Iceman

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He suffers from disjunction of the function. A monstrous thing from his past nightmares materializes and smiles hello.

“I've got a secret,” the thing oozes teasingly. Teases oozingly.

“What?” he tries to say, but only dead grotto air exhales and there is no discernible sound. The monster's face is barklike, the tree-trunk neck sprouting from a foliose torso that parts and a second head pops out of the leaves saying, “Hello, bitch."

It is the face of a woman he has known. The turmoil and dust of an ancient investigation paralyzes his heart momentarily. Supine, in more ways than one, he spasms erect, his body caught in a paroxysm like a sneeze. But instead of achoo. Jack Eichord goes, “Say what?"

“You fucking bitch,” she says, and he recognizes the puffy bloat that is the monster's lower head.

“Huh,” he says in a weak stall for time. She was named Myrtle or Mildred or Minnie, one of the old-time names, and her last name was a state. Myrtle California. Myrtle Iowa. Minnie Minnesota. Myrtle Beach Florida. Mildred, that was it—her name was Mildred Florida, pronounced Mildred Flo-REE-duh.

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