He lives in a single room of brick and mortar far beneath the city streets.

In one corner of his humble abode, on a rotten wooden crate next to a pile of bloodstained skulls, sits a small desktop computer, a single cursor blinking gently on its antiquated monochrome monitor. Inside a CPU tower built of flesh and bone, a tiny hard drive rattles and hums, rattles and hums, waiting patiently for the message to arrive.

Only then will the alarm sound.

Only then will he rise.

His dreams are filled with purple and gold; of silk and
lace; of enormous female breasts filled with intoxicating white liquor. With a sinister smile and piercing bedroom eyes, he seduces each image with the style and grace of a man who knows the world. In a crisp, clean tuxedo, he romances them. In this world, in this mind, he is everything. Everyone.

And nothing at all.

On the computer monitor, the cursor disappears briefly.

Words begin to form from a cluster of nonsense, each letter shifting and moving and flailing as it desperately tries to find its proper location.

Once the message has been constructed, an electrical current shoots through a thick black cable that disappears into jagged hole in the wall. From this tiny opening -- created entirely by tiny furry hands -- an enormous misshapen dog head emerges, struggling to fit through that limited space.

"Time!" it shrieks. "Time! Time! Time!"

And he awakens instantly, sitting up ramrod straight on a mattress made of skin.

As he yawns, several winged insects escape from his lungs and take to the air, only to discover that they've simply moved from one disgusting prison to another.

"Time!" the deformed head screams from its hidey-hole. "Time! Time! Time!"

"Enough!" the bony little man orders, sending the screaming dog-shaped melon retreating into its home within the walls. "I'm up, already. Sheesh."

Scratching his ass with impossibly long fingernails, the wailer named Wally waddles to the computer. After resting his rump on a stool of broken baby teeth, he pulls his spectacles from a fleshy pocket on his left breast and places them carefully on his crooked nose. He yawns again, blinks twice, and leans in close to the computer screen, drinking in the message delivered from The Powers That Be. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the waking world, a process he hates more than life itself. Before long, his surroundings begin to sharpen.

"Donna Moore," he reads aloud to no one in particular. "1384 Adolph Road. Scheduled departure tomorrow at four. Wailing tentatively scheduled for today at noon." He looks at the cheap plastic clock attached to the wall above his bed.

He has only fifteen minutes to prepare.

"Thanks for nothing," he says to the hole. "Couldn't you have given me more time?"

"Time!" the dog-thing shouts from inside its home. "Time! Time! Time!"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, fuck your time," Wally spits. "And fuck you."

"Time!" the voice says mournfully, as though its feelings had been mortally wounded.

Wally yawns once more, kneels beside his mattress of skin, and pulls out a pair of dusty, dirty, moth-eaten clothes from beneath. He pulls the pants over his pasty white legs, the shirt over his pasty white torso, and the shoes over his crusty green feet. Though he feels like a million bucks, Wally certainly doesn't look it. Of course, he has no earthly way of knowing how truly awful his appearance is. You see, Wally learned long ago to break any mirrors within reach, since his reflection would do nothing more than send him into that lowly land of dark depression. After all, wailers were forced to turn in their good looks, small pores, and healthy hair upon employment. Mirrors were a reminder of better things. Mirrors were, essentially, a mocking finger, pointing and laughing forever.

Wally tries his best to smooth out the many wrinkles that adorn his outfit.

It doesn't help much, but it makes him feel better.

Satisfied with his appearance, Wally writes down the victim's address on the back of a soda coupon and stuffs it into his pants pocket. With the new advances in medical technology, death doesn't stop by as much these days, particularly since most of the nearly-departed elderly folks disappear to Florida during the winter months to surf, sun, and die on the beach. Nobody wants to perish in a cold, snow-glazed apartment anymore. No, they want to be warm and tan and looking their best when the Grim Reaper decides to pluck their inebriated souls from their earthly shell.

Such is life. Such is death.

"Keep the fort secure," Wally tells the hole. "No wild parties while I'm gone, okay?"

"Time!" the head says from deep within the bowels of his underground lair.

"You said it," the wailer chuckles, shaking his head. "You certainly did."

With that, Wally turns into a speck of dust and slowly rises to the surface, eager to accomplish his mission and return to the world of expensive tuxedos, great skin, and ale-filled boobies.

***

Wally materializes outside of a local McFrickles restaurant, which appears to be filled with a gaggle of irritating children celebrating some four-eyed goon's tenth birthday. Through the foggy windows of the neon-soaked restaurant, Wally can see presents and colors and cake and streamers and lots and lots of laughter. He trudges through the snow like a man unfamiliar with the process of locomotion, pressing his dead face against the glass to get a better look at the festivities contained within. His lifeless gray eyes sparkle as the children sing and dance and pat their geeky little friend on the back. Several mothers armed with digital cameras work frantically to capture every single movement made by this merry band of middle-class moppets.

