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Chapter 1 of my new story

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Joelibris



Joined: 23 Mar 2006
Posts: 7557
Location: Kraptapolis, NC, U. S. of DUH-HUH
Chapter 1 of my new story  Reply with quote  

CHAPTER 1 – DEATH, THE LASER EYE SURGERY OF HINDSIGHT


I wouldn’t be here right now, telling my story, if things hadn’t fallen into place in just the right way. In this case, the falling things happened to be five guilt-ridden friends, a fly-by-night bargain funeral home, and a case of mocha flavored Super Power Swill. Let me say up front that my friends had nothing to feel guilty about. I was dead for no other reason than my own sheer stupidity.
“Gimme another, I almost got the record!” I’d said. “I gotta beat thirty-seven!” I’d popped the top of my thirty-first mocha flavored Super Power Swill and started chugging it down, with almost more gusto than I’d began the challenge with.
R-Edgy had looked worried. “Yo, dude, that’s thirty-one sixteen ounce Swills. You know how many ounces that is? Four hundred and ninety-six!” R-Edgy was my age, fifteen, but a walking contradiction in terms. Imagine a pasty white Jewish kid with Good Will Hunting level math skills whose goal in life was to be a gangsta rapper. His real name was Reginald Gleiberman.
“No problem. I’ve peed, like, four times already. I got it handled.” I had just cracked open number thirty-two. That’s when two things fell into place: an undetected heart murmur, and an ungodly amount of caffeine and guarana. I was dead before they loaded me into the ambulance. Of course, since we’d done nothing except goof off, and do crude things with the victim dummy in CPR class, I was a predestined goner. Being dead is kinda like the laser eye surgery of hindsight. It’s also a very maturing event.
My funeral had been a somber occasion. My parents cried, my friends cried (those wussies), and my older brother John had approached the casket and whispered “You freakin’ idiot.” Now, I know what you’re thinking, How did you know what went on at the funeral? Well, the newly dead linger. I’d known, from the second I shuffled off this mortal coil (read that in a play somewhere, or maybe from one of Mom’s romance novels while I was flipping through to the pages that didn’t have any dialogue. You know, the sex scenes) what was going on all around me. I’d seen my friends flip out. Andy called 911 on his cell phone, R-Edgy was doing some decent hip-hop moves while yelling “Yo! This is whack, yo!” Ronnie, Edd, and Nic made a run for it. I had died in R-Edgy’s basement, and had missed doing a face plant in the litter box by only a few inches.
Nobody stayed for the burial, which is the way the funeral home liked it. As soon as everyone had bailed, they hauled me out of the three thousand dollar casket my parents had paid for, and dumped me unceremoniously into a corrugated cardboard deal, and wheeled the casket out, probably back to the showroom. I’d hoped they’d at least have the decency to Febreeze it before they sold it again. Sorry, being dead makes you think about trivial things like that. Anyhow, I ended up being buried in a cardboard box, without even the benefit of a concrete vault, which I’m sure goes against several municipal codes. It is also another of the things falling into place things, that, uh, fell into place.

JEREMY WAYNE MORGAN
JANUARY 12, 1993 – JULY 15, 2008
BELOVED SON AND BROTHER

I guessed that since the marker, a flat brass plate with one of those screw out flower vase thingies, was the only thing visible to the naked eye, the funeral home couldn’t skimp on that like they’d done with the burial. A few days after the funeral, R-Edgy, Andy, Ronnie, Nic, and Edd came by to pay their respects.
“Hey guys,” I said.
“Hey Germy,” Andy replied. Okay, so it’s not the best nickname ever, but it sure beats Wayne.
For a second I thought they’d actually heard my greeting, but then realized it was just timing. They milled around a while, saying nothing above a quiet mumble. Then I noticed that R-Edgy was holding a large paper bag.
“Come on, yo,” R-Edgy told the others. “We gotta do ‘One for my homey’ for Germy.” He opened the bag, and produced a six-pack of the same mocha flavored Super Power Swill that had been my undoing.
“Dude,” said Andy, “I’m not drinking that stuff.” Edd, Nic, and Ronnie nodded in assent.
“Yo, you ain’t gotta drink it. You crack it open, say ‘One for my homey’, then pour it out on Germy’s grave. It’s proper gangsta mourning, yo.”
“Dude, you’re about as gangsta as Woody Allen,” said Edd.
“Who’s Woody Allen?” asked Nic.
“Some old director guy who puts himself in all his own movies, cuz no one else will. My mom thinks he’s hilarious. I only remember him cuz in this one movie of his there are these giant boobs.” Edd said.
“Giant? Like Pam Anderson’s?” asked Andy.
“Bigger, like giant boob shaped bounce-arounds.”
“Sweet,” they chorused.
“Yo! Are we gonna do ‘One for my homey’ or not?” R-Edgy asked impatiently, and with more of an urban affect to prove he was nothing at all like Woody Allen.
The Swill cans were passed around, and were cracked open. Five cans were held high.
“One for my homey,” said R-Edgy. He looked to the others. “Come on, yo. You gotta say it or else it don’t work.”
“One for my homey,” they said in unison, and poured five cans of Swill on my grave. That was the last thing to fall into place. After that, things got decidedly out of place.
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"Political Correctness is a doctrine fostered by a
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Post Mon Jul 14, 2008 2:13 am   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail AIM Address Yahoo Messenger
tirusthevirus



Joined: 27 Jul 2008
Posts: 58
Location: Canada
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cool. I wanna drink some of the good stuff. don't really get the laser eye thing, but it sounds coo.
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- Bryce

Post Tue Jul 29, 2008 10:51 pm   View user's profile Send private message Visit poster's website AIM Address
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