The man looked to be in his fifties. He wore brown slacks and a white dress shirt that was drenched with sweat. He was pale, had no eyebrows, and wore a baseball cap. The gun, pointed at Stanley, shook in his trembling hand. He stood right next to the door, close enough that Stanley could reach out and touch the gun's barrel should he be so inclined (which he wasn't).
"Hey, whoa, let's be cool," said Stanley, holding up his arms in what he desperately hoped was a "Look, I'm unarmed and have no intentions to cause you bodily harm, so please don't shoot me Mr. Crazy Person" gesture.
A tear ran down the man's cheek. "You give people false hope," he whispered.
"I do what?"
"I'm dying," said the man. His voice was so soft that Stanley almost had to lean forward to hear him, but he elected not to for fear that it might look like a cannibal zombie attack. "Cancer."
"I lost my grandmother to cancer," Stanley told him, hoping to establish some sort of personal connection to the guy to help keep himself from getting shot. Where were the security guards? Where were the insomniac hotel guests who needed to refill their ice buckets?
"You give people false hope!" the man repeated, his voice growing louder. "You walk around in that mask and you pretend that you're a miracle and you lie!"
"I'm not a miracle," Stanley explained. "I'm a scientific marvel. It's not a mask, I swear. You can touch my face if you want. Everybody else does."
"How can you live with yourself?" the man demanded, now sobbing. "How can you lie to the world when people like me are dying?"
"Again, not a lie. Do you really think I would've sent those two women away if it were a mask? I could be writhing in ecstasy right now! I'm trying to get them back! C'mon, put the gun down and we'll share!"
"Don't make fun of me."
"Dude, I'm not making fun of you! I'm making a generous offer!"
"Well let me ask you something, Mr. Corpse. If you're for real, why are you scared of being shot?"
"Because it hurts and leaves holes!"
The man looked uncertain.
"What's your name?" asked Stanley.
"Charles."
"Can I call you Chuck?"
"I prefer Charlie," the man said with a sniffle.
"Okay, Charlie, I want you to look at something." Stanley unbuttoned his shirt and held it open. "See how my skin is all nasty? Why would I walk around with makeup on my chest? I'm a real zombie!"
Charlie shook his head. "That's impossible."
"It's not impossible! Feel my heart! It's not beating!"
"You just want to knock the gun away."
"Well, yeah, but I mostly want you to feel my heart! I'm a zombie! A dead guy! A cadaver! What'll it take to convince you? Do you want a certificate of authenticity?"
Behind Stanley, the elevator door dinged. "Freeze!" shouted a voice behind him. "Put down your weapon!"
Charlie looked at Stanley. "Do you know what my son said to me a few days ago? He said 'Daddy, don't worry, the doctors will bring you back to life just like they did Mr. Corpse.'"
"I said put down your weapon!" repeated the man behind Stanley, who was hopefully packing heat. Several doors opened and various people peeked out, but quickly pulled back as they saw what was happening.
Charlie pulled off his baseball cap, revealing his bald head. "And I had to look at my six-year-old and tell him, no, the doctors aren't going to bring Daddy back. And he promised me that they would. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and told me that everything was going to be okay."
"Listen to me, Charlie. I feel bad for you, I really do. But if you shoot me and I'm not a zombie, then you'll become a murderer. Six-year-olds with murderer parents have a shitty social life."
"He needs to know that it's a lie."
"It's not a lie. Which means that you'll look like a jackass when I get back up. Your son won't be impressed. So just put the gun down, let me prove my deadness, and let's be friends, okay?"
Charlie pointed the gun away from Stanley. Stanley's momentary sense of relief vanished as Charlie pressed the barrel to his own head.
"Aw, Charlie, no, don't do that," Stanley insisted. "C'mon, man, there's no reason to give up. I know that life sucks sometimes, like it did for me after I sent those women away, but killing yourself is not the answer. Let's go somewhere and have a beer, just you and me, what do you say?"
"I say, see you in hell."
"Okay, wait, wait." Stanley turned around and glanced at the two security guards who were behind him, guns raised. "You guys leave us alone. I'll take care of this."
"We can't do that."
"Fuck off, rent-a-cops, or I'll sue this crappy hotel!"
The security guards exchanged a concerned look, and then simultaneously shook their heads.
"Then could you lower your guns at least?"
After a bit of hesitation, the security guards lowered their weapons. Stanley turned back to Charlie. "All right, Charlie, we're going to play a game. I want you to name five reasons that you're grateful to be alive."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No. Give me five reasons."
Charlie just stared at him.
"I'll give you two. You've got a son who loves you, and you have a really snazzy baseball cap. Now all you need is three more. Let's hear them."
"I have nothing!"
"Do you have a dog?"
"No."
"I'll buy you one if you put the gun down."
Charlie's finger tightened on the trigger.
"No, no, don't kill yourself yet! Charlie, listen, I'll make you a deal. I don't want to get shot, but I'd rather have you shoot me than shoot yourself. So if you promise not to shoot yourself afterward, you can shoot me. Deal?"
"Huh?"
Stanley pulled open his shirt again. "Right here in the chest. Let me have it."
"Are you serious?"
"Totally serious. Shoot me in the chest. It's okay."
Charlie slowly removed the gun from his head and pointed it at Stanley's chest. Stanley gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and tried to make his left eye stop twitching.