While singing, dancing, and careening from one cluttered table to another, one of children catches a glimpse of the ghoulish nightmare in the window.

"A zombie!" the little blonde girl shrieks, her voice shrill and terrified.

Then she unleashes a horrifying scream.

Her friends turn to get a peek at the undead creature in the window, cake and ice cream falling from their open mouths. Then they follow suit.

Chaos ensues.

Soon McFrickles is up to its deep-fried armpits in terrified children, all of who seem determined to out-scream the other. Parents and adults and semi-retarded janitors rush about, trying to turn feral children into birthday party guests once again.

No one over 13 notices the "zombie" in the window.

Satisfied with the suburban decay he's caused, Wally stumbles back onto the sidewalk and points himself in the director of Donna Moore's house, which lies just a few blocks from the center of downtown Barren. Though there appears to be yet another snowstorm on the horizon, Wally seems incapable of feeling a thing, his thin garments doing little to protect him from the whipping winter wind.

During his journey through the beautiful, historic downtown district, Wally encounters a number of interesting near-death individuals, their skidmarked souls rotten and flaccid. For instance, on the corner of South Main and Uli Road, the skinny white wailer passes an old man nursing a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag, his eyes sunken and dead. Though his flesh is still warm and his muscles still alive, Wally knows this unfortunate fellow is just inches away from The Great Beyond. Wally nods as they pass, but the man doesn't blink, doesn't even acknowledge that there's a world going on all around him. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on some unseen destination, his arm a mechanical animal that occasionally lifts the bottle to his chapped lips.

A block away from this downtrodden skin sack, Wally notices a group of hoodlums chancing a defenseless kitten through the park. Each brat is armed with a handful of small rocks, which they hurl at the pathetic kitty as it bounds frantically through deep drifts of snow. During his years as a card-carrying member of the human race, Wally had been keen on animal rights, blowing up slaughterhouses and murdering inhumane farmers in the name of the militant organization dedicated to such behavior. In fact, it was his cold and cruel nature that had qualified him for his current career in the first place. While other wailers had been quick to shed their human nature, Wally had clung to a few stray threads stuck in the mess of his brain.

Principles, it seems, often die hard.

With roughly eight minutes to spare before the scheduled wailing, Wally makes a quick detour into Barren Park, catching up with these cruel characters in a matter of seconds.

He positions himself strategically between the cat and its prepubescent tormentors.

"Stop throwing rocks," he says in that timid, meek little voice of his. "Or else."

"Or else what, meth-head?" the alpha male barks, his chubby cheeks red and cracked. "You gonna hook us on heroin or something? Get the fuck outta here."

"Stop throwing rocks," Wally says again, his tone even and calm. "Or else."

"Your record broken, old man?" the kid says, taking a bold step forward. "Or are you retarded? Either way, get fucking lost."

Wally closes his eyes, sighs, and grabs his thinning hair with his right hand.

Then, in one fluid motion, he peels off his skin.

The smell of childhood flatulence suddenly fills the air, peppered with a hint of youthful urine and chocolate-brown diaper fudge. The terrified punks scatter as fast as their under-developed legs can carry them. Some fall face-first into yellow snow, while others hop, skip, and jump over any and every obstacle in their path. It takes only a minute for the park to clear, leaving Wally all alone with that helpless, shivering little kitten. The wailer looks down at the kitty, who, in turn, looks up at him. It meows a chilly little meow, its eyes filled with wanting.

Wally finds his way back to the sidewalk; his sights set on Donna Moore's block.

And with its head protruding from his pants pocket, the little kitten purrs contently.

***

At precisely one minute past noon, Wally the wailer arrives at 1384 Adolph Road.

Sitting on the porch is a familiar face, one Wally isn't too particularly fond of.

"Late," the intimidating gentleman says, tapping his very expensive wristwatch. "You're late, wailer. That is totally unexceptable. Very unwelcomed. Very poor --"

"I got it, okay?" Wally says, taking a seat next to his district manager. He pulls the shivering kitten from his pocket. "I had to save this little guy from a squadron of future anal rapists and sexually-abusive Republicans. I mean, how can I say no to a face like this?"

Wally holds up the kitten for inspection.

District Manager L'Jiutant Spawn smiles, extends his pinky finger, and touches the mewing little bundle of fur right in the middle of its fuzzy little forehead.

It immediately turns to ash in Wally's hands.

A bitter wind quickly carries most of it away.

"That was uncalled for," the wailer pouts. "I needed a new friend down there. That dog head of yours is getting a bit testy in his old age."

