Five Hundred Pound Catastrophe

Two funeral directors find themselves in a bit of an unorthodox situation when they are forced to try to move a dead five hundred pound man from his apartment in the middle of the night.

Terence’s eyes were still shut when he grabbed the vibrating phone. He was so accustomed to the infernal device sounding during the middle of the night, that he often answered calls in his sleep.

“Yes? What do you want? If it’s another one of those selfish kooks who’s imprinted himself on the front of a train I don’t have a freaking shovel!”  Terence was not a polite man at 3am in the morning. The responding voice was female. Her voice was shaky; obviously the woman had experienced some form of trauma.

“I-it’s Francine. Francine Finch. I-is this Mr. Coon? My husband has died.” When Terence heard the woman’s name he lifted his legs sky high and catapulted himself out of bed. Francine was the woman he had made prearrangements with only two days ago. Her husband, Salisbury Finch, suffered from type two diabetes, hypertension, arteriosclerosis, and binge eating disorder. The man was a ticking time bomb. His expiry did not surprise Terence one bit.

“Did you call the hospital?” Terence had to ask in case the whole ordeal was a false alarm. Francine confirmed that she had in fact dialed 9-1-1. “So you’re positive your husband is dead?” Terence took the woman’s distastefully wet sniffling as a yes.  “Wonderful. Can I get the cause of death and who signed the medical please.” Francine’s goopy sobbing increased in goopiness; the woman sounded as though she was using her phone as a tissue. Terence informed her that her phone was likely not mucous proof.

“Please!” she wailed, “ just come and get him for me. The ambulance and police and everyone left me all alone! They said it was your job to remove my husband. They they said―”

“ALRIGHT!” Terence couldn’t bear the sound of Francine’s mosquito- like whine any longer. “I’m coming. You live in apartment room 241 on Crystler ave is that correct?” Francine peeped an affirmation. Terence hung up and dialed his associate, Ash Wilson. The sound of his curly-haired partner’s groggy voice was music to Terence’s ears.

“Terence, do you have any idea what time it is?!” Evidently, Ash had not properly read the job description before he was hired as a full time funeral director at Amigone Funeral Home.

“It’s 3am in the morning.” Terence could hear Ash breathing rhythmically over the phone. “WILSON!” Terence was not going to perform this removal on his own. “WAKE UP!” 

Ash moaned, “It’s 3am in the morning!” Terence was already in his car.

“Yeah, well you should have told Mr. Finch not to die while we were asleep. Put on your big boy pants, fetch a coach, and meet me by the Crystler apartment buildings, Wilson. We have a very fat dead man to pick up.” Terence couldn’t help but grin as he tossed his phone in the back seat; his job was so exciting.

The stars were like pin holes of light in the dark early morning sky. It was good to get out again. Terence was growing weary of all the paperwork he had been doing in preparation for the deaths of numerous patients. At least seven people were in heaven’s waiting room; it was about time one of them made it! In the Crystler apartment parking lot, Wilson stepped from the coach. His hair was disheveled, his face was pale, and there were dark discolorations beneath his eyes.

“Have you died too?!” Terence flashed his canines and elbowed his associate, jokingly. Ash grumbled as he wheeled the stretcher from the coach.

“Do you have to be so perky whenever we go on these macabre night removals?” Upon seeing the stretcher, Terence swallowed.  The squeaky wheels and support bars of the stretcher would no doubt buckle under the weight of Mr. Salisbury Finch.

“Ah.” Ash’s jaw dropped; his eyes ballooned from their sockets.

“Oh no. I know that look. What did you do Terence?!”  Terence cleared his throat and looked down at his partner’s gaping features.

“Wilson, when I told you the man was very fat, I meant wide as I am tall fat.”  Ash’s mouth became cavernous.

“As wide as you are tall!? Terence, you’re seven feet tall!!!” Terence nodded. Ash’s jaw remained slack; his entire form appeared to be frozen mid stance.

“Well, come on! We’ll just have to be creative now won’t we?! Oh, but do bring that stretcher. Perhaps we could modify it in some way.” Ash was not impressed.

The apartment buildings were of an old European design. The exterior was a plaster white shell―often coated in the spray paint disturbances of a chemically imbalanced mind.  The buildings of St. Louis du HA! HA! were so often plagued with these visual obscenities, that a group of paint scrubbers was developed. They called themselves The Vandal Busters. Every month an ad would go out in the paper for young people looking for work. The county paid double minimum wage to have The Vandal Busters scrape the fluorescent goo from public property. Terence had a theory that The Vandal Busters were really the vandals themselves. They vandalized buildings by night, and make a small fortune  cleaning up their own messes by morning. It was pure genius. Of course the cops never listened to Terence. They all dismissed his theories as paranoid ravings. Whatever. It wasn’t like Terence’s tax dollars were feeding into the scam or anything. Apart from the tainted exterior, the building was a real rustic beauty.

