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I got the idea for this story off of the scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta accidently shoots that Marvin guy in the face and they have to call 'The Wolf' to clean the murder scene up. I thought it would be a cool idea to make a character who is in charge of such a service. Tell me if this prologue sparked your interest..

Foreword

Hello, my name is Jon Ables. I serve as the manager and co-founder for Corpse Clean-Up Incorporated, a service which has been operating under the public's nose for nearly seven years now. We are a small cluster of highly trained proffessionals, and we are good at what we do.

Garbagemen haul away garbage, mailmen deliver mail, and Corpse Cleaners collect corpses. When viewed in this respect, we are no different than your everyday sanitation worker. Let your rage get the best of you and wind up killing some dumb smhuck? Hey, we understand. Accidental murders happen. Besides, we're here to take care of your problem, not pass judgement.

And cleaning up your mess is exactly what we do, might I add in no time flat. Your average cleaning typically takes anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes, more if it was a messy one. I remember a client who somehow managed to fit half his wife down the garbage disposal before he thought of calling us. That was a messy one..

Anyway, if you want to go into details about our clean-up procedure, the first thing we do is arrive at our client's house in our pattenated "Corpse Mobile" - A 1987 white van twice rusted over and packed with every cleaning agent, nuetralizer, and scented deoderizer imaginable. From there, we gather basic information such as body count, any possible witnesses, and, of course, collecting the money up front. After the yacking comes the actual cleaning. By the time we are done picking the brain matter out the rug, wiping the blood smears off the wall, and de-smudging all finger and footprints, the place is so emmaculate one could eat off the floor. Not that they'd want to, mind you, someone was probably just murdered on it.

The body itself is placed in the mobile and carted off to my pal Fat Vinny's private junkyard. Fat Vinny is a little skitzo and a real prick, but he's the only guy willing to use his industrial trash compactor to crush bodies into little red meat squares and then fry the aforementioned meat squares in his private incinerator.

The process is done real smooth-like. We all split the money in the end and nobody's the wiser - Not the victim's family, not the fat oinking police force, nobody.

So, that's the big secret as to how I earn my keep. The pay is good, hours short, and I go home each night knowing that I have truly helped someone in their hour of need... or just charged them a small fortune to crush up a dead body and incinerate it. It's all a matter of perspective, really. Either way, it puts food on the table and greenbacks in my wallet. That is, until my entire franchise came crashing down, and I became the pinnacle of a nation-wide manhunt.

__________________
"The best way to control people is not to want to control them in the first place."

 

Shaman

lmao.

"Do you see a sign that says 'dead n*gga storage?!'"

__________________
It seems like we are either sleepwalking through our waking state or wakewalking through our dreams.

I_Love_Nugs

You sure you did not get this idea from insomniac? Dave goes out with Neal who owns crime scene cleaners Inc. Its quite ironic, being that Neal said he got the idea from watching Pulp Fiction.

Stewpad

Really? It appears that Pulp Fiction is the source of many people's inspiration! I am not too familar with Dave's Insomniac. I mean, I've seen a few episodes, but not the one where he goes out with Neal. Odd..

jaydawg

no doubt about it, Pulp fiction is one hell of a movie, good story too.

__________________
"Instead of a war on povery, they got a
war on drugs, so the police can bother me"

- Makaveli

 

Stewpad

Chapter One

The beginning of the end started ordinarily enough. I woke up at 12:00, rolled over, and noticed the blue-eyed blonde with luscious red lips and peach-scented perfume was no longer with me. 'That's okay', I remembered thinking, 'The sex wasn't all that great last night anyway'. Besides, today was Monday, beginning of a new work week. The last thing I needed to kick off my afternoon was a lengthy explanation to a misty-eyed girl as to why last night was only a one-night stand.

I sat at the bedside, briefly recounting last night's sexual exploits while stretching the muscles in my back and neck. Finally, after rubbing the sleep from my eye, I ventured into the bathroom to shower. My black suitcase lay clasped on the sink. I clicked it open and withdrew my four peice Armadi "power suit", black, just like the case, laying each expensive item out on the bathroom counter while humming to myself. I turned the water on, shaving in the mirror while it warmed up, and then stepped inside. It felt good.

Afterwards, I took the elevator downstairs, ate a quiet breakfast in the cafe section and checked out of the hotel in the lobby area. The outside smog hit me full-force immediately after opening the door. I was standing atop a gigantic marble stairway, black suitcase in hand, the whole city buzzing before me. Mobs of people pushed by as I descended the stairs towards the taxi circle in Park Avenue, each person too concerned with their own daily routine to take any notice. That was the way I liked to think of myself, a nameless, nearly invisible face in a sea of anonymous nobodies. It was how I operated. How I thrived.

I retrieved my cell phone in mid-stride, giving my tie an extra-quick adjust before dialing a number I had dialed countless times before. It rang twice, an emotionless voice on the other end answering,

"Ross Jackford mortuary."

