“Scientist seeks compassionate man for experiment. Outstanding compensation,” said the ad in the Los Angeles Times. Desperate for work, Ed grabbed his phone and dialed.

“This is Dr. Zangara,” said a raspy voice.

“My name’s Ed Holden. I’m calling about your ad. What kind of experiment are you conducting?”

“Before I answer, I have a question for you: who played Mother Bates in the movie Psycho?”

“Nobody. She was a figment of Norman Bates’ twisted mind.”

“Correct. You passed the first test. Come to my research laboratory at 59000 Topanga Canyon to take the next test.

Dr. Zangara ushered Ed into a room that looked like a mad scientist’s laboratory. Ed felt unnerved when asked to sit facing a weird-looking machine.

“This machine measures compassion,” Zangara said. “Stick your left index finger into the red slot.”

When Ed complied, Zangara continued. “Good. I’m going to count backward from three. When I say one, think about starving children in the Third World and how sorry they make you feel. Get ready. Three. Two. One. Concentrate.”

Ed pictured himself handing granola bars to horribly emaciated children. Hundreds of lights flashed on the machine.

“Remarkable!” said Zangara. “You’ve generated more compassion than my experiment requires.”

He asked Ed to sign a confidential nondisclosure agreement. The fine print stipulated if he ever uttered a word about the experiment, the scientist would sue. His high-powered lawyers had never lost a case and were experts at ruining lives.

When Ed signed, Zangara said, “Your salary is $5,000 per week. Housing, food, and Corvette provided. Project duration is seven weeks. If it’s successful, you’ll get a $25,000 bonus.”

“Did you say Corvette?”

“Yes. As for meals, I’ve arranged for you to dine in any of Los Angeles’ five-star restaurants. You’ll live here until the experiment is finished.”

“Can I take the car and go surfing at Malibu all day?”

“Go wherever you want. But make sure you’re back here by 11:30 PM to prepare for the experiment. We’ll begin exactly at midnight. It’ll last for 15 minutes each time.”

“What kind of experiment?” Ed asked.

“Physical transfer of high-intensity emotional vibrations. Your task is to hug three, magnificently beautiful 20-year old women for five minutes each. A blonde, brunette, and redhead. They’ll be topless. So will you.”

“Mmm. Very nice,” Ed said. “How come we gotta be topless?”

“Makes it easier for your compassionate vibrations to penetrate their inner cores and transform the molecules of their vital essences. While embracing them, you must arouse your compassion. I suggest you concentrate on miserable, starving, Third World children, since we already know those mental images raise your emotions to incredible heights.”

“Wow! I can’t believe I’m gonna get paid to hug hot, topless babes! Can I see them now?”

“You’ll meet them tonight in their bedroom—at five minutes before midnight. It’s now 4:00 PM. I’ll show you your room. Afterward, you can take the Corvette for a drive. Here’s a prepaid dining card for your meals. Make sure you’re back by 11:30 PM. The experiment begins tonight.”

Ed checked his accommodations, then headed for Malibu.

At 11:30 PM, Ed showered and doused himself with aftershave.

At 11:55, Dr. Zangara led him to the women’s bedroom and opened the door.

“What the hell is this?” Ed yelled, when he saw three naked women lying inside three coffins.

Ignoring the question, Zangara said, “Take your shirt off, Ed. It’s almost midnight.”

“But they look dead.”

“They are.”

“You hired me to hug corpses?”

Zangara smiled. “Exactly. My calculations indicate that embracing them with intense compassion will trigger the cosmic forces necessary to bring them to life.”

“Oh, man. I gotta hug three dead chicks every night for 15 minutes!”

“For 49 consecutive nights,” Zangara said. “Wrap your arms around the blonde. It’s almost midnight. Raise her from the coffin and press her chest against yours as tightly as you can. She’ll probably feel squishy from embalming fluid. While you hold her, make sure you concentrate on fly-covered, starving kids. I’ll set my stopwatch. When I give the signal, put her back in the coffin and hug the brunette.”

