Being dead, you’d think life would be a whole lot easier. There are no expenses except for clothing, rent and utility bills. After all, you don’t need to eat or drink and you certainly don’t need health insurance. Still need haircuts, though, and manicures. Hair and nails don’t stop growing just because you have.

Unfortunately, I don’t have to worry about clothing, rent or utility bills. Lou Stracca doesn’t pay me to do his bidding, just keeps me in a warehouse until he needs me. And I only have myself to blame.

If I had known then what I know now, I would never have gotten in so deep. Or at least made more conscientious efforts to keep my gambling tab within reasonable bounds. But then, I was never reasonable when I was alive. “Pedal to the metal” was my motto. Run a hot streak into the ground, double or nothing all the way. And, of course, I nearly always ended up with nothing. I’m one reason Vegas makes so much. Except they’ve never comped me jack shit.

So, yeah, I got careless. Stupid, too. I promised Stracca I would pay him ten grand the Friday before the Super Bowl. I even had it; don’t ask me how. So I’m on my way with all good intentions to pay up, when I stop for a light breakfast. And naturally I read the paper over my cup of coffee and I see the line on the college games that night. Two jump out at me like a stripper’s breasts. I’m thinking, okay, I parley these, turn this ten grand into thirty, pay Stracca an extra five for late fees and I’m still well in the clear. Of course, I couldn’t bet with Stracca, but there were still plenty of bookies who would take my bets. Well, if I bet with cash, at least.

So I blew Stracca off and played my favorites. And, naturally, my two “locks” failed miserably. So that night I’m sitting at home drunk, broke and seriously pissed off. I still needed to come up with ten grand just to keep Stracca at arm’s length. I was trying to come up with some reasonable lie to appease him when that became unnecessary. Two of his “assistants” kicked in my front door at 3am. Fuckers didn’t even knock. There was no reasoning with these goons. They didn’t even let me get dressed, just threw my bathrobe over my shoulders and pulled me out to their car, and off to Stracca’s we went. I didn’t even try asking what this was about and I don’t think they gave a shit or even knew.

I realized I was in deep doodoo when they didn’t take me to Stracca’s club. Instead we pulled up to an old warehouse well beyond the Strip. Still saying nothing, they pulled me out of the car and into the building. I wasn’t surprised to see Stracca there. I was surprised to see a gurney, an array of surgeon’s tools and a man dressed as an ER extra. Stracca was relaxing in a folding chair, a bottle of scotch on the folding table beside him. Stracca does love his scotch. My unwanted bodyguards led me to him. There was no other chair so we stood there in awkward attention while Stracca eyed me over his glass of Dahwiddie.

“So, Thomas,” he said after a long silence, “did we forget to do something today?”

“I didn’t forget.” I hung my head in shame. “I couldn’t raise the ten grand. But I should have it for you next week.”

“‘Couldn’t raise it’ you say. Really? Then how were you able to bet on those two college games? And exactly ten G's, too. What you owed me.” He leaned forward. “You’ve pushed me too far, Tommy.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the man in the white lab coat readying the gurney. “I thought, I thought, look, I’ll have the money next week. I’ll pay you twenty, how’s that?”

The ice rattled in the glass as he wagged an accusing finger at me. “Not good enough. Nowhere good enough. I’ve put up with your shit for far too long. You’ve heard the expression, ‘a pound of flesh’?” He pointed at the gurney. “I’m taking that. And more.”

“Killing me won’t do you any good,” I yelled as his thugs began pulling me toward the operating area. “How can I pay you when I’m dead?”

“You’d be surprised.” They were already strapping me down as he approached. “You see, the good doctor here deals in body parts. Kidneys, livers, lungs, heart. You’re worth much more to me dead than alive, Tommy boy.” My arms and legs were already strapped down when he leaned over and slapped me lightly on the face. “Cheer up; you might actually help someone for the first time in your life.”

They had secured my head and stuffed a rag in my mouth so I couldn’t do anything save watch and cry as the doctor approached holding a hypodermic. Stracca noticed and wiped one off my cheek. “Don’t worry, Tommy. You won’t feel a thing. Talk to you later.”

What could he mean by that? I wondered, but not for long. I felt the sting of the needle, then a growing chill, then nothing at all.

* * * * *

And then I woke up. Well, that may be a bit of a misnomer. I mean, my eyes opened, I could see, hear, think. Couldn’t smell or taste anything, though. And I couldn’t talk. I could feel my lips and tongue moving but nothing came out. Then I realized: I couldn’t breathe, either.

That was quite disconcerting. Stracca’s loud laugh was even more so. He suddenly appeared directly in front of me. For some reason, I didn’t have any peripheral vision; he could have been standing beside me and I wouldn’t have known it. He was smoking a cigar and grinning like a teenager admiring a titty magazine. “Ah, Tommy, I see we’ve returned to the land of the living. In a manner of speaking, of course.”

“What the fuck did you do to me?” I asked. Or tried to. Unless Stracca was a lip reader, my efforts were fruitless.

He laughed again at my attempt to talk. “Cat got your tongue, there, Tommy boy? Oh, that’s right; we didn’t take that. No market for used tongues. There is, however, one for lungs. That’s why you can’t talk; you can’t draw in air.”

“How can you...? How can I...?” I finally realized the futility of merely moving my lips and instead shrugged.

“I bet you want to know how, don’t you?” His grin got even broader, which I would have thought impossible. Much more and his head would split in two. “I have an... associate who is well-versed in obeah. Voodoo, you might call it. Black magic. I don’t use him very often, mind you. His services are quite expensive. Fortunately, you were a gold mine for us. Kidneys, liver, heart, lungs were all in good working order. We left your eyes and ears because, frankly, you wouldn’t be of any use to us otherwise. We left your cock, too, but you won’t have any more use for it. I bet you feel about twenty pounds lighter, don’t you?” He stopped to take a deep drag on his cigar, then stepped closer and blew the smoke right in my face. It stung my nose and I had to shut my eyes, but I couldn’t smell it at all. Then he patted me on the cheek. “If you would have had any gold inlays, we would have taken your teeth as well. You won’t need those anymore, either, since you won’t be eating much.” He stepped back and looked at his watch. “I’ve spent enough time with you today. Do you have any questions? Oh, silly of me; you can’t talk. Here,” and he stuck a small notebook and pen in my right hand. “You can still write, I believe.”

I had thousands of questions, but only one mattered. “Why?” I wrote.

He looked at it and laughed. Then his jaw tightened. “You still owe me, Tommy boy. All those times you lost and didn’t pay, didn’t pay. Always having to chase you around Vegas, trying to get my money. Now you’re going to pay me back for every little lie, every little fucking thing you did to screw me. You’re mine for the rest of your life. And death.” With that he turned and walked away.

* * * * *

If you’ve read this far, you must know why I’m here. It’s nothing personal; I have no choice. It’s part of the fucking spell they put me under, you see. I must obey Stracca.

I just want you to know that I’ll do what I can so that Stracca can’t use you like he’s using me. If I break your legs and arms, then you’ll be pretty much useless to him, at least as far as after death. It’s not like your bones will heal once I kill you. Not much I can do about him harvesting your body parts, though. So it’s your choice. Which leg should I break first?