Read The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death for Free Online

everyone and ended the game in laughter. Nearly all of them having been public school teachers at some time or other before they got involved with the movie business.
    Wish I could get a round of that game going. Put some money on it. I'd clean up.
    Shitbag flinger.
    —Ho, who's that on shitbag duty?
    I looked up at the guy coming down the alley tying himself into a Tyvek.
    —Who's the man behind the mask?
    He came close, tugging at the shoulder seams of the Tyvek, trying to get the garment to give some breathing room to the thick muscle wadded around his neck and arms and torso.
    He stopped.
    —Hey. Who? Who the fuck are you?
    I tossed a bag of shit into the bin.
    —Who the fuck are
you
?
    He ducked his head back.
    —What?
    I pointed at my face.
    —Sorry, I got this mask on, it must have garbled my use of the spoken word. Allow me to employ sign language.
    I crooked my index finger into a question mark.
    —Who.
    I held up my middle finger.
    —The fuck.
    I pointed at him.
    —Are you?
    He pushed his head forward.
    —The fuck you think you are?
    I shook my head.
    —No, see, we're still having communication problems here. It must be because I'm speaking English and you're speaking Dickanese.
    He grabbed the finger I had aimed at him and pulled up on it.
    —What?
    Pain shot up my arm and my knees started to fold. I quickly calculated how much harder it would be to fling shit with one of my index fingers snapped off, and how much longer it would take to pay off Chev's new cellphone, and made a strategic decision about how to handle the situation.
    —Whoa, whoa, man! Whoa, my bad! Just foolin' around! That hurts, man. Easy big guy, my bad. Uncle. Uncle!
    He gave my finger a twist and let go.
    —That's right you call uncle. Fuck with me, smart ass.
    I flexed the finger, making sure it would still fling shit.
    —Yeah, that's me, smart ass. It's a habit.
    He tilted his head as far as his neck would allow.
    —You still trying to be funny?
    I shook my head.
    —No, man, I'm not. Seriously. I mean, I wasn't trying to be funny in the first place, I was just trying to communicate on your level. Sincerely.
    He grabbed my finger again and I went to my knees in the little bags of shit, many of them popping open under me. From the corner of my eye I saw several roaches that had been clinging to me bailing off, abandoning the ship that was clearly going down.
    He added torque to the back pressure on the finger and I fell to my side in the shitbags.
    He stood over me, straddling my body and the crap piled beneath me.
    —Man, you are funny. You are so fucking funny, you know what I did, you're so funny?
    I writhed, trying to take some of the tension off my finger.
    He gave it a jerk.
    —I said,
You know what I did, you're so funny?
    —No, no, man, I don't. Please, please tell me.
    He leaned down, putting his pocked face in mine, his breath fogging the lenses of my goggles.
    —I forgot to laugh, that's how funny you are.
    —Knock that shit off.
    The guy looked at Po Sin, coming out the service exit at the back of the hotel, pushing a hand truck stacked with rotting cardboard boxes.
    —Uncle, who the fuck is this?
    Po Sin pointed.
    —Let go his finger, Dingbang.
    He let go of my finger and turned.
    —Man, Uncle, don't call me that. Told you my handle's Bang. Just Bang.
    Po Sin lifted the mask from his face, flicking a couple roaches from the exposed skin.
    —OK, Just Bang.
    —No. Just. Bang. Not Just Bang. Man.
    Po Sin looked at me.
    —Just Bang Man. It's like he's asking for trouble.
    I laughed.
    Bang turned.
    —What you laughing at, shitbag? Lying in a pile of shit. What's so fucking funny about that?
    Po Sin came over and offered his hand to me, looking at Bang.
    —Go home, Nephew.
    —What the fuck, man. I'm here. I'm ready to work.
    Po Sin gave my arm a tug and it almost came clear of its socket as he hauled me up.
    —Job started three hours ago.
    —Told you I was gonna be late.
    —No you didn't.
    —I did. I