Reaching for the blonde, Ed tried to make believe she was alive and had the hots for him.

“Damn! She’s ice cold.”

“What do you expect from a refrigerated corpse? Just think of her as being asleep. If the experiment works, she’ll wake up. When she does, she’ll be warm and in your arms. Her beautiful chest will be pressed against yours. Might excite her. Who knows what’ll happen then?”

The brunette was just as cold. So was the redhead.

“Time’s up,” Zangara said after what seemed like forever. “See you tomorrow evening.”

As Ed raced for the shower, Zangara called, “Make sure you’re back here tomorrow night, or my lawyers will bury you.”

On the final night of the experiment, Ed hugged the blonde extra hard. Nothing happened. Same with the brunette.

When he hugged the redhead, she sighed.

“It’s working!” yelled Zangara.

“But it’s only one out of three,” Ed said, feeling heat rising from the woman’s chest.

“Good enough! Yahoo! I’m going to be famous for reanimating the dead!”

“Can I let her go now?”

“No! Keep hugging her! Four more minutes to go. Keep thinking about emaciated children. If your compassionate vibrations diminish now, the results may be unpredictable.”

“But she’s biting my neck. It hurts bad.”

“Take the pain.”

“But she’s sucking real hard.”

“She’s probably thirsty. She’s been dead five years. Hang on…only three minutes to go.”

Seven seconds remained when Ed collapsed.

The corpse fell back into her coffin.

Zangara checked her pulse, then Ed’s. Both were dead.

“Things are improving,” he said. “Last time, she bit the guy’s neck so hard, his head fell off.”

The next day, he called the newspaper. “I want to place an ad in the Help Wanted Section: Scientist seeks compassionate man for experiment. Must have extremely strong neck.”

___

© 2005 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 124 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

“Casino Bizarro!” yelled a shill. “Newest, biggest, wildest mega-resort in Las Vegas. Free shuttle. Free drinks. Free buffet. Free entertainment.”

“Where is it?” Wilbur asked.

“Other end of the Strip. Step aboard our free shuttle.”

Wilbur, who’d never seen the inside of a casino, decided to go. He craved excitement after attending the Sixth Annual Sunflower Grower’s Convention.

Boarding the shuttle, Wilbur noticed a subtle, floral aroma. It reminded him of The Haven of Devine Rest where his mom’s corpse had lain a month ago.

Instead of seats, the shuttle was filled with coffins. A melancholy, recorded voice instructed passengers to step into one and lie down for the trip’s duration.

“Let’s get the hell outta here, Martha,” an old guy said, squeezing past Wilbur. “I ain’t goin’ for no ride in no damn casket.”

Wilbur chose a cream-colored coffin. A sign taunted, “CLOSE THE LID…IF YOU DARE!”

Wilbur thought he’d try it just for a moment. When he did, he found the atmosphere cozy, womb-like. He felt so content, he kept the coffin closed during the entire trip.

Casino Bizarro reminded Wilbur of a gigantic horror movie set. Thick, cool fog swirled around his ankles. It was so dense, Wilbur couldn’t see his shoes.

Spooky, glowing eyes peered from every surface giving him goose bumps. Tossed dice emitted blood-curdling screams, making him jump. Slot machines moaned as if being tortured. Gaming tables looked like replicas of Dr. Frankenstein’s operating table. Horribly costumed demons dealt cards, spun roulette wheels. Disfigured, scantily-clad women took drink orders.

Noticing penny slots, Wilbur checked the payout. Instead of cherries, sevens, and bars, he saw demons, vulgar words, and pentagrams. The giant jackpot, a million pennies, would be paid whenever GOD IS DEAD lined up on the center pay line.

Wilbur inserted a dollar into the bill acceptor. A hundred credits rang up, each imitating the sound of dispelled stomach gas.

