I Clean Up Crime Scenes for the Mob… One of the Bodies Started Talking

"Most people think it's the smell of bodily fluids that would turn them off. Or the sight of those bodily fluids. Or the state, the body is in. None of those things bother me. I've smelled worse, seen worse, witnessed worse. Nah. For me, it's the sounds. The way a dead body gurgles when you move it. The gasses inside shifting around. Where that little bit of air still in the lungs that escapes through the lips when you roll the body over. The dripping sound from a hand dangling out of the bathtub, the bloody pink water drop, dropping onto the vinyl flooring.

That's bad. But what's worse is when the body has been dead for days, and the flies have already set in. You wouldn't think that maggots could be so noisy.

Yet, when you get several hundred of them together for an all-you-can-eat person buffet, the sounds those tiny little jaws make can really add up.

“It's like someone is tearing a million it's see bitsy pieces of paper over and over again. But what really gets me is the wet sucking sound when you have to remove a limb from the joint.”

Then the loud pop, as the joint comes free. Fuck! I hear it in my sleep sometimes. That pop. It'll bring me awake, and I have to get up and walk around by apartment to clear my head before I can go back to sleep.

The sighing we sometimes have to do, or the hammering out of the teeth, or even the clipping off of fingertips, none of that bugs me. That's just the job.

And that's why I shouldn't complain. I have a job that pays well, like really well, and didn't cash, so that Uncle Sam can't take his slice of my pie. Most folks would kill for a steady job that pays cash. Most folks would also run screaming from this job because, in the end, it ain't pretty cleaning up corpses for the mob.

“The things you see, the things you do, the things you smell, and the things you hear.”

This job isn't for the weak of heart, mind, or body. I don't know why, but this little monologue runs through my mind every time I step into a room and start surveying the mess that needs to be cleaned up.

The words turn themselves over and over in my brain. Then they stop. I see what I need to do, and I get to work. That is, if my goddamn cousin would bring the bags up.

I'm not worried about people hearing me. The hotel's manager has been paid to ignore anything, and everything my cousin and I will be doing. The manager also knows where that Watt of Cash came from. He knows that if he double crosses us, he's double crossing the Melanie's family. And one thing you don't want to do in this town is double cross the Melanie's family. Not if you value keeping all your body parts, especially not if you value your family members' body parts. Because the Melanie's family will go for your wife, your daughter, your son, shit.

I've seen a cock or spangled strung up on a lamp post by its guts in order to make a point. Hey Rob, we're out of respirator filters. My shoulders slump as my cousin comes into the hotel room.

“Crap. Sorry. I meant to pick those up yesterday and forgot. You sure were completely out? We don't have one or two?”

Nope. We are out out. But I bet the ones and our respirators are fine. We'll grab some from the lowest after we're done tonight. Like me, Stan was born into this business. His dad, my uncle, and my dad, his uncle, used to clean up after the mob back in their day. But it's not a job for old men, so eventually they retired and brought Stan in me in. I suppose you can say this is our family legacy. It's a bloody family legacy, but still a family legacy. Yeah, the filters we still have should be fine unless things get super messy.

There's an open suitcase on the bed with clothes, spilling out.

“A pair of sneakers next to the air conditioner, a watch on the bedside table, and a half-eaten burger on the small table by the window.”

You checked the bathroom yet? I shake my head. I got it. E-squeezes past me as the hotel rooms door closes. I latched the door, so no one can disturb us. We once had to knock a hotel manager unconscious because he kept "unquote" checking on us to make sure we were okay. After we left, one of the melanysian forces paid the guy a visit.

Turned out, he'd been secretly taking pictures each time he came into the room. Yeah, we were called to clean that mess up too. Holy Mother of God! Stan backs out of the bathroom. His skin, white, as a sheet. He looks at me, and his mouth opens and closes like a stunned fish.

Then his jaw snaps shut. He shakes his head and says like it's no big thing.

Found the body. Pretty bad? Oh no, not pretty bad. I raise a eyebrow. Stan gops. It's the worst. He gops again, tries to swallow, coughs, then shakes his head. We've been doing this a long time, Rob, and I ain't seen nothing like this.

A pit forms in my stomach, and I take a deep breath. What gear do we need? Buckets, a pressure washer, more bleached than God has in his laundry room, and so many towels, so many trails. Damn, alright, I'll have a look. If we need to run out and get more gear, then we will.

Stan grabs my arm before I can step into the bathroom. I'm not kidding, Rob. It's bad in there! I can see the sincerity in his eyes. We've worked together for so many years that I know what it means if Stan so much as twitches a finger, interpreting the look in his eyes not hard. When he says it's bad, he means it's bad.

