Deadhead, page 2
Want a girl to like you? Spencer would get you a date.
Need to ace the upcoming chemistry exam? Spencer would supply you with enough answers for a credible pass.
By doing this he ensured he was not only useful to all the school groups but made enough money to help his mum pay the bills. He was also able to put cash aside for a college fund. Spencer knew the only way they would get ahead was if he got a decent education and a well-paid job. His mum did her best but she didn’t have a career or the qualifications required to get one. She worked hard but was paid poorly and, from an early age, Spencer knew he didn’t want to spend his life struggling like his mum or being a waste of space like his father. This attitude kept Spencer strong and focussed but it also gave him a ruthless streak.
Spencer had initially hoped to get a scholarship for college. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to study yet, it would be either medicine or robotics, both were subjects that fascinated him and he’d spent years researching how the human body worked and applying those learnings to robotics. He knew that the first person to effectively replicate a human in mechanical form would make a killing.
And while Spencer was certainly smart enough to get a scholarship he’d recently organised a spectacularly bad date for the daughter of the head of the advisory committee. After that he was pretty sure his chances had dropped to nil. Due to this unfortunate turn of events he was actively looking for work.
Spencer was in the boy’s bathroom when it began. He had just finished conducting a very successful match fixing negotiation with the captain of the school hockey team when Carl ‘Psycho’ Barrington walked in. Carl lived up to his nickname; he was as unpredictable as a wild dog and just as dangerous. The best thing to do when Carl turned up was to get the hell out of there, which was exactly what Spencer was attempting when his arm was taken in a steely grip.
“Where’re you going Langley?”
Spencer turned to face the boy trying to get a measure on Carl’s mood. He appeared relatively calm but with Carl it was hard to tell. Spencer decided on a strategy of complete compliance.
“Nowhere if you need me Carl. How can I help?”
The larger boy indicated that Spencer follow him to the urinal. He bent down and checked under the bathroom stalls as they walked. Once Carl was satisfied that they were alone he lowered his voice to a whisper.
“I’m starting a Burdale Chapter of the Yakuza.”
Of all the things Spencer had expected Carl to say this was near the bottom of the list.
Firstly, Spencer wasn’t aware that the Japanese organised crime syndicate known as the Yakuza was active in Stamport. Secondly, he didn’t think they’d choose the exclusive and upmarket suburb of Burdale as a base if they were. Finally and most surprisingly, Carl wasn’t Asian. In fact, he was about as European as you could get. He had wavy, shoulder length blond hair, cold blue eyes and pale skin. He was built more like a rugby player than an oriental assassin.
However, if Carl wanted to be a Yakuza, Spencer wasn’t about to argue. He answered, barely missing a beat.
“Great idea. I’m in.”
Carl grabbed Spencer by the shirt collar and pushed him against the bathroom wall. “Don’t be stupid. I wasn’t asking you to join the gang. As if! We are gonna be an elite group of feared warriors...” Carl poked a solid digit into Spencer’s skinny chest. “...not scrawny ummm, chicken chested girls.”
As insults go Spencer had heard worse but he knew Carl was better with his fists then he was with his mouth.
“OK,” Spencer replied in his most soothing tone. “What do you want then?”
Carl released his shirt collar and stepped back. “I need a samurai sword.”
“Of course,” said Spencer as if it was the most natural request in the world. “You can’t be a leader of the Yakuza without a sword?”
“Can you get me one?” said Carl with a nod of his head.
Spencer sucked air through his teeth. “It won’t be cheap.”
“How much?”
“At least four hundred.”
Carl took out his wallet and handed Spencer two one hundred dollar bills. “Half now, half when I get the sword.”
“You’ll have it by the end of the week,” said Spencer, now feeling quite positive about the meeting.
• • •
Later that afternoon Spencer visited one of his many business contacts, Jimmy Lee. Jimmy was the manager of The Two Dollar Shop in one of Stamport’s less salubrious suburbs. After some intense negotiation Spencer was able to secure a ‘semi genuine’ samurai sword, which Jimmy had hidden out the back of the store. It cost Spencer twenty five dollars and fifty cents.
Spencer took the sword home, gave it a polish to remove some of the rust from the blade, then repaired and redecorated its sheath, which had definitely see better days.
He presented the hastily renovated weapon to Carl the following afternoon.
“It’s not as fancy as I thought it’d be,” muttered Carl as he examined the tatty black sheath that protected the sword.
Spencer nodded. “Yeah, I thought the same thing but the sensei master I bought it off said ‘the plainer the sheath, the more powerful the sword’.”
Carl pulled at a rotting piece of string that hung from the scabbard. It broke off in his hand. He whistled. “Wow, this must be really powerful then.”
“Yeah,” said Spencer, warming to the task. “It’s called ‘Gut Spiller’ and it was owned by this, like, super ninja dude. He had to rescue this hot princess from an entire army of triads. He wiped em all out using just this sword.” Spencer patted the scabbard respectfully. “Plus a tiger, two dragons and a yeti.”