On the first pull, two demon faces and a four-letter word came up. Two pennies fell into the hopper. Extremely pleased with his good fortune, Wilber tried again. Before he knew it, a demon and two f-words came up. That was good for twenty coins.

“Drink, Sir?” asked a hunchbacked woman with eyes imbedded in both cheeks.

“Bloody Mary,” he said, wondering how it would taste.

The slot machine howled like a banshee when three extremely foul words appeared on the pay line. “Hot Damn!” Wilbur yelled when a thousand pennies dropped into the hopper.

“Here’s your drink,” said the waitress. “Would you like me to spray liquid soap in your eyes?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Burns like hell.”

“I’ll pass,” he said, dropping some pennies onto her tray.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Wilbur watched her approach another player. When the guy nodded, she sprayed liquid soap directly into his eyes. He yelled and jumped around like a maniac. After wiping his eyes, he raised a clenched fist and hollered, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

Wilbur saw two men in bloody surgeon’s gowns, pushing a cart full of gigantic syringes.

“Want a shot?”

“What kind of shot?” Wilbur asked.

“Sugar water. You can have it the arm, groin, thigh, backside, or even under your fingernails?”

Shuddering, Wilbur waved them off. He watched them approach a beautiful blonde. Smiling, she slid her jeans and panties down, exposing wonderfully formed buttocks. Shocked, Wilbur almost looked away as she bent over a chair.

She shrieked as they pierced her skin, pressing the needle in slowly. Moments later, she gave them a tip, adjusted her clothes, and resumed playing. She looked Wilbur’s way. “You should try it,” she said. “It’s nice.” Then, raising her clenched fist, she shouted, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

Sickened, Wilbur decided to cash out. When he pressed the cash button, the machine hurled loud, foul invective. It was so filthy, he kicked the machine.

That’s when he noticed a FREE BUFFET sign. Free was his favorite price. It sounded too good to pass up.

When checking the various food stations, Wilbur was amazed at the rich variety. Then he saw a station marked EXOTIC SPECIALTIES. It featured worm sandwiches, freshly killed rodent brains, cow’s blood soup, locust-filled pastries. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

When the server delivered lemonade to his table, Wilbur almost heaved when seeing a small rodent floating on top.

“It’s fake,” the server said. “Made from brown sugar. Enjoy.”

He noticed other diners removing oddities from their drinks. Eyeballs. Grayish blobs. Severed fingers. Pink internal organs.

Some smiled when tasting the adulterations. Someone raised a clenched fist and hollered, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

When he left the buffet, Wilbur bumped into the shill he’d met on the Strip.

“Having fun?” the guy asked.

“Not especially. It’s a bit much for me.”

“Sorry to hear that. Well, maybe you’ll find the show more to your liking. Why don’t you go to the free show? The showroom’s right over there. They’re having a Putrid Zombie concert. It starts in five minutes.”

“I hate rock music.”

“They don’t play rock—only old-time music.”

“No pounding drums and electric guitars?” Wilbur asked.

“Nope.”

Wilbur found the showroom a pleasant respite from the manic casino atmosphere. He was surprised to find he was the only one in the audience.

The moment he sat, a voice announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Casino Bizarro proudly presents…the Putrid Zombies!”

The curtain opened revealing 500 zombie accordionists playing the Beer Barrel Polka, off-key. Wilbur noticed fingers falling off as they performed. Gagging, he rose to leave.

An accordionist dropped her instrument and hurried toward Wilbur. One leg fell off just as she reached him.

“Hey, cutie,” she hollered with breath reeking of jungle rot. “Let’s dance.”

Grabbing Wilbur, she pressed her leaking cheek against his. Hobbling on one leg, she danced him down the aisle toward the stage.

Wilbur couldn’t escape her mighty grip.

She bit hard. Loud music drowned his agonizing screams.

After chewing Wilbur’s face off, she raised her clenched fist and gurgled, “Casino Bizarro rules!”

___

© 2005 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 124 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.