once, it hit a satellite, causing it to spin out of control. Thus an alien scare was born.  "The meteorite is supposed to land sometime tomorrow night," continued Larry. "Or it'll miss us completely. But we're supposed to bring our umbrellas just in case if it hits tomorrow."         
  "Should have hit at bowling," I muttered. "We lost; ninety eight  to seventeen. I was doing perfectly, but old man Tarkov had to mess it up!" 
  "The blame can't all be on Tarkov," said McGuffin knowingly, raising his fake eyebrows at me.
  "People, please!" interjected Grendel harshly. "We have a meeting to uphold! Now down to business!"
  Clearing his throat, he looked at his holographic index cards and said, "Now, as we all know, Vice
President Nero is visiting the slums tomorrow to host a fundraiser. As we also know, Nero and President Gladiator do not get along well with each other. So much so that we decided to cause a- ah, scandal, if you will."
  And from his automaton pal he he produced a knife. It wasn't just any knife. In appearance it was a beauty, in use a tool of Death.
  "One of us will stab Nero with this, then clean it thoroughly- and obviously- and return it to the president's cabinet- the wooden kind, I mean. This is his inaugural knife, so of course everybody knows about it. We will not leave it at the scene of the crime, for that is much too obvious, nor will we discard of it, for if the president recognizes the knife's absence before the body is discovered, this could make him innocent in  some's eyes. 
 "Now, this knife will leave a definite mark, one caused by only an inaugural blade. Plus, Gladiator's fingerprints will be all over the body, so that will serve against him. We'll make it look like a fight broke out."
  "But sir," pipped up a massive monster-of-a-man named Pipsqueak. "What would this do to help us?"          "Good question," replied Grendel. "Nothing I do is without a hedonistic cause. If the Vice President is dead, and the president's in jail, who do you think will become he next president?"
  "Ummm...you?"
  "No, stupid! The House Speaker, that's who! Martin O'Malley, to be precise. And believe me when I tell you he's so weak it almost seems as if he's sympathetic to our cause!"
  Grendel found it appropriate to pause for a moment to release a demonic laugh. Then he purged his parched throat with a Somalia Sundae. Then he continued. "Whilst the trial endures, our escapades will be promptly ignored. After all, the president isn't accused of murder every day, you know. The whole world will be jabbering on about it, in fact. You'll be sick of hearing about it in a week, trust me."
  After a chorus of chuckles, Big Dummy, the brains behind the organization, asked, "Oh, but sir! Who will conduct this assassination?"
 "Our most experienced assassin," replied Grendel, grinning up at me. Indeed, I was the most arduous gangster they had; I was especially adept at things like this. You can thank my military background. I didn't exactly want to kill Nero, even though I didn't have any beef with anyone else killing him. But it was in the job  description.
  I spent the entirety of the next day casing the Vice President's hotel room. He was staying at the Hotel de la Stinks, in room 5529. I disguised myself as a simple maid and looked around the room. I knew what exit to enter. I set my bionic fingerprints to President Gladiator's, hen tested my video jammer to see if it was still in working condition. It was. I was ready.
  Nero's penniless fundraiser ended around nine o'clock at night, and he went up to his hotel room to conk out. I scaled the building's wall with my magnetic, bionic limbs, and although it took a decent amount of time, I finally made it up, and wiping an ocean of perspiration from my brow, I reached for my video jammer and turned it on. Now, all cameras within a fifty foot radius were blacked out.
  Upon looking through the window, I discovered the Vice President to be eating supper alone, whilst sorting through some holographic files. The soup he was eating- tomato soup- was hovering in a bowl shape over the table, caught by a tractor beam. His water was much the same.
  I climbed into a window that, for some weird reason, led into a closet. I dissolved the glass with a quiet beam of laser, then clambered in. Standing straight up, I fixed my loose beret and pencilled in my fading mustache. This was the moment, I told myself. I withdrew the President's knife, then opened the door, making sure my false fingerprints were caught onto it.
  On my entrance, Vice President looked at me, startled. Standing up, roughly banging the table, he shouted, "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Then he caught the glint of the blade. "Guards!" He yelled, frantically jabbing at a holographic button in the air. But it, along with the cameras, was out of commission. He then rushed at me, but I banged him aside, into the shelf. Instruments fell upon him, and he covered his his head with his arms to prevent any brain injury that might occur due to them.  This was the moment, I told myself. This is it. If I kill him now, the whole nation would be in upheaval. As Nero timidly looked up at me, I raised my blade, shining in the moon light.
  Remember, at the beginning of this tale, when I revealed to you I was the deadest man alive? It's true, and a nuisance at that. Having bionic limbs is cool and all, but it does have its downfalls.
  For I froze. I tried to bring the knife to the helpless man, but my arms simply would not obey me. Nor my legs. Then the reason finally dawned on me, as it does for a chicken pondering his life when he first catches sight of the rotisserie. I found such a realization upon looking out the window. The horizon was blacker than a black beverage. Every cheery light was obliterated into darkness, and with a plummeting stomach, I knew why. The meteorite that happened to be scheduled to crash had met its appointment quite accurately. The space rock had met earth by crashing into what gave the entire country its power: the Schmutz Cube. That particular structure happened to give my bionic limbs the helpful ability to move. Without it, I was as frozen as Frosty himself.
  Needless to say, this was not ideal.


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