Free The Wrong Goodbye by Chris F. Holm

"My legs still hurt like hell."
  "You call the cops?"
  "No," he said too quickly.
      "OK, I'll take that as a yes." His eyes bugged out in panic, and he went a little green. "It's OK, Ethan – I would've too if I were you. But it does complicate things a little. Which means you're going to have to make it up to me."
      His eyes narrowed. He took a small step backward. "What do you mean, make it up to you? Make it up to you how ?"
      Fuck it, I thought. The truth was probably the safest thing I could tell him – after all, who in their right mind was gonna believe him?
      "The fact is, Ethan, I am not the guy they wheeled in to your funeral home. That guy's dead and gone – I'm just borrowing his body for a while. As for who or what I actually am, that's complicated, and you're probably better off not knowing. Suffice it to say, I'm a guy who's got a job to do, just like you. Now, if you help me do my job, I promise you I'll walk out that door tonight and you'll never see me again. If, on the other hand, you don't …"
      Ethan swallowed hard. It seemed he got the picture. Good thing, too, because that whole implied violence thing was nothing but a bluff – the worst I was going to do to the guy was tie him up again until I got what I came for. Still, this night was going to go a whole lot smoother if he'd cooperate, so I'm glad he was on board.
      "W-what," he said, wincing at the quaver in his voice. "What is it that you need?"
  "What I need , Ethan, is a body."
     
    "You sure this is the best you got?"
      Ethan shrugged his shoulders. With his willowy frame, he looked sort of like a twitchy scarecrow. "It's been a slow week, death-wise. Besides, uh, you, Mr Frohman's all we've got. He was the sausage king of Chicago!" he added helpfully. 
      "Yeah," I said, "he looks it."
      Though the guy wasn't an inch over five-four, he must've gone four hundred pounds, and every inch of him was covered in a thick mat of hair – well, every inch that wasn't on his head . Even in death, his face had a sort of pinkish hue; I couldn't help but think it was his sausage subjects who'd eventually dethroned him. Eh, I thought, he'll do. And hell, it's not like I'd have to worry about him making a break for it. 
      I fished Varela's bundled soul from my pocket and picked at the dirt-caked twine until finally, the knot untied. The tiny orb swirled gray-black atop the scrap of fabric in my open hand, and Ethan stared at it, entranced. "What is that?" he asked, his voice full of awe and wonder.
      "Gumball," I replied. The pale man frowned. He was standing at the corner of the mortuary table, scant inches from Mr Frohman's bald pate. I jerked my head by way of indication, and said, "You may want to stand back a little – this is liable to get messy." 
      Ethan took a big step back, and I drew in a deep, halting breath. Truth is, I didn't know if this'd work. I'd never done anything like this before – as far as I knew, no one had. But hell, a bad plan is better than no plan at all, right?
      In one swift motion, I grabbed the soul from the fabric upon which it sat, and plunged it into Mr Frohman's meaty chest. For a brief moment, I was engulfed in a swirl of light and sound. Then the Frohman body gasped, and the world came rushing back. 
      The wooly mammoth of a man sat up, his eyes wide, his limbs flailing madly. Then he doubled over and puked. Ethan let out a whimper, and crumpled to the tiles. That made twice in two days. Still, you couldn't really blame him. At least this guy he managed not to cut.
      Frohman/Varela's eyes were wild, panicked. His massive chest heaved as it sucked in breath after labored breath. His neck craned as he took in the scene around him: me, standing over him, expectant; Ethan, lying unconscious on the floor; him, draped in white as he floundered on a stainless steel slab. Despite myself, I felt a stab of pity for him – as I well know, that first wake-up is pretty