“Gut Spiller,” murmured Carl in awe. He passed Spencer the rest of the money then grasped the handle of the sword and began to withdraw the blade.
Spencer grabbed his arm. “Don’t do that.”
Carl stopped. His eyes narrowed and a vein pulsed in his neck.
Spencer carried swiftly on. “I heard a Yakuza never removes his sword unless he intends to draw blood.”
Carl held Spencer’s gaze for several, very disconcerting seconds then finally spoke. “Yeah, that’s right.” He pushed the blade back into its sheath, suddenly stopping before it was fully home. He pointed to several rust spots on the steel. “What’s that?”
“Dried blood,” lied Spencer.
Carl gave a satisfied nod and fully sheathed the sword. “I’ll be drawing it tomorrow night anyway at the first meeting of the gang. We’re swearing allegiance so we’ll need to do some finger cutting. You better be there in case anyone has any questions about the sword.”
“Great,” said Spencer, not because he wanted to go but because it was unwise to disappoint Carl, especially when he was holding a sword.
• • •
The first meeting of the Burdale Yakuza gang was held in Carl’s parent’s basement. Spencer had never been to Carl’s house before and was surprised to discover he lived in an outrageously expensive home.
Spencer’s own living conditions were, of course, far less salubrious. His mum’s small but heavily mortgaged house was in the suburb of Lorrigan, which was one of Stamport’s poorer suburbs.
The fact that Carl came from a rich family made Spencer feel better about the outrageous profit he had made on the sword transaction. Not that he was feeling particularly guilty. His mark-up was more than fair when you considered the dangers of having to deal with such a psychotic client.
Spencer was wearing a T shirt featuring an alternative Japanese punk band called ‘Hot Chopped Sushi’ in honour of the occasion but he doubted Carl would notice. He thought the whole Yakuza thing was odd but then he suspected that Carl’s mental stability wasn’t the greatest. These reservations were confirmed the moment he walked into the basement. Carl stood on a raised platform at one end of the room. He was dressed in what were supposed to be oriental robes but looked suspiciously like women’s pyjamas. Behind him were several large red banners that had been splashed with black paint in pitiful attempt at Japanese calligraphy. Oriental lanterns hung from the ceiling and, to add to the cultural confusion, Carl had blue-tacked several Chuck Norris posters to the walls. Gut Spiller sat on a table beside the boy. A large gong had been placed beside it.
Spencer slipped into the rear of the basement and, after having waved an ignored greeting to Carl, made himself as inconspicuous as possible.
While waiting for the ceremony to begin Spencer checked out the rest of the members of the Burdale Yakuza gang. Several of Carl’s meathead school friends were there plus a few other equally dim looking associates. The only person of Asian descent present was Kim Namgung. He ran the school film club. Spencer was sure he was Korean but had been born in Stamport. The boy looked confused.
Once everyone was assembled Carl picked up a drum-stick and hit the gong. A metallic clang drew everyone’s attention to the stage.
Carl stepped forward, bowed and addressed the crowd.
“Welcome prospective members of the Burdale Yakuza gang. What you are about to see may shock you and if you’re easily scared you can leave now.” He paused for effect. A couple of people shuffled but no-one left. “By being here you are sworn to secrecy and can’t tell anyone what happens tonight, on pain of death.” Another weighty pause, then he continued. “First things first. You must all swear blood allegiance to me, as your Yakuza leader.”
Spencer saw a hand raised near the front of the room. It belonged to Malcolm Ward, a large, slow witted boy.
Carl gave an impatient snort. “What do you want Malcolm?”
“Umm I didn’t bring any blood with me to swear on. I didn’t know we had to.”
“You didn’t need to bring blood you idiot. I’ll just prick you with the sword.”
Malcolm nodded. “Oh yeah, course.”
“Right,” continued Carl. “Get ready to bow down before the awesome power of my samurai sword, Gut Spiller.”
With a single fluid motion Carl grabbed the sword from the table, raised it above his head and drew the sword dramatically from its sheath. The blade broke away from the handle, plummeted towards the ground and sliced straight through the middle of Carl’s left foot.
Spencer decided this would be a good time to leave and raced for home with Carl’s piercing scream still ringing in his ears.
Chapter Two
Regan Jane Thomas was not shy when it came to expressing her opinions, of which she had many. She was a strong, independent girl who had been labelled troublesome by those in charge. In fact, the term ‘has trouble with authority’ was applied to her with monotonous regularity. If asked why she had problems with authority Regan would reply ‘because I’m not in it’.
It was this rebellious streak that attracted her to Spencer. Not that they had any option but to become close friends. They lived next door to one another and Regan’s feckless parents dumped her on Spencer’s mother’s doorstep whenever they could. This was normally under the pretence that the kids were of the same age and would be good company for one another. In reality Regan’s parents were simply too lazy and selfish to put their child’s needs before their own. Fortunately, neither Spencer nor his mother minded having her around and before long Regan was a regular fixture in the Langley household.
It wasn’t long before her friendship with Spencer became about more than just proximity. In many ways they were kindred spirits. He was a restless boy with a fierce and misdirected intelligence. And while Regan didn’t possess his mental prowess she did share his thirst for adventure. She also thought he was quite cute in some lights, normally dim ones.
