Frankie & Formaldehyde

Chapter Ten: Hawaiian Shirts

George had never been a man given to being sloppy and since bits of the former bank manager Mr. Parker were still stuck to his good suit jacket he figured it would be best to get spruced up before heading back home. The grey matter, otherwise known as Mr. Parker's brain, had settled very happily into George's stomach, giving him a feeling of renewed alertness and wellness that he hadn't experienced for a very long time.

Granted, it would be rude to go around chomping on brains willy-nilly, and while he wasn't sure he figured there had to be some kind of civil law against that sort of thing. Certainly, walking around covered in someone else's guts had to be some kind of criminal act as well, maybe a nuisance call thanks to the foul smell. He felt bad for his good suit jacket, though he had to admit it was woefully out of fashion, the sleeves being too short and the lapels too narrow. So, thinking on this, and feeling as good as he was, George did what any man in his given situation would do.

He decided to pay a visit to his local tailor.

The front door of the store was off its hinges and the large display window had a massive hole in its centre, causing bits of silk ties to flap outward into the breeze. It wasn't the trim, clean shop he remembered it being all those years, but then again fashion changed and took on more and more ridiculous attributes. At least the name of the place was the same. In bold gold letters printed on a moulded frame of dark green. Eisner, Tailor. You didn't get more to the point than that.

He flicked a bit of Mr. Parker off of his shoulder. It wasn't that terrible a suit jacket, and maybe a good dry cleaning could make it worthy of hanging in his wardrobe again. While he was a neat and clean sort, it was rare he ever had an occasion to wear a suit, so buying another one was a frivolous expense. He'd buy something more casual for now, one of those silly Hawaiian shirts his sister's husband used to wear, and a pair of those khaki shorts. The sun was really beating down this afternoon, and he might as well dress for the weather. He wasn't sweating, which was odd, but instead there was this unpleasant, waxy feeling to his skin, like the soft parts of a melted candle.

He shuffled through the store, ignoring the small whimpers of terror emanating from behind the cashier's counter.

The hangers squealed against the metal rungs as he sorted through various shirts, settling on a bright orange number that had brilliant large flowers and a sandy beach printed on its surface. He got a pair of the khaki shorts in his size and a new leather belt and, since the flies and filth were starting to irritate him, a pair of flip-flops to keep the bits of glass on the road from continuing to embed in his heels. He walked past the cashier's counter, the horrified whimpering causing him no strife as he headed for the employee washroom. He took a little promotional bar of Old Spice soap in with him.

When he was thoroughly scrubbed and cooled off in his new clothes, most remnants of Mr. Parker washed away, George emerged from the washroom in his new digs, a rather pale but happy corpse.

"What do we do? Oh, my God, what do we do?"

"Just be quiet, Helga. Don't let him hear us, for God's sake!"

George was a little miffed by this prejudice since it was obvious if he was going to make a meal of them he would have done so the minute he'd stepped into the store. He had patronized this shop for a long time and had come to know Helga and Martin Eisner well. They were hardworking people who had always done right by George and their other customers. Eating their brains wouldn't just be rude, it would be like chewing on family.

George hung his bloody suit jacket onto a hanger, being careful not to stain his new clothes. He rummaged in the inside pocket and took out a piece of blue, rectangular plastic. He laid it on the worn oak counter and hit the service bell.