"Ross, it's Jon." I told him. "I'm coming over."

Perhaps before I go any further I should explain just why I was heading towards the morgue. It was a place I frequented often, and not because I have lots of dead relatives, although that is true as well.

One thing you could probably guess about Corpse Clean-Up Incorporated is that when business is slow, we have to take matters into our own hands. Afterall, this isn't exactly a service you can adveritise on the radio to bring in more clientelle. So, when the customers won't come to us, we have to come to them. And we do come to them, with a dead body from Ross' morgue nicely splayed out in their livingroom. And for a reasonable fee, we will quite generiously remove the said body from their home to Fat Vinny's incinerator. Obviously, the client could call the cops, so we have to target a person with a fairly long criminal history that we know has incriminating evidence that they can't afford to have the police find. It's a dirty tactic, I know, but I think of it like this - I need money. Simple as that.

Traffic was heavy so what should've been a fifteen minute ride turned into a forty-five minute one, much to the cab driver's delight I'm sure. I paid the pock-faced Arab his thirty-eight dollars and fifty-two cents and exited the vehicle, making my way up Jackford mortuary's cobblestone walkway and pushing open the glass double-doors.

Ross' waiting room smelled like the dentist's office, old magazines and disinfectant, which isn't much sweeter smelling than the actual morgue section itself, I guess. I walked to the front desk, told the gum-smacking receptionist that I had a meeting with Ross Jackford, and, after a quick buzz on the intercom, was told to take the short walk down the hall, past the one-person bathroom, to his office.

Ross' meek, pinched face looked up at me from behind oversized spectacles, the corners of his thin lips slightly turning upwards in an expression that had always reminded me of a cracked out lab rat. He was comfortably seated in an expensive looking brown leather chair placed behind an even more expensive looking mahogony desk, cluttered with papers and dimly lit by a single desk lamp. A small computer screen flickered behind him on some webpage I couldn't make out.

"Mr. Ables." He greeted me, sweeping a skeletal hand towards a hard wooden chair. "Take a seat, please."

I did as instructed, covering my knees with both hands. The material of my pants felt cool and assuaging.

"What brings you here?"

"Business as usual." I said with a small smirk. "Needed another body. Figured you'd have one laying around."

"I might." He said, returning my grin with a version of his own. He leaned forward, fingers interlocking over the desk. "Four-hundred and fifty dollars, up front if you don't mind."

I considered his offer for a few moments, finally nodding to myself as I reached into my back pocket and retrieved my leather wallet. I pulled a fairly fat wad of hundreds, thumbed out five and plopped them onto his desk. I could practically see his mouth watering at the mere sight of money.

"Sorry, only got big bills. I'm sure you won't mind keeping the change."

"Not at all." He replied, smiling as he folded the bills and placed them in his desk drawer. He began to rise, "Shall we then?"

I held up a finger, "One moment. Got to make a call first."

I dialed the number for Ox. He answered after the first ring.

"What's up, boss?"

"I need you to bring the Corpse Mobile to Jackford's Mortuary." I said, only realizing the play on words after they escaped my mouth. "Pull around the back, and bring Jimmy, Frank, and Rick with you, too."

"Sure thing."

I folded the phone and put it in my breast pocket.

"Okay, let's go."

Ross opened a door on the far wall and dissappeared into a pitch-black doorway. I followed the morgue owner down a creaky set of wooden steps that sounded like they would crack away at any moment. At the bottom of the rotted steps was a grey door, ugly, barren, and mildew-ridden just like the rest of this backroom. Ross unhooked a large keychain hoop from his belt loop, fumbling with a few sets of keys before unlocking the door. He opened it and took a step inside, me close behind.

After pulling on a draw string, a bare lightbulb revealed the musty area beyond the doorway to be the size of someone's garage or basement. The air reeked of staleness, like an avid football viewer's worn couch cushion crammed with three years worth of bacterious beer farts. The walls were all divided into squares, each square with a number and a handle, like a massive filing cabinet. Ross walked over to a square marked 'OD3' and yanked on the handle, pulling out a rectangular holding cell that creaked open with an ominous groan. We stood on either side of the box and peered downwards at the mangled body within.

"Car accident victim." Ross said, his voice almost as distant as his eyes. Sometimes he really scared me. Then again, I sent dead bodies off to be char-broiled for a living. "Was crossing the road one night and got smashed by an eighteen wheeler. Flew over the top and skidded about thirty meters across the asphalt. We were picking peices of road and broken glass out his skull for hours. No identification on him, still don't know who he is."

A brief silence haunted us as I stared into where the corpse's eyes should have been if his face wasn't caved him. Everything about his death looked atagonizingly painful, the multiple lacerations, the way his arm was bent all the way back the wrong way.. Soot-covered hair, lack of an ear -

"Yours for four-fifty."

"Five hundred." I corrected him.

"Right."