The Three Deceasedos

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Short Story - comedy/horror using the following words:

bunker, mutiny and dinosaur

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The Three Deceasedos

by Indelibleink

Charles "Porky" Chadwick had had his fill. I mean, up to here, baby! With his job. With his wife. With his kids. Well, okay, he didn't really have any kids, yet. But believe-you-me, if he did, you can bet this morning's Pop Tart that he'd be sick of them, too!.

And that moronic garbage truck driver! The idiot. Porky didn't know exactly where that guy's brain was focused about an hour ago, but it sure as hell wasn't on driving. Porky speculated that maybe the driver had happened upon an intact issue of Playboy while conducting his afternoon pick-ups or something, but whatever: the guy had literally brushed Porky's sport coat as Porky was attempting to cross the street. Not sixty seconds out of the office building where he worked as a "green" customer liaison for the EPA, Porky thought about how close he had been to becoming a "horizontal" pancake-shaped traffic fatality.

To top off the day's gaggle of giggles, Porky also had to walk home since his car was in the shop today for a tune-up and some brake work. Can't wait to get reamed with that bill. He had scheduled the work just a couple of days ago because the forecast was for mild weather today. Naturally, though, as Porky meandered the sidewalk full of indecisive pedestrians and wayward pan-handlers, the sky was already threatening and the wind was picking up. Being early December, dusk wasn't that far off as it was already 5:30. Predictably, his wife had suggested he take his topcoat this morning, but he refused, not wanting to be saddled with carrying the thing for the good 45 minutes it would take to get home on foot. Porky had a reason for everything.

Truth be told, it was never Porky's fault; it was always someone else's. In fact, he considered himself something of a dinosaur in that respect: He was like the only guy left on earth that still thought everything through before reacting. The rest of the world was an "act-on-impulse" gathering of nit-wits assembled - he was quite sure - only to make his life a living hell. And today, unfortunately, the nit-wits were winning.

Moving quickly, he noticed as he passed the old cemetery that the gate, usually locked, was open. While it was indeed something he wouldn't ordinarily consider, cutting through the cemetery would save him a good ten minutes, at least.

Porky was probably about two-thirds of the way through the "bunker of the bodies" when he tripped from a void left in the sidewalk from a missing brick, twisting his ankle pretty good in the process. He paused momentarily and took a seat on the highest headstone in the area. As he caught his breath, he rotated his ankle - gingerly - to assess the damage.

"Hey, pal. You wanna remove your posterior from my marker, there? The guys down here are starting to make fun of me."

Porky sprang up like a dog that heard the mailman coming up the driveway. "Who the hell is that?" As he spoke, he started squinting in the dark around the shadowy collection of headstones and grave markers, looking for most likely punk kids playing a prank. However, when he saw no sign of life, he sat down again in the very same spot.

"Not to be redundant, Sir Sit-a-Lot, but you're rump is still resting on my marker. And the guys are still making fun of me. In fact, now they're making fun of you. They're now calling you the 'Rear Admiral', among other things." The last sentence was accompanied by a muffled laughter reminiscent of the hiding munchkins in the WIZARD OF OZ.

Once again, Porky stood up, this time moving much quicker around the area, hoping to catch the gang of verbal desecraters in the act. "Where are you, you little punks?"

"I got news for you, Colombo: You're not going to find anyone here. Well, not anyone living, anyway." Again, more laughter followed the comments.

Porky was now becoming convinced that he was the recipient of a more elaborate prank, and got down on his hands and knees looking for hidden speakers and microphones.

"Hey, Fido, don't mistake my marker for a fire hydrant! Let me retain a little dignity, huh?" Now, the background laughter was out of control.

"You guys are pretty funny. Will you be appearing here all week, or is this just a one night stand?" Porky figured his best approach with these jokers would be one of the "fight-fire-with-fire" variety.

"Hey fellas, we got a stand-up comedian here. Stand-up...that's something we sure can't do - not where we are!" More laughter. "And, no, David Letterman, we won't be here all week...we'll be here for eternity! Get your tickets now!" Again, uproarious laughing abounded.

Porky had a seat again, this time on a headstone next to the one he sat on originally. "All right....I give up. Who are you guys? And why are you bothering me?"

"Well, Inspector Clouseau, if you bothered to read our headstones rather than use them for lawn chairs, you'd know our names. But since that's appears to be beyond your apparently limited capabilities, I'll do the honors: I'm Bobby, to your left is Ralphie, and to your right is Sammy."

Porky leaned over, and with the assistance of some moonlight that had broken through the clouds, was able to make out the names on the three headstones: Ralph G. Layton, Robert L. Runnels, and Samuel R. Perkins. Interestingly, they had all died on the same date: December 1, 2004, exactly five years ago - a week ago today.

"Well, fellas, it's nice to meet you...in a posthumous kind of way. By the way, my name is Charles..."

"No it's not...it's 'Dorky', right?"

"Well, no...it's Porky with a 'P', but how did you know - almost, anyway - my nickname?"

