"Mum's The Word, Asshole!"

I was in the basement, wrapped in ancient cloth for four days when it occurred to me The Mummy might not let me go. Sure, he called it a kidnapping from the get go. So I guess I can respect him for being a man of his word. And sure, I had it coming -- I did sell his sordid secrets to the tabloids.

But who could pass up such sensational headlines? There it was, in black and white, with a color photo: THE MUMMY CAUGHT ON TAPE!! WHAT A SHOCKER!! GUESS WHO'S PREGNANT!! MUMMY SNAGGED IN SANDWICH SCANDAL!!

Plus I made a cool $50, which is a lot of money made in very little time. And if you believe money is time, as I do, then it's a win-win, assuming you don't care about the consequences of your actions on others.

And I guess we've all been guilty of, in our lonelier moments, doing that to a sandwich. I just happened to tip off Weekly World News of this particular preserved corpse's acts against nature and breadkind. But there he was, in his pumps and earrings, and there I was, walking to the bank. It was unrelated to the $50 I made; I was meeting a friend of mine who I later remembered no longer worked there. So I guess, in retrospect, The Mummy should have considered us even with the time I wasted waiting for Barry to get off work. But he didn't see things that way.

No, he didn't see things my way at all. So I found myself, for four and a half days, living The Mummy's way. My stomach was sucking up against my spine because I haven't eaten in 108 hours. I tried swallowing my saliva, but it wasn't very filling or satisfying. It was time for me to face facts. I was going to die. And I wouldn't be preserved like my scorned friend The Mummy.

And I guess, as I write this account in my makeshift journal -- my bareback as paper and my toenails as pen, and of course my bodily fluids as ink -- I hope you, dear reader, will heed my warning. If you sell the secrets of undead or differently abled, they will hunt you down. Or at least they will if you call to tell them you liked what they were doing with that sandwich and safety cone near Conception Point Beach. They'll almost always have Caller ID. The undead and differently abled don't bother wasting money on groceries, so they usually spend their excess riches on consumer electronics.

Still, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

As my lungs were expelling their final breath, I couldn't believe my eyes.

Suddenly, my good friend Dracula burst through the door, and began beating The Mummy mercilessly.

"How dare you do this to my dear friend!" Dracula said between savage punches.

“Dracula, you came for me!” I gasped!

“Of course, you’re my best friend in the whole world and…hang on.”

Then Dracula started dousing the scarabs escaping from The Mummy’s cloth holes in tangy barbecue sauce. He chucked them into my mouth after cradling them on the Ronco grill he seemingly always carries along with him. I used to tease him about it, but damned if those scarabs weren’t the tastiest things I’d ever eaten. Or maybe it had something to do with the severe starvation I’d been subjected to. Plus I’d been vomiting blood and losing hair pretty steadily for the past long Memorial Day weekend.

Then, as Dracula was about to deal the final death blow, choking The Mummy with his own cloth, he shouted, “Mum’s the word, asshole!”

Later that night Dracula made me spaghetti and we watched expensive Pay Per View movies on his large screen TV.