However, there was a fine line between doing something interesting and ending up in juvenile detention. Regan considered the spade in her hand and the policeman’s grave that stood before her. She suspected they weren’t about to cross that line but trample it into the dust.
“Explain why we’re doing this again?”
Spencer responded with irritation. “I told you, I need a bodyguard. And who better to protect me than a dead cop?”
“Let me think,” said Regan raising a finger and sticking it dramatically into the side of her mouth. “How about someone who’s alive?”
Spencer waved her sarcasm away, as if it were a fly buzzing at his face. “The living are unreliable, need sleep and want to be paid. The dead work for free, are much scarier and are on duty 24/7. No contest.”
“So you’re gonna dig up a zombie?”
“I explained this RJ,” Spencer snapped impatiently. He only ever used the initials of her first two names when he was annoyed or wanted something. “There are no such things as Zombies.” Spencer tapped the headstone with his finger. “I have no intention of bringing this guy back to life. I am merely going to get his body moving again using a combination of lubricating fluids and electronics. He won’t be alive but I will be able to control him.”
Regan considered this. “Kind of like a robot.”
“Exactly. Once I’ve finished with him, he’ll be a big, fleshy robot. He’ll give me free round-the-clock protection until I can resolve my current... problem.”
“Question,” said Regan. “Why don’t you just build a robot then?”
Spencer rubbed his ear. ‘I’d have to start from scratch and I don’t have time, also Carl and his mates would have no trouble attacking a robot, right? But there’s no way they’re going to take on a cop, especially a spooky, half-dead looking one.”
“Good point,” said Regan as she surveyed the graveyard. “And you’re sure this will work?”
Spencer pondered this. “Pretty sure, yeah. I’ve been playing around with animating stuff for years. I tested the electronics on mannequins and it worked surprisingly well. The rest is mainly theory but I’m confident.”
Regan thought about zombie-like store dummies lurching around Spencer’s basement and gave a small shudder. The thought was almost more terrifying than an animated corpse. Almost.
The girl looked around the graveyard and noticed several freshly dug plots. “Why’d you pick him?” she asked, desperately putting off the moment when they’d have to start digging.
“Well, for one thing, he’ll be buried in full police uniform so at first glance he’ll look like a real living cop and you never know when that’ll come in handy. That alone should deter even the keenest Yakuza prospect from murdering me in my sleep. Plus he died by drowning but wasn’t in the water for long so his body will be intact.”
Regan watched as Spencer regarded the grave with a calculating eye. “According to his obituary he was an exceptional police officer and a talented rugby player, so he would have been fit and strong. That’s good for us.”
“Jeeze, you can be cold hearted sometimes,” muttered Regan.
Spencer plunged his spade into the loosely packed earth. “Not cold hearted, practical. I’m really sorry this guy got himself killed but he did and there’s nothing I can do about it. At the moment he’s just a body in a grave but if he becomes my bodyguard at least he’ll be doing something, whether he knows it or not. Which do you think he’d prefer?”
“I dunno,” Regan said. “Your argument kinda makes sense, I suppose.”
Spencer snorted. “Of course it does. Now come on, he’s not going to exhume himself.”
After seeing her friend empty the first shovelful of dirt Regan moved to the opposite side of the grave. Spencer’s excavation style was enthusiastic but erratic which meant anyone standing too close risked a shovel blade in the head.
Regan took a deep breath and readied herself to dig. She raised her spade and was just about to plunge it into the earth when a long thick earthworm appeared in front of her. Reagan lowered her digging tool, reached into the dirt, picked up the worm with her short stubby fingers and held it before her face. The worm’s fat pink body undulated as it tried to escape. She placed the worm gently on the grass beside her. This was typical of Regan, she didn’t like popular animals such as cats and dogs. She had a fondness for unlovable beasts instead. She had three pet rats at home – Scrabbles, Red Eye and Bob. She’d left them behind tonight figuring that a cemetery would be too much temptation.
Regan looked up and saw Spencer watching her with barely concealed incredulity. His already thin lips thinned further. “We’re never going to get this coffin dug up if you’re going to rescue every worm that gets in your way.”
Regan gave him a hard stare. “If you don’t like the way I dig, I can always stop.”
“That’s really not much of a threat,” he muttered under his breath.
Regan leant on her spade, making it clear she was on the edge of a full blown strike.
Spencer gave a small laugh and altered his tone to overly sweet. “I mean, you work any way you like RJ. I’m just happy to have you here helping me.”
Regan gave her friend a smile which she hoped was as sickly as his tone then began digging.
• • •
One hour and seventeen rescued worms later; Spencer surveyed their progress with dismay. Even though the dirt had been loosely packed they had still only dug down a few feet. He threw his shovel aside and collapsed on the grass.
“This is hopeless,” he moaned. “We’ll never finish at this rate.”
Regan sank down beside him. She was sweating and breathing hard. “Who’d have thought grave robbing would be this hard!”