"That wasn't part of the deal, was it?" Spawn asks, wiping his finger clean with an ornate purple handkerchief. "Keeping your soul from burning for eternity in the pits of the Hellfire? That was the deal, Wally. Not kittens. Not pets. Just your services for your soul. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," the defeated wailer says, kicking at a pile of snow. "I got it."

"I hope you do," Spawn says as he stands. "There's a dying woman in there, and people need to know. Her family needs to know. Her children need to know. Think, Wally, about the children. Do it, Wally, for the children."

A cruel smile forms on the district manager's dead lips. "The children, Wally."

"Funny," Wally says sarcastically. "Drop dead funny, Spawn. Real classy. Real sharp."

"Can it," his boss snaps. His finger moves from the wailer's face to the side of the house. "Get over there and get to work. I'll be back in five to check things out."

"Is that really necessary?" Wally asks, brushing kitten ash from his pants. "Really?"

"You wouldn't think so," Spawn says. "But your performance as of late has been, well, questionable at best. Late arrival times. Abbreviated wailings. If you're not up for the job, friend, there are others who are certainly ready to fill your ugly little shoes."

Scolded, sedated, and put squarely in his place, Wally strips down to his unsightly birthday suit and carefully places his dated garments on the porch. Spawn watches the entire process unfold with nauseated exasperation. Finally, Wally places his worn loafers on top of the neatly folded pile, taking care to knock the snow, mud, and grime from the bottom before setting them down. Naked and sexless, Wally stands before his district manager without a glimmer of shame. Spawn, however, can't bare to look upon his charge any longer.

"I'll never get used to seeing you naked, Wally," he says, shaking his head. "It's revolting. Truly revolting. Now get to work."

A flash, a muffled explosion, and some sparkling glitter for extra effect follow his words. Then he's gone.

Just like that.

Nude and nervous, Wally takes his place on the eastern side of the nearly-departed's home and extends his arms, pulling in the necessary powers to perform his task. He drops his jaw beyond the range of human capability, sucks his jagged teeth into his rotten gums, and unleashes a long, mournful wail to alert everyone within earshot that someone within this house of wood and nail is preparing to reap their Heavenly reward.

If they're lucky enough to make it that far, of course.

It takes five minutes before Donna Moore's husband comes barreling out the front door, a sawed-off shotgun gripped tightly in his gloved hands.

"You get off my property, freak," the husband says, pointing the gun directly at Wally's mid-section. "You got five seconds."

Wally continues to wail, the man's feeble threats rolling off his pale skin.

"I said get off my property!" the husband shouts. Sloshing buckets of anger, fury, and sadness fuel his madness. "I will open you up, pal. Wide open."

Unable to stop, the wailer wails on.

The husband, stepping beyond the wall of sanity, opens fire on the wraith. The shot merely passes through the chalk-white being without incident. Instead, it blows a wide hole in his neighbor's plywood privacy fence, causing splinters and nail fragments to fall like rain. On the other side, a three-legged dog is born, complete with spurting blood and creepy dog cries. Drained and defeated, the husband falls to his knees.

"Please," he cries. "We still have hope. She could still pull through."

Wally, oblivious to the man's pathetic pleading, wails and wails and wails.

"Please!" the man screams, suddenly leaping from his position in the snow. He grabs the wailer by his thin, bony shoulders and shakes him vigorously. "We still have hope. There's still time, isn't there? She's not gone. She's still alive, right in there. Come inside. See for yourself. My wife isn't dead. My wife is still alive."

For the first time in twenty-eight years, Wally the wailer stops his chilling song before its proper conclusion. His eyes realign themselves, his mouth shrinks and closes, and his arms fall slack by his side. And, much to his surprise, he finds himself staring into the husband's tearful face, relating to the terror and the fear and the loneliness contained just beneath the flesh. He feels for the slightly dumpy suburban male in his brand-name clothes, the man who would tread barefoot in the snow to battle otherworldly forces with a shotgun obtained by illegal means. All in the name of his ailing love.

All in the name of hope.

And, more surprisingly, Wally finds himself being guided through the yard to the front door, where friends, family, children, and grandchildren invite him inside. Each watches him carefully, as though he was a venomous snake that could strike them all dead at any given moment. His crusty green feet carry his pasty white body across brown shag carpeting to a room in the very back of the house, where a frail, impossibly skinny woman sits in an old rocking chair, a hand-woven blanket draped across her dying legs.

"Is this the man?" she says, her voice tired, weak. "Is this the wailer?"

"This is him," the husband says, his hands resting gently on Wally's shoulders.

The wailer says nothing in return. He merely stands in the middle of a stark bedroom that reeks of death, watching the life slowly drain from a beautiful woman who desperately loves every single soul in that house. He can see it in her eyes. He can hear it in her voice. And though the stink of dead flesh is ripe, her unconditional love manages to somehow overpower the inevitable. Wally feels it deep in his hollow heart, where the memories of his past twitch like cobwebs in a breeze.