Terence and Ash were given clearance into the building. When they entered the elevator with the stretcher, they found that it was a bit of a tight squeeze for them and the mousy man in the lint infused house coat. The man’s beady eyes looked from Ash, to Terence, and finally, to the stretcher. Nothing was said. Terence felt he should break the silence.

“A man died,” he articulated. The mousy man blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, and then promptly left the elevator.  The elevator dinged; they had reached their landing.

“Those were some brilliant ice breaking skills you demonstrated back there, Terence,” Ash said to him. Terence knocked on door 241.

“Thank-you. I thought the comment was needed. That man’s presence demanded for an explanation.” When Francine didn’t immediately answer the door, Terence gazed through the peep hole. He then remembered that peep holes were only useful one way. Ash raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin. Terence sighed; his shoulders deflated. “That’s your sarcastic face. Honestly, Wilson, if you’re going to be sarcastic, get the tone right.” Terence glanced at his watch, impatient.  He blew air from his mouth, crossed his arms, and then knocked on the door a second time. “You know Mr. Finch would have been very good at breaking the ice,” Terence said, softly. “Literally, I mean because he was very, very very―good morning Mrs. Finch!” The red rimmed eyes of a frail middle -aged woman peered from the side of the door.

“H-hello. Are, are you here for my husband?”  Terence pried the door from Francine’s claw-like fingers.

“Why else would we be here?” he stated, coldly. Ash apologized, as he usually did, for Terence’s insensitive manner. 

“Sorry about the intrusion, Mrs. Finch, we just want to be out of your hair as fast as possible. Could you direct us to where your husband is?” Even at the unsightly hours of the morning, Ash was still his same old charming self. It was clear that Mrs. Finch was far more comfortable around Ash. When she talked to him, she spoke with less of a stutter than when she talked to Terence.

“He’s lying in his bed. Like he always did,” she sighed. “The great lard!”  Ash grinned appropriately at the woman’s comment―he never grinned that way at Terence’s comments.  Mr. Finch’s room was a little more than a cupboard. The room provided enough space for a bed, television set, and a small night stand.  The walls were painted a ghastly green. The shade was identical to that of a gangrenous bedsore Terence had witnessed countless times.  Terence wouldn’t have been surprised if the paint swatch had been called gangrenous bedsore.  “Y-you can have the sheets. I-I can’t use those knowing that my husband died in them.” Francine’s raw eyes glistened; before Terence could prepare himself, the woman became a tsunami of goobers and tears. Luckily, she directed her emotions toward Wilson and not him. Ash patted her back and cooed to her like a true mother. Terence swallowed his own vomit; the woman’s nostrils ejaculated snot the way aerosol canisters spray silly string.  While Terence assessed their options for transporting Mr. Finch, Ash guided Francine to her kitchen table and provided her with a plethora of tissues.

Mr. Finch’s mass hung over the sides of the bed. The bed itself sunk in at the center from the man’s astronomical weight. Terence didn’t even know how he would get Mr. Finch off of his bed. The man was partially on his side already and the bed was pushed up against the wall. Terence could have  Ash crawl behind the man at the wall end of the bed and push while Terence pulled from the front. Terence was not certain the bed frame, having already been weakened by Mr. Finch, would support another person standing on it.

“Mrs. Finch, do you have a spare mattress?” Terence ducked into the kitchen. The apartment was uncomfortably small for a man of his stature. Ash and Mrs. Finch appeared to be deep in some conversation about Mr. Finch and his grotesque eating habits.

“You know, I tried to make him eat healthy. But he had a stash of those horrible Vachon cakes everywhere! I used to think he was eating all the salads and whole wheat breads that I was making him. Whenever I would return to his room for the dishes, they would be empty. I later learned that he was dumping them out the window and digging into his stash! The nerve!” Ash nodded, understandingly. Terence repeated his question.  Mrs. Finch pointed in the direction of a supply closet. A deflated air mattress was folded on the second rack down. Terence found the pump and dragged Ash from his seat. His partner was looking far too comfortable. If Terence didn’t keep an eye on him, Ash would be sound asleep. Terence smoothed the rough material at the floor beside the bed and began pumping air into the mattress. The mattress grew and firmed with air until Terence plugged the hole off.

