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From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: NEW STORY--After the Funeral [1/2]
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=========================

The following is total fiction.  Any resemblance etc. is a product of
your imagination.  This work is meant as ADULT entertainment.  If the
laws where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn
yourself in to the thought police.  Even thinking about sex is dirty
and nasty and will warp your mind forever.  Go watch a movie or play a
game that ends with a body count in the high four figures.  Death and
destruction are good clean fun.

©1997 losgud.  Personal use just fine.  Archiving okay.  Absolutely NO
for-profit use permitted.  Reposting without notice is frowned upon.
Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal.  Copyright violations
will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the
punishment is to discourage repeat offenders.  We cut your fucking
hands off!

=========================

M/F  Inc Cons Humor

NOTE:  This is a long strange one.  Despite the setting, no
necrophilia involved!  You can keep your pants on until the second
part [+  +  +].


AFTER THE FUNERAL  [1/2]


	My Grandma chose the most inopportune time to die.  I was
engaged in the lengthy process of lining up a new job that actually
granted paid funeral leave, but I was still a few weeks away from
giving my notice at my old position.  As opposed to the numerous times
she'd "died" earlier in my life, come the one true time there wasn't
anything exciting I wanted to do with the time off.  I was hoping that
no one in Personnel was clever enough to say _Hey, wait a minute,
didn't your Grandmother die a year or so ago?_  "Oh yea, but that was
the time she conveniently died when I wanted to extend a long weekend
down in Florida; this time it's for real."  I had a cache of unused
Personal Days I was hoping to cash in when I left, a transaction that
would likely be complicated by such a discovery.  Not to mention the
fact that barely a month before I'd used up my vacation time and a
chunk of savings to fly with my wife and the baby to visit her.
There's all this talk about how deregulation and competition has
caused the cost of air travel to plummet just like the airplanes
themselves.  Well, not if you need to get somewhere at the last
minute.  You pay like you're flying the Concorde but ride like you're
on a Greyhound.  Oh, good old Grandma!  All of this sounds evil, but
that judgment must be tempered with the understanding that I am from a
family famous for their wicked sense of humor.  And humor is of course
a great tool in dealing with grief.  Grandma had a full, wonderful
life.  She lived to marvel in full cognition at the miracle of her
great- grandchildren.  Death granted her the easiest of exits, asleep
in her own bed.  While she'd had to deal with the disruptions of
nurses in her house a few times, she'd managed to outwit and elude
_Nursing Home Hell_.  She left this life right as she was hitting the
cusp where her deteriorating health would have inevitably descended
into a diminished body, mind and spirit.  Grandma had one great regret
in her worldly existence, and she intended to rectify it in the
afterlife.  As she confided in me during our last visit, "When I meet
up with your Grandpa in Heaven, I'm going to kick his butt clear on
down to Hell for leaving me alone for fifteen years." I probably would
have skipped the whole ordeal, but in the long distance call
announcing the death, my father also requested that I join him in
being a pallbearer, noting that it would mean the world to him.  "You
do have a decent suit coat, don't you?"  I accepted out of
embarrassment at admitting that I didn't. "And black shoes, dress
shoes, not those . . ."  I laughed.  "It's all covered Dad, don't
worry.  I'll be there, with no shame on your face." I'd worn nothing
but black shoes for years.  But they were canvas high-tops.  I quickly
began assembling my mental outfit.  I've never been a very formal guy.
Never has a black-tie invitation arrived in my mailbox.  Every job
I've had has been pretty casual.  I was making pretty decent money as
King of the Warehouse, but the uniform was jeans and tees.  A company
emblazoned polo shirt if some bigwigs were due in for a tour.  My
upcoming position would require the half-step up to shirts with a full
front of buttons.  I dug around in my closet and found the leather
shoes and slacks I'd used to interview for the warehouse job.  They
were a little worn from age and a brief stint as a waiter.  I went out
and bought a brand-new white shirt.  The coat and tie I borrowed from
a friend.  I felt like a bride.  _Something old, something new,