"Is there still time?" she asks, braving the question despite the response.

Wally closes his eyes, thinking about what's to come. Thinking about what will happen if he fails the job. The sins of his past he must face when and if he's fired. If he blows his last chance, he'll be tossed into the Hellfire like meat on a skillet. They will make him scream. Make him beg for mercy. And when they've cooked him to the bone, they'll flesh him out and do it all over again.

Forever and ever, amen.

"Is this hopeless? Am I wasting my time fighting for this?" Donna Moore's thin skin is almost gone. Wally knows recovery will only arrive as a miracle, glowing and impossible.

"Are you the end?" she asks.

Wally thinks hard. Takes everything in consideration.

He weighs the options. The consequences for such dramatic insubordination.

Then, sadly, he closes his eyes and puts one foot in the kettle.

"No," he says without seeing. "This is not the end."

That said, he turns into a speck of dust and is gone.

As he floats through that warm suburban home, he can hear joyful sobs, hopeful cries.

And he is pleased.

***

Out on the front porch, Wally slowly dresses and steps onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

Waiting for him on the curb is his district manager.

Seated next to him is a skinny gentlemen in a top hat and bow tie.

"Wally, Wally, Wally," Spawn says as he stands. He extends his arms wide. "Give me a hug, partner, because the next time we meet you'll be a piece of fried-fucking-chicken. You have seriously blown it, my friend. Seriously fucking blown it. In all my years, I've never seen anyone blow it quite as hard as you have. Impressive! Simply impressive!"

The wailer stands before his boss, unwilling to take the bait.

"I did the right thing," Wally says. "I did."

"Did you?" Spawn laughs, draping a smelly arm across Wally's weak shoulders. "You see the fellow sitting on the curb over there? He's your replacement. This is no longer your territory. You blew it, pal. Seriously fucking blew it."

"Did I?" Wally asks as they walk a short distance from the man in the hat. "Or did I just blow it for you?"

"That's nice," Spawn chuckles. "Yeah, you made me look bad. District managers who can't control their assigned wailers aren't the most popular beings in existence, but I'll get by. I always do. Because, every so often, we encounter wailers like you. You're defective merchandise, Wally. A sticky ectoplasmic mistake. Fortunately for me, you're easily replaced."

"I can see that," Wally says, glancing over his shoulder at the sharp-dressed man on the dirt-caked curb. "I'm sure he was waiting in the wings, anyway."

"That he was," Spawn nods in response. "We've got a ton of 'em just itching for their chance at redemption."

"This isn't redemption," Wally remarks. "This is purgatory."

"Either way, you're out on your ass, my friend. You're scheduled to depart for the Hellfire in just a few minutes. And for what, may I ask? For what?"

"I'm not sure," Wally admits, shrugging off Spawn's arm. "But I'll have plenty of time to think about that, won't I?"

Spawn laughs and shakes his head. "I guess you will, buddy. I guess you will. But we'll get her, believe you me. Sooner or later, everyone hears the wail."

"Not this time," the wailer says with an air of satisfaction. "Maybe she'll recover. Maybe she'll pull through. Maybe her time will come decades later. But the fact remains that I botched the wail, and her soul is back in rotation. Maybe everything will work out for the best."

"Maybe," Spawn concedes. "Maybe."

A long silence falls between them.

Down the street, a small ball of fire begins to blaze.

"Ah, would you look at that?" Spawn says, his voice full of bitterness and bile. "Your bus is waiting just down the street. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me."

"Super." Wally kicks a small rock into the gutter. "I guess you need the clothes, right?"

"Nah. You keep them. We're upgrading our uniforms next month, anyway. Oh, but you do get one last request. One last pleasant memory before you know nothing but pain, pain, pain."

Wally looks at his district manager, a knowing smile creeping across his dead lips.

"Oh, fine," Spawn sighs, exhausted with the whole infuriating scenario. "Have it your way. It's your last request, anyway. Not mine."

The district manager snaps his fingers and mumbles something under his breath.

The smell of sulfur briefly fills the air.

"I guess it makes sense," Spawn says with a lazy shrug. "After all, it is a long ride to the Hellfire. A very long ride with really shitty food."

"And there's nothing wrong with a little companionship, right? Especially after twenty-eight years of monochrome monitors and talking dog heads," Wally remarks.

Despite himself, district manager L'Jiutant Spawn laughs and slaps his ex-employee on the back. "Get walkin', kiddo. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I'll do my best," Wally says. "I always do."

With a nod and a sad smile, Wally the wailer makes his way through the snow to the brightly burning orb on the other side of town.

And with its head protruding from his pants pocket, the little kitten purrs contently.

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