I steal myself for the horror, and walk into the bathroom. There is no way anyone can prepare themselves for a sight like this. There's a scene in that movie, the silence of the lambs. It's a scene right at the end when Hannibal escapes, and the cops find the other cop all strung up on the bars outside would it been Hannibal's cage.

Except that the dead cop is way more than just strung up. He's been flayed and gutted. It's quite a scene. This is that on steroids. Whoever did this, and I ain't asking because no one's stuff like that is how you do it. This stuff like that is how you end up dead in a hotel room with guys like us coming to clean your ass up.

“But whoever did this, not only took their sweet, sweet time, but I think they enjoyed it.”

Stan and I have met guys like that a couple of times over the years. Mostly, it's just melanesey foot soldiers we run into. But every once in a while, we cross paths with true predators. And even less frequently, we cross paths with pure psychos. This shit was done by a pure psycho.

And if I had to guess, it's the purest of all psychos because this shit is so wrong, just so, so wrong. Does this feel personal to you? I jump in my cousin's voice. He doesn't apologize. He also doesn't laugh. We've been out this too long for either. I don't know what this feels like, but yeah, there's a lot of hate in that violence.

You think he was a snitch, or a rival, or a rival snitch? The man, if you can call him that anymore, has all his limbs, but he's missing a few other body parts.

Basically, everything inside him.

That's on the bathroom floor. But it's what's missing from between his legs that has me worried. Mostly, because his mouth is closed, and his cheeks are bulging. Could it be a snitch, or worse, he's castrated. They do that to snitches. Hard not to notice that.

You see his cheeks? I see his cheeks. Let's not open the mouth if we don't have to. Deal. We stare at the mess. You didn't say what's worse than being a snitch.

I shudder before I answer. Kids, you do something to kids, and this is how you end up.

“Remember that cook-filled job? I try not to, but thanks for reminding me.”

Sorry. I think it's like that.

The tips of his non-skid shoes almost touching the outer edge of the blood that is pulled on the bathroom floor.

I don't know Rob. Maybe. But this one is different.

“He starts to reach out to touch the body. Then pulls his hand back.”

We both have gloves on, but still. Then Stan gets a curious look on his face and leans in. Hey, shine a light, will ya? I pull my mini flashlight out of my pocket and click it on. Where?

Stan points at the dead man's open chest cavity. I aim the beam into the bloody space. We both take a couple of steps back. Did you see them? Yeah. I saw them. They look like symbols.

What are they called? Cigils? Did they look like cigils to you? Yeah. Cigils.

This is more than just some hit. This is more than vengeance or payback or whatever. He goes. This is... But he doesn't finish.

So I finished for him. A ritual. Who was this guy? Why are they doing like this? The body's mouth opens.

And what I feared was inside... ...tumbles out onto the floor. Good questions. You two give me down from here. And help me pack my guts back up and I'll tell ya.

We stare at the body. A body that just spat out its own junk and spoke. We both back out slowly from the bathroom. I closed the door behind us. All we can do is stare at each other.

“Hey, where the hell do you think you do with going?”

Give me the hell down from here. The side of Stan's mouth is twitching. I think he's trying to say something. But his brain is misfiring. I get the feeling.

Hey, I know you can hear me. You're those cleaner guys, right? Well, get your asses in here and clean me up. I got shit to do. Places to be.

People that rip apart. After clearing my throat a few times, I turn to Stan and say, I think I should make a phone call. You don't want to do that.

Trust me. You make that call. Things won't go well for you. Stan laughs. The body's strung up and carved out is giving us work advice.

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That's Shopify.com/dns. That's Shopify.com/dns. I go to my small pellet can case, where I keep my personal possessions while we work. Stan has one too.

This way, our stuff doesn't get anything nasty on it. We used to keep things in the van, but that wasn't practical.

You never know when the melanies are going to call.

I'm doing the latches, I open the case, strip off my gloves and take out my phone.

The damn body's words run through my mind

“as I bring up my contacts and look for a specific number.”

Maybe we shouldn't call. Too late, my finger hits the button, and the phone rings on the other end.

It's answered after the second ring.

Stan watches me with wide, fearful eyes. But why are you calling me? My voice leaves me, and I crow can cough for a second before I get myself under control.

Hey, Rico. I think we got a problem here. Oh, we are here. I don't know your damn schedule. The Morganton Arms.

We're at the Morganton Arms. That's supposed to mean something to me. I don't know. It's what we got called to. Good for you.

And what's this problem? Um, I'm not sure what I can say over the phone. Nothing.

You say nothing over the phone.

