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You find yourself on a familiar lot. Devoid of life and all things that make it whole. The hanged (man) mercenary smiles at you from his resting place.
Hanged-Man: “Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry… Back so soon?”
Volition: Jesus, not this again.
Hanged-Man: “Missed me, did ‘ya, Harry-boy?”
The body before you is more alive than ever. He swings on his noose, a child giddy under the sun. You think you can imagine how putrid he smelled the day you vomited under his feet. How the vortex of his mouth, his skull – felt, closed around your fingers.
Endurance: Hard to forget something like the insides of another man.
Half-light: Yeah, you sure taught that fucker a lesson in keeping shit from you. Who does he think he is?
Espirit de Corps: You will never forget the look on the lieutenant’s face either.
Drama: It was magical.
Hanged-Man: “Lost in thought as always? Rude. Ah, but that’s what makes you – you, Sir Can-opener. Or is it Tequila Sunrise, now?”
You swallow bile down your throat. Phantom sensation of your insides being emptied on the ground. You gag around the memory of it, the taste building on your tongue, coating the inside of your mouth. His bulging red eyes continue to stare – unblinking. There’s black tar on the edges of his wide, toothy grin – a starving coyote in your dreams.
Hanged-Man: “Well? Which is it?”
“That’s lieutenant double-yefreitor Harrier Du Bois to you, dead man.”
Hanged-Man: “Oh ho! Look who grew a pair!”
It occurs to you that the dead man in question is speaking yet isn’t. His lips remain a terrifying curve, they don’t shape around his howling, condescending laughter.
Physical Instrument: Stick your hand in his mouth again and don’t let go this time. Make sure he shuts up for good.”
Electrochemistry: There are better ways to shut someone up. You know what I’m talking about.
Volition: What?
Logic: Oh.
Inland Empire: He won’t taste like peaches, that’s for sure
Suggestion: He might. There’s only one way to find out.
Hanged-Man: “Talking to yourself again, copo? You’re breaking my heart.”
Half-light: He’s laughing at you.
Suggestion: Baiting you.
You drag that same stench of bile and death from the darkest corners of your mind. A poor attempt at a crutch to keep you grounded from falling for the dead man's glee.
Hanged-Man: “What’s wrong, Harry? Don’t wanna party anymore?”
Electrochemistry: What!? Don’t let him make assumptions. Of course we want to party!
You’re tired of staring at the void. His visage a pit of danger and disco unlike you’re ever experienced. The kind Jean would sniff at, the kind Kim would disapprove of. The kind that would lead you into the Pale.
Hanged-Man: “C’mon, Coporino! Let’s dance!”
His corpse swings a little more vigorously as if caught in a strong gust of wind. You watch in horror and fascination. The dead man is dancing for you, and it makes your gut roll in on itself. The very same gut that currently has a hole through it.
Logic: Oh, right. We took a bullet, didn’t we?
Volition: For the lieutenant.
Empathy: Because you knew from the moment you saw him, he would do the same for you.
For a moment, you’re blinded. There’s a flash of light, then multiple. The Hanged-man is a beacon, your perfect disco ball. He’s wearing your shirt and tie, your green shoes and your disco pants. The back of his mouth and your gut are wearing matching bullet holes. The realization brings the day back, dragging you from precious sleep and into a room filled only with chaos and the pale.
Kim is there, writing in his notebook, eyes pinched behind diamond glasses. There’s darkness underneath those eyes, a tiredness only you can recognize in your fellow officers. He’s too preoccupied with his notes to notice you blink awake and you’re glad. You can watch him to your hearts content. Savor every little bit of him that you were always kept at arm’s length from.
Despite the spotty memory, part of you knew that Kim was the kind of mystery made for your special brand of can-opening. He was far more interesting than a dead man with disco pants and a chest full of ink.
Espirit de Corps: In another life, perhaps.