I knew it would come to this...

Word count: 3,184

There’s really no telling why anybody comes to these things unless they have some kind of ulterior motive. I mean, there are so many better things one could be doing. Jerking-off, illegally downloading songs, spying on your neighbors and torturing small animals are some things that immediately come to mind. Sandpapering your fingertips to remove your fingerprints. Shaving all the hair off of your body to escape a hair follicle drug test. Seeing just how effective battery acid works at turning corpses into unrecognizable goo. Shit, the list is endless…

Standing at the back of the room dressed in all black-a suit I bought just for this occasion-I watch anonymously as people file in in clusters of three and four, looking somber. Posers. Fakers. I can almost smell the booze on some of their breath, see the smile lines around their eyes crinkling, trying not to laugh. You see, that corpse up there in the closed casket? The one everyone has come here to mourn? No one gave a damn about her, no one really cares that she is dead.

Wait a minute; I guess that was a little hasty. They do care that she is dead because they all believe that they are better off now that she is. And why wouldn’t they think that? She was diagnosed with terminal cancer a little over a year ago and through Facebook-none of them were actually around in person to witness it-they saw as her posted pictures became skinnier and skinnier. Watched as she grew gaunter as the weeks turned into months, maybe read her blog postings about how she was getting ready to die after the doctor told her that the chemo wasn’t working.

But yeah, okay, that’s just a part of it. She also told all visitors to her page that she had all this money that she didn’t know what to do with when she died. All this moolah she’d saved and saved over the years because it was nothing but disposable income, seeing as she never married, never had any children, never had any vast overhead to suck it out of her savings account. And, that even with all the doctor visits and hospital inpatient stays, her health insurance covered it all. Didn’t have to pay jack-shit out of pocket.

And did anyone show up in person after she made this announcement? Take a leave of absence from their lives to drive up to the north Wisconsin woods and visit her where she lay dying in a cheap bungalow that was built to look like a Nordic ski lodge? Nope, none of the bastards did, these family members, ‘friends’, associates. Sure, some of them sent her emails to express their sympathy-after she let the money bomb drop-but that was the best that any of them could muster. These jackals, these vultures, fucking leeches…

A priest enters the room and takes a look at the crowd, glances at the closed casket. Maybe he wonders why the casket is closed, maybe he doesn’t. The official story is that she is so emaciated that the mortician was unable to make her look like anything more than she was at death: a flesh covered skeleton. Eyes bulging so far out of their sockets it would take industrial strength glue just to keep them closed, and even that shit didn’t hold. Fingers thinner than #2 pencils, legs and torso worse than the most horrific images from Auschwitz. Her face so sunken in that the cotton padding inside her mouth still couldn’t make her cheeks look round.

This priest, he’s fat and has red blotches on his rotund cheeks. Belly so big it eclipses the sun. He’s Catholic, of course. Stinking wino, fucking child molester. I can almost smell the stench of little boys semen on his breath, barely covered by ‘sacramental wine’. He approaches a small group of people who stand nearest the front, assumes that they must be the immediate family. God help them they are, these sick, negligent pricks. While this poor woman was dying none of them even visited her once, none of them sent so much as a fucking postcard.

Email is this generation’s way of saying ‘I really don’t give enough of a fuck about you to call, but hopefully this will show I care.’ Same goes for the text message, another way to reach out and not have to touch someone.

The priest, he puts his arm around the dead girls mother, eyes watering from lack of sleep or the shock of her nasty smelling perfume. The mother, her lips a bright red color, her cheeks painted in little red circles. Her face depicts sorrow but her heart harbors nothing. She could win an Emmy award for her portrayal as ‘concerned, loving parent’ when in all actuality she couldn’t wait to get her daughter out of the house when she turned eighteen. Next to her stands the dead girls stepfather, the guy who raped her when she was only fourteen, forcing her head under a tub full of tepid bathwater as he took her from behind. This monster, this fucking scumbag.

As I look around I see people muttering amongst themselves, hear someone ask another if this event is catered. As it turns out it is. What kind of food? Someone wants to know. Like they are going to turn down whatever free grub is handed their way.

Someone I am familiar with brushes past me, elbow catching me in the ribs. He turns to face me, maybe to apologize and I see no hint of recognition in his eyes. He actually smiles.

“Sorry,” He says in a hushed tone. What the hell does he think this is? A funeral? “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s okay.” I reply, but it is better than okay. I am invisible to these people, at least until they become bored with themselves and start to wonder about all the ‘strays’ at this event. And what constitutes a ‘stray’? Someone who might be eligible for some of the glorious money the deceased has promised, someone who might take it out of their pockets. And I can see it in this jerk-wad’s eyes, the sudden curiosity. I observe that he is wearing Chuck Taylor’s, frayed Khaki pants, and a pink oxford that has seen better days. No tie. His hair is too long and slightly mussed. I know that he wants to ask, can almost see the words forming on his lips.