"Remember, you're talking to dead people here. Sammy pulled your file as soon as you rested your hiney on my headstone. We know everything about you, Corky."

"It's Porky...PORKY with a 'P'! You know, for dead people, you don't hear very well." Porky was starting to lose patience. "Maybe you guys have eternity, but that doesn't mean that I do."

"So sorry, Gorky. Oh....wait a minute...do you mean Porky just like that little piggy who blabbers at the end of cartoons, 'Da-beeb, da-beeb, th-th-that's all, folks? That Porky?"

"Well, actually, it's just a nickname I got in grade school when I was a little on the heavy side."

"Hate to break this to you, Slim-fast, but you're not exactly borderline anorexic right now, either."

"It's a glandular thing, Okay?"

Porky remembered that he didn't want to arrive home too late and have his wife all distressed.
"Hey, guys, this has been a lot of laughs, but I'd better get going. It's getting late."

There was a brief silence, and then the voice known as Bobby spoke. "You can't go yet, pal. Nobody's ever walked out on one of my performances before. If you go, I'll lose my 'leader of the pack' title. There'll be a power struggle - a mutiny - even. That can't happen on my watch." After a momentary pause, Bobby resumed with, "Oh my God, Porker, duck down - quickly!"

Acting out of instinct, Porky did just that, and heard footsteps approaching. The sound was that of a woman's heels, and just as he was about to look up, Bobby spoke up. "I said stay down, Perky! " As soon as the sound of the heels had faded, Bobby gave the 'all clear' sign. "Okay, Pacman, the coast is clear."

Porky arose and looked around, seeing a woman kneeling down at a grave site a couple of rows over, facing away from Porky. Whispering, he looked at the headstones in front of him and said, "What's the big deal if that woman saw me - it's not like it's illegal to be here or anything."

"It was for your own protection, Parker. I'll explain later."

"No you won't. You'll explain now! Also explain how you guys all died on the same date. Also explain how, if you're dead, I can hear you. Also expl..."

"Slow down, there, Porkchop. Okay, okay, I guess you deserve to get some answers. First of all, we were all best friends; hung out together all the time. Were inseparable. People called us the 'Three Partyeers', okay? Well, five years ago, some guy was celebrating a promotion at work, or something like that, drove drunk, and we met him - head on - in a car wreck. Pretty messy. Anyway, our wives, knowing how close we were, had us buried next to each other. And now, they're out partying with the insurance money. Ironic, huh? Now, we call ourselves the 'Three Deceasedos' - has sort of a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

"Wonderful. Try to stay focused. What's my connection to all of this?"

"Well, even when you're dead, like us, you still have to climb the ladder to achieve better things - or perks - if you will. If you consider that we've been dead for five years, that's only a split-second on the eternal time continuum, or 'ETC' as we call it down here. By the way, did you ever see the SIXTH SENSE with Bruce Willis?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do wi..."

"We talk to dead people, Porky. Just like in the movie."

Porky felt very uneasy as the usual laughter that followed Bobby's statements was missing. "What are you saying?"

"Walk over to that lady by the grave. Then, try to remain calm."

Porky did as he was told. As he got within about fifteen feet of her, he recognized the face of the woman kneeling at the freshly covered grave site.

"KATIE!!!" Porky screamed at his wife, and tried to grab her, but his hands passed right through. His senses screamed further when he read the inscription on the brand new grave marker: Charles P. Chadwick. The date of death was December 1, 2009. "That date was a week ago! where have I been the last 7 days?"

"Limbo, kid, and I'm not talking about the dance, either! Guys that die suddenly or violently are given a little extra time to 'adjust' to their new lot in life, so to speak."

"Lot in life?"

"Sorry, kid. Poor choice of words. My bad. Anyway, remember that garbage truck that you thought just clipped you? Well, it was a little bit more than a 'clip', kid. You were, uh, well, let me put it this way...they needed a spatula to get you off the street. And a couple of 'Hefty Bags'."

Porky thought a moment, and then his eyes brightened. "If I'm dead, then how come I can't see you clowns?"

Bobby groaned, and then mumbled, "Fellas, they never give up without a fight, do they?" There were some soft voicings of affirmation, then Bobby continued, "Actually, Porkster, we just didn't want to scare you to death." The uproarious laughter resumed, which was actually of some comfort to Porky now. "Take my hand, kid."

Porky watched in amazement as a whitish image of a man in his mid-fifties semi-materialized with his hand extended in a comforting manner.

Porky extended his own hand, and noticed that it, too, was now a whitish, translucent image.

His hand met with Bobby's, and Bobby grasped it firmly and warmly, and then smiled.

ZAP!!! Bobby felt the charge of one of those hand buzzers and jumped about a foot into the air from the shock. As he regained his composure, he now heard what sounded like a whole concert hall full of laughter, and now saw the images of hundreds - if not thousands - of other ghost-like images in the cemetery.

Bobby, laughing as well, slapped Porky on the back. "Welcome to heaven, kid. You're gonna love it here!"
 
1991 words