by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|Daily SCREAMS!!! win
“It’s your funeral.” Cousin Red threw a haymaker would have spun me into the ground if it connected. There is nothing like a family get-together bring the worst out in kin. Ours especial.
We knowed each other’s secrets better than we knowed our own. Too busy making new ones. I ducked and grabbed Cousin Red below the belt where a squeeze would do the most good.
It raised him onto his toes. I got a fine view of his tonsils. He give up the fight, happy to keep his manhood in place. “You shack’n up with May Bell Turner?” He sneered, trying to do harm with that baseless rumor.
Her being second cousin, half divorced, free and easy made me and most of my interested male kinfolk prey to her advances. “Didn’t see you in the lineup at her backdoor. Must have got in early,” I commented.
He must have read the delight in my eyes. Almost swung a meathouse back behind him in time to keep May Bell, his common law wife from goose’n him loose of his privates.
“They wants you inside to do the ‘praise to glory. Young grandson Elmer done already stole grandpa’s watch outa his coffin.”
I got a move on. “You sure he’s dead, this time?” I pondered with grandma. She sitting proud in her favorite rocker by the smelly corpse.
I got a sharp slap across my mug and a “Speak respect to your elders, sonny. Why gramps chose you to do his eulogy, God alone knows.”
The sound of deer rifle fire celebrated a many gun salute. I peeked out the window to see several fall’n heros had struck each other’s breasts. “Mighty fine send off, grandma,” She harrumph’d. Hard to please.
“They’s already digging up my garden hunting for jars filled with money ain’t there.” She lamented, dabbing a sodden lace hanky to her runny nose.
“Gramps at his best was secretive about those where-abouts. Took me enough whisky to preserve his innards before he told me where he’d planted his private bank.” I realized my mistake soon as I flapped my tongue.
Grandpa rose up out of being dead. A mass of flies left him. The twin barrels of his shotgun pointed at my chest. “We goin’ change places, son. I’ll see to burying you my own self, unless you give me back my coin.”
Gramps hee hawed hisself sick, bust a gut, holding his belly and passed away successfully. “About time,” Amery grinned, grabbing the bottle of hootch in Gramps coffin and vamoosed.
Grandma give me the evil eye. “You ain’t going nowhere without taking me with you.”
She’s pretty lively for being one hundred and two, sharing space, time, lovin and money living on the Riviera. Heard word we was tracked down by our distant relatives, threatening to visit us in our own funerals, who will be joining us real soon.