“I’m Jack Kendal,” I offer, holding out my hand. “Funeral director.”

This asshole almost exudes an audible sigh, his troubled smile at once turning friendly.

“Casey Van Landen.” He says, shaking my hand. His nails are long and dirty, the backs of his hands scabbed but healing from his last bar fight. “Pretty nice shindig you put together here.”

“Everything is according to the deceased’s wishes.” I say simply, offering only the hint of a smile. This is, after all, a somber occasion.

“Well,” he says, turning away, “Good job.”

He walks up to the front of the room, approaches the horrible woman and the beast of a stepfather. He whispers to them quietly, his eyes glancing toward me. The woman looks in my direction briefly, nods, turns back to her son. ‘Yes.’ She is probably saying. ‘We met him on our way in. He took care of everything.’

Damn fucking Skippy. As per the dead woman’s wishes I made all the arrangements for this wake, made all the preparations and sent out all the invitations. Made sure the death announcement was placed in all the newspapers statewide, hired the caterer, chose this funeral home. It was I that made damn sure that all these sorry sons a bitches dragged their asses here.

It looks like the priest is getting ready to get this thing underway. He looks in my direction and I simply give him a nod. I’m the one that hired him as well. Wasn’t hard to pick him; he is related to the deceased. In every family of any size there is always the possibility that there will be some heretic claiming to be a ‘disciple of the Lord’. This family has this fat fuck.

One last look around the room and I see all the appropriate faces: cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, ‘friends’ with their spouses and ex-coworkers. All of those that were on the list are present and accounted for, faces betraying their boredom, laugh-lines at the corners of their mouths suggesting that they really, truly don’t care.

The child molester approaches the pulpit, clears his throat. The last of the whispers, coughing, sneezing, laughing die down. The mood in the air of the room is almost palpable. It is an urgency to just get this shit over with. Let the priest say his few words, maybe have the mother or the deceased siblings say a couple of things in behalf of their lost comrade and then move on to the catered feast. And, beyond that, the reading of the will. Because that is what this little event is REALLY all about. You can see it on every face, read it on everyone’s lips, almost hear the rats on their little wheels that represent the inside of these fuckhole’s brains turning and turning: ‘What’s in it for me? What’s in it for me?’

Selfish fucking parasites. Obscenely melancholic godamn assmunchers.

I move to the back of the room as the semen belcher begins his eulogy, close the door of the room so that no one else may enter. This event is now closed to members of the public. Family and ‘friends’ only from this point on.

“By all accounts Maria Ann DeSota was beloved by all for her myriad talents, her boundless optimism…” The micro-wienie sucker says, breath smelling of ass-rot. “In death she will most certainly be missed by her many friends and generous, caring family…”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face. My eyes water slightly. What a load! Of course, I’m the one that has written this tripe for the butt burglar to read, and what I’m dying to see is if anyone of these fucking bloodsuckers will recognize it for the sarcasm it is. None of them loved her; none of them will miss her. She didn’t have any special talents.

But, wait, that is wrong. She did have one special talent, one that will be witnessed by all before this is over. Of course, at that point, it will be too late for these spongers, these vermin, these cold hearted, lying fucksticks…

“Blah blah blah blah blah…” The jizz guzzler drones, and I see heads dropping onto their chests, nodding off. The eulogy just goes on and on and on.
This is where I decide to make things happen, put the plan into action, so to speak. As quietly as possible I exit the room from a side door. The Funeral Director’s door. The one that no one else is supposed to use but me. Entering the chamber I at once go to the closet, open it and look in at the two men bound and gagged inside. Frick and Frack. The REAL Funeral Directors. Their eyes are muddled with confusion and fear. I can see a dark stain on the crotch of one who wet himself.

“Christ, don’t get your undies in a bundle,” I say, no longer employing the deeper voice I used for the benefit of those attending the funeral, for anyone who actually spoke to me. Now I just speak in my regular timbre, the one thing that the surgery couldn’t alter. “I told you I wasn’t going to kill you. I just needed you out of the way…”

Happy that they are still in place, I leave that room and go beyond to another room where the ‘caterers’ are waiting with the food on wheeled carts.

“It’s just about time.” I tell them and they nod, dark circles under their eyes, one of them with a runner of drool hanging from his chin. Taking a handkerchief from my back pocket, I wipe it away and smile. “When I give you the signal I want you to come in through the rear doors and set the carts off to the left hand side.”

One of them mutters a barely perceptible ‘yes sir…’ and the other simply looks at me with a dazed look on his face. I feel adequately reassured that these two imbeciles can do the job.

I return to the room where the wake is just wrapping up, see that the deceased’s mother is sobbing phony tears into a lavender tissue while relating some of the things she loved most about her dead daughter.

“She loved puppies,” This old bag sputters. “And sunsets…”

The stepfather comes up and puts an arm around her, leads her back to her seat. The ass pirate reclaims the pulpit.

