Fyke

The bloated, rotting corpse of Marlon Brando floated up to Mike Fykeman and said, "Please! Write my post death biography! You're the best ghostwriter in the Omniverse. I need you. And after all, I'm Marlon Brando."

Fykeman corrected him: "You were Marlon Brando. Anyway, you have to see my agent. He handles all my business."

Fykeman brushed past Brando who turned to follow him down the busy street. The dead actor's mottled, blue feet hovered a foot above the black plastic sidewalks. He wore only a tattered loincloth. He looked like a giant dead baby. His huge belly, fat arms and legs were bruised and sallow, with strips of flesh peeling and hanging. He made week-old fish guts smell like Chanel No. 5. Pedestrians steered widely around the moribund movie star.

"I've already talked to your agent," Brando whined. "He says you're booked for two years. I can't wait that long. I need you! To resuscitate my career, you understand."

You need resuscitating all right, Fykeman thought, but kept it to himself. No need to be rude.

"Look," Fykeman said. "It's not that your story wouldn't be fascinating, maybe even best seller material, but I've got obligations. I can't drop everything for a new project right now."

"Sir, do you realize how many dead Oscar winners there are in the Omniverse?" Brando bellowed, struggling with a swollen tongue. "Four! Just four among the thousands of legally accessible universes! Do you realize how remarkable my story is, how unique my position?"

"Unique means one of a kind," Fykeman said.

"What?"

"One of a kind. You said there's four dead Oscar winners, and anyway, didn't you snub the Oscar ceremony?"

"Exactly my point!" Brando said. "I'm the only one who had the courage to turn the thing down. That's class! That's principle! That's unique!"

Fykeman rushed along. Thankfully, he spotted the door to Dziekonski Publishing. He tapped the ID Plate with his forefinger. The door instantly recognized his genetic signature and opened. Fykeman stepped through quickly. Brando tried to follow, but blue sparks shocked him backward. Fykeman turned and faced the hideous figure sulking and roasting in the noon sun, looking emotionally wounded. When he was alive all doors had been open to him. No more.

"Call my agent," Fykeman said with poor grace. He turned and moved briskly into the plush interior of Dziekonski Publishing, glad to be free of Marlon's mass. His putrid odor was soon replaced by the heavenly scent of rose petals as 6-foot-2 Lila Thunder sauntered up to Fykeman. She placed a brown hand on his forearm in warm greeting.

"Mike! I love it when you come see us in person!" she breathed.

Fykeman tried not to swoon as he gazed upon the extreme loveliness of Lila Thunder. He wasn't sure where she was from, the Original Universe, (Ou for short) or one of the many alternates. She was almost certainly of Native American stock, depending on which universe scenario her race evolved upon. Raven black hair tumbled to her shoulders framing almond eyes and exquisite high cheekbones. A sumptuous sea green sarong wrapped her body, displaying her alluring figure to full advantage.

Fykeman found his voice amid the swimming sex pheromones flooding his brain. "H-Hello, Lila. Good to see you again. Malto must have something big to have me dimension-shift all the way over here for a personal meeting."

Lila pouted her pillow-cushion lips. "He never tells me anything. I'm just a dumb secretary, you know, except when he wants special services."