something borrowed, something blue._  The socks matched all the rest,
but I packed a pair of underpants the color of a summer sky.  I got
off the plane and immediately began reiterating my ancient knowledge
of the public transit system.  I could take a taxi, but that would eat
up most the cash I had.  The shuttle from the airport ran on rails to
the subway which would take me to the elevated that would lead me to a
depot of buses, one of which--if I could only recall the name of the
proper route--would drop me a few blocks from the house.  My head was
filled with this as I was navigating the vast network of connecting
corridors.  Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I grabbed for the
bulge of my wallet in my back pocket.  "Good instincts," I heard
chuckling.  And there stood Uncle Bob.  "Wha-at?" "I got your flight
info from your folks.  I guessed you wouldn't have cab fare, and given
your sense of direction I knew you'd hop the first train to the south
side." "You bastard you!  Thanks." "No problem," he grinned.  I
followed his limping form.  Bob had the disadvantage of growing up
under the shadow of my father's brilliance.  A mild bout of childhood
polio had left him quite mobile but with shriveled social skills.  He
finished college and was an intensely intelligent man, but ultimately
he fell back into the family business and never moved away from his
boyhood bedroom.  His presence, really, enabled Grandma to die in her
own home.  We got back to the house, and I was the last to arrive.  I
demanded coffee, but by the time it brewed I barely had time for a cup
before I needed to start getting dressed.  "Heavens Tom, don't you
look snazzy," Mom announced me as I came down the stairs.  Her
pronouncement was followed by a muted wolf whistle.  "Whoa, big bro,
lookin' _good!_" my sister crowed.  I blushed.  "Look Ashley, you made
your brother blush.  I think you should apologize." I was blushing the
way you do when you know someone's taking the liberty of pity with
you.  I felt like a clown.  The borrowed jacket was too short in the
arms which heightened the fact that I'd bought the shirt a size too
big.  I felt like I was wearing a balloon under the coat, and the
sleeves of it looked like I'd misplaced the cuff links and sewn on
some buttons.  The slightly frayed pants cuffs sort of matched the
fact that I'd never bought a tin of shoe polish in my life.  I thought
I'd done a bang-up job with the tie, but then mom insisted on retying
the knot.  Luckily I was too tongue-tied to have to bite my tongue.
Ashley was wearing the mourning color, but it was a slinky black
number cut well above the knees and strategically tight in all the
right places.  Spaghetti straps, for chrissakes!  I'm sure the
fishnets were pantyhose, but they sure looked like the type where,
given the dress, you wouldn't have to try too hard to see the garters.
She topped it off, or bottomed it off, with a pair of shoes you might
choose to call _maybe-come-fuck-me_ pumps.  She really was attired for
cocktails.  Or rather, a quick spin out dancing to find a partner for
cocktails.  "Golly, since we all look so nice, maybe we should cut out
early and go out and have some fun.  Hit the service but skip the
cemetery." "_Mom!_  We're in mixed company." "Honey, come on, I didn't
mean _that_ kind of fun." "I mean, Mom, these guys got a job to do.
If they ditch out, the coffin goes _whumpity bump, whumpity bump_."
"Oh, that's right.  I'd forgotten." Poor mom.  Here she was, all
decked out and in the big city, just _yearning_ for a bit of the
bright lights.  "Okay then," she went on, "we stick around for the
dust-to-dust stuff, but please can we forget about the stale donuts in
the church basement?" Dad sort of sat there in his usual way.
Pretending he didn't know us.   Wondering who these sick strangers
were sitting around his mother's livingroom profaning her memory.
Well, no.  He generally keeps quiet, keeping his batteries on
recharge.  The man knows humor, but he saves up his wit to cut people
to the quick.  But I could see what passes for a smile on his face.
"Sweetheart, I'm no fan of the Old Ladies' Auxiliary, but they are
mother's friends." "No they aren't.  She outlived all her friends.
The bunch of biddies forced her to be their mentor.  She didn't care
for them one bit.  She told me so numerous times.   They've crowned me
Queen of the Biddy Brigade; time for me to kick the bucket._" Dad
roared with laughter.  "Okay, okay.  We put in a brief appearance,
then we're out of there.  Just don't fill up on donuts.  After the
show I'm taking you to Martine's." "_Martine's!_" Mom fairly squealed.
I recognized the name.  Fine dining and exotic cocktails and dancing
