Free Banana Hammock by Jack Kilborn

image, let alone any nightmares.
    Then I realized I was lying naked on the kitchen floor, straddling a head of lettuce.
    “Oh hell no.”
    Like any freaked-out person, I needed answers. So I searched Google, using the terms “post dramatic stress disorder sex with corpses and giant testicles” which linked me to a bunch of unhelpful porn sites. I dutifully surfed them anyway, but there were no answers there.
    Then I went to eBay, and I was still the top bidder on everything. Lousy eBastards. I decided I just wouldn’t pay if I won, but then I’d get negative feedback, and negative feedback was permanent. I’m proud of my 99.4% positive score. My only bad mark came from some jerk who didn’t read the whole product description, only the header. I sold him a mint Babe Ruth baseball card for $260. The card had some tears and a few bends, but I’d stapled some mint leaves to it. Which I mentioned, in two point font, at the bottom of the listing. Some guys can’t take a joke.
    Next I checked my email, where I discovered I’d won the Irish lottery, inherited eighty million dollars from an unknown relative, and was asked to shuffle funds into my bank account from the President of Rwanda. They all got my standard response: enthusiastic replies with an attachment supposedly containing my routing number. The attachment really contained an email bomb, which once opened would bombard their computers with tens of thousands of naked pictures of actress Bea Arthur. I called it the Maude Virus.
    I had a bit of a hangover, my ass still hurt from where I’d fallen on my keys, and I was hungry. But the only food I had in the condo was that head of lettuce, which I wasn’t going to eat even if I were starving to death, so I changed into a slightly less dirty suit and hit the corner convenience store for an overpriced cup of joe, a dose of Advil, and a prepackaged cheese Danish.
    It was a gorgeous Chicago day, the sun shining, the lakeshore breeze blowing, the pigeons singing their lovely song. I leaned against the storefront window and called my client.
    “Hello?”
    “Is this Maxine Drawbridge?”
    “It’s Norma Cauldridge.”
    I rubbed my nose. “Hi, Maxine. It’s Harry McGlade. I need more money.”
    “Did you find something out, Mr. McGlade?”
    “I did. And it’s ugly. Real ugly. Plus, I was gravely injured during my surveillance.” I smiled at my unintentional pun, which was actually intentional. “I’m not going near him again without more cash.”
    “I’ve already paid you twelve hundred dollars.”
    My nose still itched, so I scratched it. On the inside.
    “I want double that. Think of it as an investment. When the lawyers see the dirt I’ve got on old Roy, you’ll take the freak for every dime he has.”
    I removed my finger, noted something gray and waxy stuck to the end. I’d been picking my nose for years, and this was the strangest booger I’d ever seen.
    “Who’s Roy?”
    “Whatever the hell his name is.”
    I took a closer look. Sniffed. It smelled familiar.
    “Do you have pictures?”
    “I will. Send the money to my PayPal account. My email is… oh god…”
    The odor was rotten meat and formaldehyde. Somehow, while I was in the coffin, I’d gotten a hunk of dead flesh up my nose. Dead flesh covered in boogers. And a nose hair.
    I leaned over and puked up the coffee, Danish, and Advil. Eighteen bucks and change, shot to hell.
    “Mr. McGlade? Are you there?”
    I wiped a toe through the puke, looking for the Advil. They were probably still good. Instead, I saw something that made me want to quit eating forever.
    Part of a human ear.
    I got closer, sure it had to be some coincidentally-shaped chunk of chewed Danish.
    No, it was an ear. The upper, cartilagey part. I often nibbled women’s ears when we were fooling around. I must have got caught up in the role-playing and bitten off a hunk.
    “Mr. McGlade?”
    “Scratch that. I want triple.”
    “That’s outrageous.”
    “Lady, I went to