I ran through the Google search engine of my considerable mind, figuring out the best way to tell if a corpse is in fact a corpse.
Prodding. A boot to the kidneys. A tickling of the toes. No, no and no. I settled, rather, on the simple hand-in-front-of-the-nose-and-mouth-to-see-if-my-hairs-rustle-gently-in-the-breeze-of-his-nostrils technique.
As soon as my hand was within biting distance, ET latched on, swivelling his neck forward like a wrinkled python, his sparkling-white gnashers burying deep into the lean meat of my hand and drawing dark rosettes of blood.
I squealed, much in the manner of my mousey partner, who barked with laughter at my misfortune. But then his barking became a wheezing became a cough became a choking became an emergency.
I glanced back to see his considerable girth slam to the floor. Tutting under my breath I turned back to the problem at… hand, leaving my partner to writhe, grabbing his fat-folded neck with one hand whilst gesticulating desperately at me with the other.
Let the bastard suffer. I had bigger problems, namely the disturbing fact that ET was not satisfied with one bite and instead had decided to advance further along my hand, drawing me in, as if trying to consume me whole.
I could use some help, I thought. Ah well, time for Plan B.
I clicked the fingers of my free hand twice.
I immediately swelled to the size of a balloon. My once-lithe hand tripled in size inside ET’s mouth, ripping his jaw open. The sound of his bones snapping like a chicken wishbone made me wince – I was never one for violence.
But at least I was free.
Only issue now was that I couldn’t ask Mr. Eagle Tattoo why he’d married my sister without asking.
I turned to my partner to share my woes, but my woes had only just begun. He was dead… choked on his own tongue it seemed like. There was no need for a prod, or a toe-poke, or a foot-tickle or an airflow test – I could tell he was done.
Make no mistake, I wasn’t sad to see the little bugger die. The only problem – the only BIG problem – was that I could no longer perform my little finger-click trick. I needed a host for that, and my host was gone.
So there I was, 400lbs of PVC-clad elephant-flesh, squatting next to two dead men. It was safe to say I’d lost my sense of humour…