And Now, I Will Inexplicably Post Fiction (Yay)

It’s not so much the way it sounds to hear someone die, as it is the sight of life, itself, expiring before your very eyes. Some may say it’s the sound, but I would disagree.

“He was a good man, a good . . . Good man.”

It brings a small tear of irony to my eyes to hear the platitudes of a funeral spewed forth by people who never once thought fondly of this dead fool. I have always been simultaneously fascinated, amused, and disgusted by the human race and the practice of civilised etiquette and all that jazz, it’s sort of, kind of a hobby for me to watch. Maybe, that’s why I am here, in the first place.

“I knew him since he was this high, eh?”

That’s funny, because had you known him that long, you would have came to the conclusion that I did, that he should die horribly and in a lot of pain. I used to wish that upon him, continuously, while in his company. Much to my own surprise, and slightly to my chagrin because God damn do blood-stains take a long time to wash out, did my little wish come true. Hoo, hee, they’re not even daring to acknowledge the raging amounts of drugs this son of a bitch dropped in his lifetime. Even dead, his eyes are more bloodshot than a heroine addict’s while shooting up and smoking a joint at the same time. Mmm, it’s too bad they close the eyes, and all.

“He could’ve done such great things, had his life not been cut short – Such a tragedy!”

Romeo and Juliet was a tragedy (Granted, a really stupid one), or even JFK being shot in the face by the CIA or whatever, but this flop falling dead? No, that wasn’t a tragedy, it was God sparing us from the torture of his company, especially from that annoying laugh of his: false, forced, too loud, and inappropriate. Not to mention his breath, which I am sure was only ten-thousand-times improved by dying.

“I hope they catch the vagrant who did this to him! Justice should be served.”

Yeah, the guy should be given a Congressional Medal of Honour for ridding me of that scrawny dog’s blather. I’ve heard two businessmen waxing the most empty and shallow conversations in the world, and been more engrossed by the intransigent genius of the words coming out of their chapped, white lips; they could be exchanging the phone numbers of their secret mistresses in a delicate, code language and I’d break out a pad of paper to write it all down so that I could later admire the beauty of their conversation, before I’d stand in the same room with that bastard-ass for three minutes. Hmm, coffee . . .

“His fiancé must be heart-broken – Oh, I hope she took it well!”

Took it well? Took it well in the ass, from his co-worker standing over there: yeah, see, that one, with the smug grin on his face that is trying so desperately to feign mourning. I once saw an opossum on the side of the road that had half of its body crushed and mangled doing a more convincing job of seeming genuine and alive. Come to think of it, I felt more sorrow and pity for that run-over creature than I do for this worthless, bloated carcass, here, heh.

“That is a beautiful arrangement of flowers, who did it?”

“Oh, that would be . . . Uh, I think Betsy brought it in. You know, she’s been seeing that tall guy, a lot.”

“Has she, now? Do I smell romance, tee!”

“Wheehee! I bet! I sure do!”

Idiots . . . Hm, standing here, sipping coffee, brooding over the ignorance of my surroundings -- Someone should hand me a black beret and teleport me into a coffeeshop, where I’d fit in with the rest of the cynical philosophers of Starbucks (great minds of our time, indeed). Ugh, I hate people; moreover, I hate people who hate people for no reason other than to have something to hate, at the moment. Ooh, little sausage-wieners on a stick! Awesome, I didn’t see those, before . . .

“Aw, now look at you, aren’t you just growing up nice and big and strong?”

“Yes, he’s just like his father! He’ll be a pro-baseball player, I bet!”

“I sure hope so, someone has to support poor Lisa, always slaving around the house. Hmph, that husband of her’s, I swear!”

“Yes, I sometimes wonder if he works, or if he just goes out and drinks with floozy tramps!”

“Brenda! Stop that! This is a solemn occasion, show some respect for the deceased.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Toffee cake?”

“Ooo, lovely! I will have some.”

Ergh, I’m getting sleepy. How long has this been going on? Three, four hours, now? How much respect could possibly be paid to the dead body of a futureless, druggie moron who was lucky to get stabbed when he did? I should append that: he wasn’t futureless -- his future just happened to be dying in the streets, like a sewer-rat mauled by a starving alley cat. On top of that, he was a rather washed-up, mangy, filthy, disease-ridden, scrawny, pathetic sewer-rat; which is saying a lot for sewer-rats, really . . . Uuh, so tired . . .

“Aww, isn’t that adorable? Lisa’s little boy is all curled up in a chair, sleeping! Have you ever seen a more precious angel?”