'til dawn.  "Oh kids," she cautioned, "don't wait up for us!"  I took
that to mean us kids weren't invited.  "But what show?  You can't get
tickets at the last minute." Dad reached into the breast pocket of his
jacket.  Two tickets to the finest show in town.  Prime seats too.
"Must have been a gift from the dry cleaners for so many years of
faithful patronage," he smiled.  That wily old bastard!  As for the
funeral itself, well, talking about them is the same as suffering
through them.  The quicker it's over with the better.  Piped in music
that makes you want to rip the speakers from the ceiling.  A cadre of
funeral home ghouls standing around in plastic hair and funny suits.
The minister of Grandma's church not just stumbling over her name, but
doing so while he read it off an index card.  The eulogy the usual
pastiche of irrelevant aphorisms mixed in with incorrect facts.
Fortunately the man didn't strain himself with any great length.
Lining up for the _viewing_.  The modern pallbearer, I discovered, is
mostly an honorary position.  You lift the coffin onto a dolly, then
sort of shuttle alongside it.  Riding to the cemetery in those big
black cars that seemed to have been retrofitted with shock absorbers
meant for a subcompact.  Dad got to ride in the front car with the
other primary guests of honor.  In our car Mom and Ashley went off
about the mouth.  "They never can get the mouths right," Ashley
intoned "They botched the job worse than great-aunt Clara's.  And
_hers_ looked like a piece of rotten fruit." I was momentarily
appalled, but they were just speaking the truth.  I had a more
important truth, so I joined in, "But wait!  Did you check out the
hands?  Whose hands were they?  Like they had a terrible accident and
had to send off to Madame Toussaude's for replacements.   And they
were out of stock so they stuck them with some seconds?" "To each
their own," Mom added, "but me, I'm not so sure about this coffin
business." "Definitely not _open_," Ashley added.  "Why don't they
just tuck a $10,000 bill in your pocket and skip the box?  When I even
begin to suspect my time is drawing nigh, I'm _hopping_ in that old
oven under my own steam.  Skip the pine box too.  I don't want some
pissed off tree chasing me around in the afterlife." "That's right!"
Mom asserted.  "Even if it's not legal," Ashley agreed.	  At the
cemetery we had to accompany the coffin, but this time it was placed
on a motorized vehicle.  I wanted to jump aboard and commandeer the
controls, go for a wild and bumpy ride.  As a working man I'd been
given this nifty pair of super thin grey cotton gloves that I thought
would be perfect for my future dual career as assassin/thief.  But
then the scary men in the funny suits made me toss them atop the
coffin with the other five pairs.  The big mound of dirt covered with
a green tarp like you're supposed to think it's just a little grassy
knoll.  This big winch machine to do the actual lowering.  They
lowered the coffin to almost ground level then stopped it.  The few
dusty words about shadowy death valley.  And then they made you leave!
One of the goons actually stood up with his hands folded against his
midsection and intoned, "This concludes the burial part of the
service."  No way!  No tossing a rose in the hole, shoveling in your
personal clump of dirt.  Talk about lack of closure.  I was instantly
picturing Grandma kicking off the lid, jumping out, and racing down
the grassy slopes with the ghouls in pursuit shouting, "Come back,
come back, you're _paid_ for!"  The memorial reception was about as
deadly as can be imagined.  The damp of a basement church recreation
room.  The battered upright piano pushed against the wall.   Old
donuts _and_ platters of sliced packaged ham and loaves of white
bread.  Two liter bottles of warm soda with a bowl of ice from a
machine that could use a little cleaning.  Tiny paper cups the size of
the ones the doctor asks you to pee in.  "The lesson to be learned
here," I whispered to Ashley, "is that it definitely pays to plan your
own party." "_Really!_  And book it well in advance.  Codicil City.  I
know the first thing I'm doing when I get home." Right then Mom
sauntered over and did a perfect imitation of little old zombie
ladies.  "And _who_ might you be?" "Next of kin," Ashley gasped,
"wishing like hell I was lying next to kin." "Primary beneficiary," I
snapped, "the greedy bastard who smothered her with the pillow in the
middle of the night, _a-hahahaha!_" We had to get _out of there_
quick.  The giddiness was getting exponential.  Mom went to seize Dad
and steer him towards the door while Ashley and I migrated to the
fringes of the gathering.  I stopped by Aunt Cassie and her crew long
enough to exclaim gaily, "We're sneaking out now.  Guess we'll see you