“Is their anyone else that would like to offer a few words?” He asks and the question is greeted by silence. Someone sneezes. Another hiccups. “Very well then…”

I take this opportunity to stride purposefully to the front, my face stern, my shoulders slumped in a manner that indicates the gravity of the situation. For this is a very grave moment, very grave indeed.

I stand in front of the closed casket, turn to it, place my hands upon the top. I knock upon it softly and the resounding thud echoes hollowly. If one didn’t know any better they would think that the damn thing was empty…

I turn to the crowd, this pack of sewer rats, lice upon fleas upon dogs.

“I am sorry to announce that the catered food will be served in this room,” I say, keeping my voice as low as possible, eyeing the crowd for any reaction to my person. “The dining area is being bombed for…rodents…at this time. I certainly hope that this is not an inconvenience.”

I walk to the back of the room, listening to the muttered complaints, hearing the occasional ‘Doesn’t that figure?’ and ‘Cheap-ass bitch could have held this somewhere nicer, don’t you think?’

Ah yes, the grateful crowd has it’s say as I let the two ‘zombie’ caterers enter the room with the wheeled carts of boiled shrimp and cocktail sauce, finger-sandwiches and salted snacks, cakes and cookies and cups of some blood-red beverage.

I watch as the horde gets in line, filling up paper plates with the bounty this host has chosen to provide, listening as they now talk at full volume, grinning as they pick up cups of ‘punch’, almost cackle insanely as I watch them lick their fingers…

When the last of them has served themselves and are gathering in their little groups to eat and talk, I decide that this charade has gone on long enough, decide that it is time to let the cat out of the proverbial bag. These vultures, these uncaring bastards who aren’t bothered for one lousy second about the poor deceased woman.

I move toward the front of the room, stand in front of the casket. I clear my throat loudly and, when that doesn’t work, I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly. This does the trick. Heads turn in my direction, faces that look irritated at being interrupted.

“I’m sorry to disrupt your dining but there are a couple of things that the deceased wished for me to discuss with you before the end of this wake.” I say, pausing until all eyes are on me. I have to stifle the urge to guffaw as I see the licking of fingers, imagine a gruesome vivisection to stop a bray of wild laughter from erupting from deep within my chest as I witness them knock back their drinks.

“As you have been informed there is next the tedious task of going over the deceased’s will and, with that, the distribution of an exceptionally large amount of cash…”

Oh yeah, these fuckers. Now I fully have everyone’s attention.

“I have been hired to inform you…” I pause and taste the air, savoring the moment for all it is worth. “That what you have been told is erroneous.”

Again I pause, letting that sink in. “And for those of you illiterate numbskulls out there, erroneous means ‘wrong’. You have been mislead. Lied to. There is no money.”

The room explodes in a chorus of angry voices; food and spittle flies from wet lips, feet are stomped on the hard wood floor.

I turn to the casket briskly, undo a latch and swing the lid open. When I turn back to the crowd they are momentarily silenced, their shock cascading over me like warm water. Ahhh. My moment has at long last arrived.

Inside the coffin is nothing but a dress, one in which I used to wear, and a pair of scuffed pumps. Sneering at the crowd I take off the wig I’ve been wearing, peel off the phony beard. Just to get this straight, the male hormones I’ve been injecting still haven’t enabled me to grow thick enough facial hair. I’ve been told that I will, eventually. I just have to give it some time.

“You bloodhounds have all been fooled,” I tell them merrily. I treasure this moment, having planned for so long what I’ve been going to say. I always wanted to say this and mean it and, since the operation, I most genuinely can:

“Suck my cock you fucking bastards.” I say, grinning from ear to ear. I say:

“See you in fucking hell.”

And that is when the first of them begins to choke, their faces turning beat red, falling to their knees. This is my version of the Jim Jones Kool-aid party and it is going better than I ever could have expected.

“I never fucking died,” I tell anyone who can hear me over the loud din of choking and gasping. “I faked my cancer by becoming anorexic…”

It wasn’t easy, but I starved myself until I was nothing but thin skin over bones, shaving my head bald to complete the image. This I documented the whole while in vivid color photos, from inception to my eventual ‘demise’. Of course I did that months before I actually ‘died’, as I had to fatten myself up again for my sex change operation.

“I was never good enough for you greedy assholes, not even good enough to visit when I was ‘dying’. Somehow,” I say, a large smirk spreading across my now masculine face. “I always knew it would come down to this in the end…”

My eyes roll riotously in their sockets as this wanton cast of despots succumbs to the arsenic, my merriment rich, full bodied. The doctor told me that after enough testosterone, I’d even have hair on the backs of my hands. I can hardly wait.

As the bodies tumble to the floor, faces bulging and blue, I congratulate them all for attending this, the last funeral of their natural lives.

Oh, except for their own, of course.