“To your job and clean shit up, cleaner boy.”

Yeah, um, about that. This job? It ain't normal. There's like carvings. There's silence on the other end.

Then Rico clears his throat. "Saint nothing else. Talk to no one else. I'll be right over." No, you don't need to.

The phone goes dead. And that go. You get everything all cleared up. Stan's eyes have the same question in them. I try to smile.

I try to do something other than look horrified. Setting my phone back in the pelican case.

I grab a fresh pair of gloves and pull them on.

Rico's on his way. Stan puts a hand against the wall to steady himself. Rico? Rico Melonesey is coming here? That's not good, Rob.

I know. Told you. I told you both not to make that call. Now you're screwed. Stan and I share a look that agrees with the body.

If Rico Melonesey is coming here personally, then yes, yes, we are screwed. But I can get you out of this little pickle. Stan and I share another look. But this time we disagree.

His look says no way are we going to even consider getting help from a talking corpse. My look says, "What choice do we got?" Stan's look changes and says that I have to be crazy to even consider it. My next look says we have to be crazy not to consider it. Because Rico freaking Melonesey is on his way here right now.

We've been working together for a long while and can say a lot without words. When you risk getting bodily fluids in your mouth, you figure out how to communicate without having to speak. Hey, you guys still out there? Yeah, we're still out here.

Good. I know you're both freaking out, which is perfectly normal. But you ain't got much time. Stan shakes his head. No way, Rob.

You cannot be seriously thinking about putting that talking body back together. My choice do we have. A million choices. One is we just clean the damn thing up like we're supposed to. Another is we don't clean it up and we get in our van and we run.

What isn't a choice is that we go in there and try to piece that mess back together because the damn corpse tells us to. That's pure crazy talk, Rob. Hey, Bob. You went wrong to be freaked out.

But if you run, where will you go? You guys got family, right? They're gonna run with you. Because if the melanesi assholes can't get to you, they'll get to you, family.

The talking body is right. Oh. And if you try to clean me up, so you can dump my remains into some incinerator or crematorium that you have on the payroll. Well, I ain't exactly gonna cooperate.

Even if you take me out to the middle of nowhere and bury me in the splendours of nature, I still won't be happy about it. So, go ahead. Come in here, cut me down from this shower rod. Remove my limbs and bag me up.

Let's see how that goes for you. Christ, could we do Rob? We wait for Rico. I made the call. What happens happens.

I mean, he'll get here and see what we're dealing with. And that'll be that. Hard to deny a talking corpse. What talking corpse?

“You think I'll perform for you like a goddamn trained monkey?”

I ain't saying shit when Rico gets here. You can spell whatever crazy talk you want. But there won't be no proof and no pudding to get what I'm saying. How are you gonna explain a talking corpse if the corpse refuses to die? I want to vomit.

The damn thing has us by the balls.

“If Rico gets here and all there is is a body strung up from the shower rod,”

and we're just standing here with our dicks in our hands. Well, whatever other cleanup crew they have on deck will most likely be cleaning stand in me up by tomorrow morning. God damn it! You shouldn't have made that call, Rob.

I point at the bathroom door. My face heating up with anger. I can feel the flush in my cheeks and the heat in my belly. My pointing hand shakes with rage, and I let it fall to my side.

My fingers grip the material of my plastic coveralls. I have to force myself not to rip through the material as I try to make sense of it all.

I finally get myself under control

and respond in as calm a voice as I can muster. The damn body is talking to a stand. It's bad out its own junk, and is speaking to us through the bathroom door. You don't think that warranted a call? You think we should have what?

Just handled it ourselves? Just kept on like everything as business as usual? Stan furrows his brow and looks away. His shuffles his feet. The little plastic booties we use to cover our shoes,

crinkling in the silence. Listen, Stan. We have to make a decision. If that asshole in there doesn't cooperate, and talk when Rico gets here,

then we're going to look like freaking loons. And freaking loons are liabilities. And liabilities get... I know what happens to liabilities rob! It's a goddamn job to clean up after those liabilities have been handled!

Shugging my shoulders,

I hold my hands out and widen my eyes

in the universal gesture of. So what's the problem? I don't know what the right call is. Me neither, Stan, me neither. But we don't have much of a choice.

You ain't wrong, man, pal? Stan's face scrunches up with anger, and he yanks the bathroom door open. Okay, this is how it's going to go. You're going to tell us everything from start to finish.

Why'd you end up in here? Why'd they mutilate you like this?

“Why'd they carve goddamn sigils into your goddamn chest cavity?”