guys later."  They bent their heads at matching curious angles and
gave me a collective blank look.  The folks didn't even pull to the
curb, slowing down just long enough to kick us kids out of the car
before they roared off for a long night of fun.  Luckily Bob had
beaten us all back to the house.  Neither of us had the key.  Once
inside Ashley and I commenced to quarrel.  After it became evident
that his culinary skills were not required, Bob pulled his usual trick
of hanging around for a few minutes of chat before limping upstairs to
hide in his room.  Eventually we resolved our differences and called
up the pizza.  In exchange for no olives I agreed to drop my
insistence on onions.  I hadn't really wanted onions all that much,
but knowing how Ashley loathed them I needed them for a bargaining
chip.  Likely she was equally ambivalent about the olives.  That
settled I went immediately to change out of my patched together
penguin suit.  I was almost sorry when Ashley switched into her
sloppys as well.  Disregarding the obvious, I had spent a pleasant
afternoon amid the vicarious thrill of watching her outfit do such a
splendid job of showing off a fine female form.  Being in the big city
we were hankering for some authentic big city pizza.  We skipped the
franchises and went for the local guy.  This meant that they didn't
bullwhip their drivers to run red lights and mow over pedestrians with
the gall to get in the way of free enterprise.  Which meant we waited
hours for the knock on the door.  The pizza arrived barely warm but we
were so ravenous it hardly mattered.  By the end I was half-tempted by
the greasy cardboard of the box.  As the feast wound down I stirred up
a little dinner conversation.  "So how are we getting downtown?"
"Downtown?" "The hotel?" "The hotel?" "Uhm, Cassie et. al.?" It'd
taken her a few tries, but the third time proved the charm.  Aunt
Cassie had the face and figure still left that even with two kids from
two other men, she'd managed to snag a big fat millionaire with her
third turn at marriage.  He owned a semi-swank hotel downtown where
we'd stayed several times before.  Gratis of course.  "Well, my
understanding is that they could barely manage rooms for them.
Something about being booked up by some big convention." "Oh,
bullshit!"  I was up looking for the phone book.  "What are you
doing?!" "I'm going to call down there and inquire at the desk." "You
are not!" "Sit there and listen." I hung up the phone and reported
back.  "_I'm sorry, there's no convention here._  The small rooms are
solid, but they have suites galore." "No way!" "Yes way.  Those
fucking bastards!  Who do they think they are?   Stiffing us
freeloading poor relations.  See if they get an invite to _my_
funeral!" We sat there in silence, until I mused aloud, "Wonder what a
room runs in this city." "I think the cheapest is around fifty bucks."
"That's not bad." "But that's the by-the-hour rate." I rolled my eyes.
"Good thing I wasn't looking forward to getting laid on this trip." We
quit the banter to sit bloated on the sofa with the numbing
companionship of the t.v.  Ashley yawned, then I yawned.  I yawned,
then Ashley yawned.  "Quit it!" we declared in unison.  Before long
she stood up and announced her horizontal intentions.   "I'll be
generous and take the tiny room."  I was on my feet in an instant.
"No way, I insist.  Let me be the gentleman." Bob's room was the one
he and Dad had shared growing up.  Historically, in our lifetimes, Dad
and Mom always claimed the pull-out sofa.  Cassie's tiny old room was
proclaimed Siberia.  The luckier of us two got to sleep in the big bed
with Grandma, even when grumbly old Grandpa was still alive.  "A true
gentleman always honors a lady's wishes." "You're no lady!  You're a
conniving bitch.  No way am I sleeping in the death bed.  You know Bob
hasn't gotten around to changing the sheets." "And you expect me to
sleep in there?  That's terribly altruistic of you." We both had our
points.  We stared each other down.  Ashley finally lowered her gaze
and spoke softly, "Okay.  If it's okay with you.  It's a small bed,
but we can both fit." "As long as you don't snore," I answered.  "_I
don't snore!_" Ashley replied indignantly.  "Never said you did.  It's
a bad habit, and I just don't want you to pick it up when I have to be
around to hear of it." Ashley slugged me on the arm hard enough to
hurt.  "I'll get you!" she forewarned as she stormed up the stairs.

		+          +          + 

========================= End Part 1 of 2 =========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================

I am archived at DejaNews under the "Author Name":
lushgod@hotnomail.com

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