Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned

feet.”
    “You really scared me,” she said. “I thought you might be the fun director or a ghost—they fuckin’ creep me out. I was just rustling through the makeup kits for foundation.” She went back to her heist and pulled out a large tub, stuck her finger in and extracted a glob that looked like beige spackle. She rolled it between her fingers. “Found it.”
    “You beat me to it, then. Is there more?” I asked. “I have no intention of walking around looking like the underside of a hard-on.”
    “No way!” Wendy screamed, turning from the boxes and shoving my shoulder.
    I jumped back, my eyes wide. “Jesus, what?”
    “I can’t believe you call them that,” she said, turning back toward me, a second tub of foundation clutched to her chest, like an Emmy. “I call them scrotal veins.”
    “Get the fuck out of here. You’re my new best friend.”
    We broke into teary-eyed guffaws. Those settled into broad comfortable smiles. Wendy handed me the jar of concealer.
    “Is this pretty good?” I asked.
    “You know, I think it’s a halfway decent base coat. Creates a really even canvas.” She stopped, put her hand to her hip. “What are you, new?”
    “Not even twenty-four hours dead.”
    “Holy shit! You are going to be a handful. Not even a day into your undeath and already worrying about skin care.”
    “I intend to make this body last.”
    “Then here’s a tip: while your skin still has some flexibility do a final shave. Our hair still grows, but much slower.”
    “Let me get you my number,” I said, scrambling through the cabinet drawers for a pen and some scratch. “Why don’t you and I meet for drinks? I could introduce you to a vampire friend.” I found a stub of pencil and scratched my number onto the corner of a file folder lying on the counter, tore off a piece.
    “Sounds good.”
    Wendy and I scheduled to meet for drinks the following night, and as we left the building, without discussing it beforehand, both of us serpentined into the alley like a couple of special ops commandos in six-inch heels. I had found a soul mate.

Chapter 8
Bernard Krups’s Satyricon
    A wicked fun time, to be sure, but there’s so much more…all this—and hundreds of dollars’ worth of valuable coupons, accepted at nearly all undead establishments…
    —The Bacchus Guide
    You know, I could just sit here and ramble on about the nightmare of being dead, eating helpless people, breaking and entering, not having circadian rhythms. I could tell you that I was horrified with the direction my life had taken. I’m on a downward spiral into a vision of Hell not glimpsed since a Nine Inch Nails video. Blah, blah, blah. Who wants to hear it? It’s not true, anyway. The truth is this: I wasn’t enjoying life when I was alive. Now that I’m dead, it’s gonna be another story.
    I plan to enjoy the hell out of it. Am I bad 42 ?
    For instance, I can’t tell you how many pathetic holidays I spent in the office covering for Pendleton and Avery, this when I was but a lowly copywriter. It took two years for those assholes to notice; two years of throwing myself on the holiday pyre, as well as writing the best ads in the firm—hello, just wait until you see the list of accomplishments (coming soon to a chapter near you). When they did catch on, it was drinks after work, spiteful eye daggers from my—ahem—peers, and the inevitable partnership offer. Satisfying, yes, but still not really living.
    I’d be delusional—I know I’m eccentric, but not psychotic—if I believed it was only ambition that chained me to that desk; sometimes I was simply killing time, so I wouldn’t have to go home to an empty apartment (this was long before my digs improved).
    Listen to me.
    Boo-hoo.
    Jesus, can I whine?
    My place wasn’t always empty. I’ve had a few boyfriends, from time to time. I’m not a fucking nun * . But those relationships were so tragically short-lived ** . I’d get bored with them. Take Elden Ford,