And if you think you're on the up and up and not full of shit, then we'll decide to help you or not. You helping me is you won't help in yourselves. Just say 'em, pal. Watchin' the corpse's mouth move,

and hearing words come out of that mouth when there are no loons left to even push air that direction

is about to make my brain break.

Screw it. Let's put the poor bastard back together again. I mean, we gotta do something before Rico gets here. Great! You got any glue or duct tape? Because you're gonna need it.

All that awful down on the ground ain't just gonna stick itself back together. We have some duct tape in the van. I'll go get it. Before I can object, he bales out of the hotel room door,

leaving me alone with the talking corpse. So I get to work, separating the bloody bits, and fleshy pieces into piles that I think should go together. The body watches me the entire time.

That's some good sorting, pal. I bet you were the kid who put his legos

“in baggies according to shape, type, and color.”

I'm alright. Yeah? So, I bet you were the kid who tortured squirrels and poisoned the neighbor's dog. Am I right?

Here you got me, pal. Clock my number right away. I stand in stretch, pushing my bloody hands into my lower back. What the hell did you do to deserve this?

And what the hell is this? I waved my hands at the corpse. Is this voodoo? Devil worship? What?

The corpse shrugs? I'm back out of the bathroom again. I didn't know it could move like that. Ah, come on. Stop being such a chicken shit.

You do it with dead people all the time, right? I pause the nod. That's all I am, pal. Just another body. That talks.

A body that talks. Well, yeah. There's that. And if you get me put back together before Rico gets here, then I'll tell you everything you want to know.

I don't believe you. Stop, man. Any other time I applaud you for your caution. But does this look like any other time? Before I can reply,

stand bursts through the hotel door. A role of duct tape in each hand. His eyes are wide and he's breathing hard. He turns to me with a panicked look. Rico is here.

What? Already? Somebody's an eagle, beaver. Shut up. What do we do?

Stand looks down at the duct tape. I follow his gaze. We hurry. Which is what we do. Hurry.

I take a roll and stand takes a roll. And we attack the corpse like we're trying to fix a leak in a sinking boat.

to keep it in place.

“Stand comes behind me and wraps duct tape all around the guy's torso,”

sealing in what I had just put in place.

It's messy and disgusting. But we get the body into a semblance of one piece. Then I look down at the floor and see what we haven't attached yet. What had come out of the body's mouth? No, not me.

That's all you. Are you shitting me? I'm not doing it. Someone has to. That's someone is you.

Screw that. I am not. My words are cut off by loud banging at the hotel room door. Hey, I can hear you driving with it there. Shut the hell up and open this down door.

You're almost over the door.

You still have a hole in your back. You just have to do something. And then you have a hole in your back. No, no.

“I'm not like that. I'm like my safe space.”

Do you want to know everything? Yes, exactly. I'm like that. The door is empty. The guard is on the studio, the job or the room.

It's empty. I don't feel like I'm standing. The door is empty. Save. With what?

There's a world. In the back of the house. A book in the room. And a book. A book.

This world is built as a big prison. In the middle of the real life. The war begins. A more open-tempered prison. The war is a big prison.

They're doing this. Rico can be one. Yes, they're the one for bitch, as you both know. I frown at the duct taped Frankenstein looking corpse. What do you know about Rico? Who are you?

Do not make me get this damn door in. Stan is shaking with fear. But he grabs the door knob and yanks the door open. Rico walks into the hotel room as if he owns the place. And for all I know, he probably does.

There's probably a reason all this went down here. One of you better explain some shit right now. Rico's a big guy, not fat, but big. Over six feet with broad shoulders, long arms and fists like dumbbells. His black hair is dyed and slipped back.

The leather jacket he wears is probably tailored. His jeans are designer and probably cost as much as I make per clean up job. But what stands out most are his eyes. Small, black, intense. He turns those eyes on me.

You, a guy who called me, talk. I open my mouth, but I'm immediately interrupted. Rico, my guy, great to see you! Rico frowns, then turns his attention toward the bathroom. He blinks several times, shakes his head and blinks again.

He side eyes me. You still for tape recorder or something in there? That's why there's all that duct tape. You think this is funny? Some prank on me?

Stand and I stammer over each other. He's trying to profess our innocence while we desperately explain what has happened since we walked into this goddamn room. Rico's right fist snaps out, and I feel pain exploded my nose. I stagger back and put my hand in my face, feeling the heat and wetness already. Rico sneers. He looks at Stan.

You wanna pop, too, Stanley? No, sir, Mr. Melonese. Mr. Melonese is my pop name. You call me Rico.

“Oh, man. How many times have you said that to some sad sack you're about to put in the ground?”

