It was a solemn and dignified affair. As solemn and dignified as it gets when you're shoving somebody into a box and then shoving the box into a marble filing cabinet. A few words were spoken. Unfortunately , they were in Esperanto, so I don't know what they were. But they were delivered with gusto and verve, and that's the main thing. Al would have liked that. He would have preferred they were spoken with bluster and nerve, but gusto and verve would have satisfied him. He'd have also been amused the guy speaking was at the wrong funeral.Nobody came. But that's as it should be, given Al was just another unknown blogger. His mother and father couldn't make it. His seven brothers and sisters couldn't find baby sitters. His wife had a previous engagement.
Of course, I was there. I was there from the start and I was there... well, you know. I was one of his ghost writers. I guess I'll go on being one, since the will stipulated I must stay on indefinitely if I want to inherit my five percent of the estate. It also said I had to assume his identity, which I find a little strange. His wife thought so too at first, but she seems to be adjusting to the situation.
Al is in Eddie's drawer, to the south of his dad and to the north of Aunt Millie. When Eddie goes, they'll either have to make room for two (three, if Elliot returns), or it's ashes or dirt for Eddie.
I'll be keeping the crypt for the next 24 hours. If you need me after that, I'll be in the bunker. Blogging.
4 comments:
Now that our author's deception has been laid bare for all to see, allow me to step into this air of incredulity to suggest a deeper deception at play: I, an anonymous commentator have been tasked with ghost writing for the above ghost writer and am the real author of all the posts you see below.
Having never been able to secure this position from Al himself (he found my writings a tad... insouciant), I gladly took up the offer -- Jay made it be known that he harbored guilt for the subtle character assassinations he knew he could not help embedding into his work.
Now if Jay claims that beneath myself lies yet another sordid layer, it will be in vain, for as you can see tugging at my face will yield only supple flesh, and the tugger collapsing dejectedly at my feet -- for what is a man when no mystery is left.
So what happens? I emerge from my death watch to suffer the slings and arrows of my fellow ghost writers? Like hell you say!
You may have penned SOME of the posts below. I'll grant you the sub-par offerings in a trice; but all? Surely you jest. Al warned me about your heavy hand. To the contrary of what you claim, he found your writing totally souciant. That is why to this day you find yourself relegated to the comment section. So get thee hence, you scullery knave! I am Al now!
(I do like "tugger collapsing dejectedly." It has a sort of ring to it..)
You like that? I can get you some. My sources are unsullied, my friend. Just-just... lemme be Al again for a bit, for old time's sake?
Hmm. Okay, anonymous commentator, let's see what you can do..
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