Night of the Mannequins

by Stephen Graham Jones

SO SHANNA GOT A new job at the movie theater, we thought we’d play a fun prank on her, and now most of us are dead, and I’m really starting to feel kind of guilty about it all.

JR couldn’t get away with this, since his dad was a known gun nut and all, so people just assumed he had some of those bullet-shaped genes,

Tonight my insides were on full display.

People being politely asked to kill themselves have lots of very good, on-point questions.

After riding it into the ground a hundred times each, a beaten-up street bike was gravy, was cake, was the most docile pony.

It’s not easy, killing your best friend. One of them, anyway.

but evidently the feet are full of bones or something, not at all like frogs.

already, sitting there with them in some made-up stage of grief called “skinny-dipping,” I was ping-ponging my eyes back and forth between them a little, trying to decide who next.

“Bags of groceries don’t chase after squirrels, dear,” my mom said back to him.

“The back of the head,” I said, obviously, but also because I know he wanted me to say butt, so he could laugh, picturing it. Like I said: third grade.