Hey, Rico. Get a new line, Pat. Your stick is getting old. Rico had been reaching for Stan's collar. He's not reaching anymore. His whole body is rigid. He side eyes me again. And you do that. He looks around, furious. You got someone else in here. You got a speaker tucked in that body with someone talking from a phone or something?

Robert, I gave you a love pop from my fist before. You don't tell me what's one in two seconds, and the next pop will be from my pistol putting around in your skull. Jesus Rico. You've been using that line forever, too. Time to retire, Pat.

Rico storms into the bathroom, and without hesitating, he jams a hand, move the duct tape, and into the body. He rummages around, grumbling the whole time. Stan and I watch our hard work spilled back out onto the bathroom floor. That tickles.

Rico jumps back, his fists up, always ready to fight.

Recognition flares, and he steps back.

Mickey rats? You ain't supposed to be the one here. No pal, I ain't.

“But when opportunity strikes, you go forward, am I right?”

The corpse shutters, and one of the arms draped on the shower rod twitches, snaps its bindings then comes loose. Tilting the whole body at an odd angle. Rico lets out a strangled cry of fear. Stand us, too. I'm mute, and perfectly still, afraid I'll piss myself if I even breathe too hard. The corpse's other arm comes loose, and the whole body falls to the floor, landing right next to its missing junk.

Slowly, the corpse pushes up onto its hands and knees. Its size, then it grabs onto the back of the toilet, and hoist itself up onto its feet. Hunched over, the dead face spreads into a grin. I'm going to enjoy this! At the same time, Rico pulls his piece from inside his leather jacket.

The body leaps at the man, wrapping its fingers around Rico's throat.

The body shoves him out of the bathroom, so that his back slams into the closet doors. The gun goes flying, gone under the bed. The closet doors splinter, and the two are lost from my sight. Then Rico is thrown out of the closet. He slams into the wall next to the bathroom in crumples, his face bleeding profusely.

With bloodshot eyes, he looks up at me. Stop! Him! Oh, there ain't no stopping this Rico!

“Nah, I've been playing in this for a long while!”

The body bursts from the closet, and pounces onto Rico. Rico slaps at the corpse, but it has no effect at all. He might as well have been slapping it concrete.

The body scoots forward, pushing its knees onto Rico's shoulders,

pinning the man to the floor. Rico starts to scream, but that is cut off as the body jams its hands inside Rico's open mouth. Stan and I watch in horror, as the corpse spreads Rico's mouth wider, wider, and wider, until there's a loud crowd. I'd look away, I'd run.

I'd grab Stan and leave this place and drive and drive until we're somewhere no one knows us. But I don't. I can't tear my eyes away from what is happening. The body shoves its hands, then its forearms, then its biceps into Rico's ripped wide jaw. But it doesn't stop there.

It keeps shoving and shoving, pushing its head inside, its shoulders, its chest. In seconds, the body is only a pair of legs twitching and flapping from between Rico's lips.

“Two seconds after that, the tips of the body's toes slither in.”

And that's all there is. Debody is gone. Gone inside Rico. Stan screams and runs from the room. I go to follow him, but a hand grabs me by the ankle, and I fall to the floor.

Rico has a hold of me in a staring straight into my eyes. When he opens his mouth to speak, it's not Rico's voice coming out. Thanks for making all that happen pal. It took some coordination of my part, but it all worked out fairly flawlessly. I kick free and scoot on my ass so that my back is up against the wall.

The Rico thing, whatever it is, slowly stands up, stretches from side to side. Pen smiles. Yeah, this will do. It'll get me inside their place. Then I'll take every last Melanesi out.

The organizational thing Rico did it. They'll hunt him down. But I'll be long gone by then. All they'll find is Rico's husk, rotting away. The Rico thing snaps its fingers and points at me.

Maybe you and your pal will get the job cleaning at all up when I'm done. Putting that be ironic. Cousin. What? Stan's not my pal. He's my cousin.

The Rico thing nods. It's good to work with family. He claps his hands together. Speaking of, I'm going to go tear Rico's family apart now. Probably won't be seeing you again pal.

So, thanks for the assist. I don't know what else to do. So I reply with, you're welcome. The Rico thing checks its pockets and pulls out Rico's keys. It gives me a wink and then leaves.

What the hell just happened? I have a shit ton more questions. Dozens, hundreds. But in the end, I know I won't ask any of them. In this business, you keep your head down, your mouth shut,

and you definitely don't ask questions. And after watching all this shit go down, I think I'm more afraid of the answers than the questions anyway.

and walk out of the hotel room to go find Stan.

“I'm pretty sure both of us could use a drink,”

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