Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap

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There was a corpse on the stairs outside my apartment. This was disturbing since I didn’t put it there.

He was a dumpy little fellow, as corpses go. He had kind of a bulbous nose, a plump face, and a tangled mass of long black hair. His eyes were frozen in a half-closed daze as if death was a particularly boring school lecture. He was short and wore baggy clothes, perhaps to conceal in life what I guessed was a not-too-amazing physique.

I saw no obvious signs of violence. No blood. No puncture wounds. No gross discolorations. Did he have a heart attack? Did he drug himself to death?

I didn’t recognize the man, which made this very odd. I was the only person who lived in this building. I was even the only person who lived on this entire block. My street was quite creatively, and officially, labeled “Hank Block.”

It was weird to think of someone dying outside my front door while I was asleep. Or maybe I had been in the shower. Or eating lunch. He certainly wasn’t here when I came home last night.

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