He rubbed his hands together and said, “Alright, Wilson. Get a pair of gloves and start pushing Mr. Finch from behind.”  Ash yawned and climbed onto the bed. The frame creaked in protest, but remained solid. Ash almost swallowed his tongue to keep from gagging. A musty mold-like odor was seeping from Mr. Finch’s doughy flesh. He pulled his gloves up farther around his sleeves; who knew what was concealed in the crevices of Mr. Finch’s rippled fat shelves. Terence perched his thin knees at the end of the supple mattress and took hold of the man’s beefy shoulders. “Push!” Terence commanded. Ash leaned into Mr. Finch’s back fat. His palms sunk into the man’s rolls and disappeared. Meanwhile, Terence grunted and managed to heave Mr. Finch’s neck and shoulders one inch off the side of the bed.  At the moment, Mr. Finch rather resembled a contorted beached whale. “Now push him from the back end,” Terence said. Ash breathed deeply and shuffled to the opposite end of the bed. Great. Now he had to touch a dead guy’s bum. “Push!” Terence hoisted Mr. Finch by his feet, while Ash buried his hands into the man’s buttocks.

“Oh, lord.”Ash suddenly stopped pushing. “Terence, he, uh, has a rather nasty bedsore on his rear.” Ash leapt over the bed post; his face had completely drained of all color. Terence heaved a sigh and turned his gaze toward a stain on the ceiling. Ash was far too squeamish.

“What colour was it?” Terence asked. Ash fell limp to his knees, clutching his stomach. “ I bet it was the same colour as these walls. Did it smell like fish?”   Ash glared at Terence as though he wished Terence was the one dead and rotting. Ash truly did look awful.  Terence opened a window and a fresh breeze swept the room. “ Feel better now?”  Ash staggered to his feet.

“I can’t do this anymore. You go up there.” Ash walked over to the window and closed his eyes as the cool breeze ruffled his hair.

“That won’t be necessary,” Terence sighed, “ we’ve gotten him on his side enough to simply pull him from the front. Will you assist me or do I have to call in Mrs. Finch?” Ash wrapped his arm  around Mr. Finch’s neck and placed his other hand on the man’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Terence as he stationed himself at the feet of Mr. Finch. Francine entered the room only to find the two funeral directors performing what looked like an ancient torture routine on her dead husband.

“I-is this really necessary?!” she snuffled. Terence reminded the woman that he and Ash were trained professionals. Terence and Ash heaved upon the man’s appendages until finally his body crashed upon the mattress. Terence was flung back by the force of the man’s fall and was sent crashing through Mr. Finch’s closet doors.  There was a pop as the cap on the mattress shot from the aperture. Air squealed from the mattress and Mr. Finch’s corpse slowly leveled itself with the floorboards.  Mrs. Finch gasped and hobbled over to the mangled closet. Terence stood coughing as the dust cleared and produced a dented box of Vachon cakes.

“I believe I have found your husband’s secret stash,” he said. Francine took the crunched in carton of cellophane wrappers and trudged miserably from the room.

“Now what?” Ash asked, throwing up his hands in defeat. “There’s no way the two of us are strong enough to pull this guy down the hall to the elevator.” Terence made a sort of deep humming sound; it reminded Ash of the sound a computer makes when it’s trying to download too much information at once. He stepped over Mr. Finch and opened the door to the apartment. “Where are you going?!” Ash demanded. Terence bashed his head against the top of the door frame.

“I’m going to find some stronger people!” he shouted in reply, pressing his palm against his inflamed forehead.

“IT’S NEARLY 4:00 IN THE MORNING!!” Ash yelled after him. He growled in frustration and sank into one of Mrs. Finch’s kitchen chairs. Mrs. Finch was sitting across from him with what looked like a glass of wine in her hand.

“I know how you feel,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I used to drink this stuff by the buckets I got so mad at my husband!” Ash felt a genuine concern for Mrs. Finch as he watched her chug glass after glass of cheap alcohol.

Terence gazed down one end of the hallway, and then down the other.  He and Ash had made quite the racket trying to move Mr. Finch. The doors were closely spaced; they had most likely awoken Mrs. Finch’s neighbors. “How convenient,” Terence thought as he wrapped his knuckles on the adjacent door, “if these people are buff, I won’t have to disturb anyone else.” The man who opened the door most certainly wasn’t buff. He stood in his undergarments, pasty white and covered in dark hair. He was a string bean; Terence could see the man’s ribs. In his noodle-like arms, the man held a shovel.

“What do you want?” The man squinted as the light from the hallway streamed into his apartment. The room smelled of stale perspiration, and dirty laundry. Terence clucked his tongue in disappointment.

“Nothing. I’m not real. You’re having a dream. When you wake up you’ll want to increase your hygienic standards. Good-bye.” The scrawny man’s stupefied face disappeared behind the door. Terence tried the neighbor on the opposing side of Mrs. Finch’s door, but only found a haggard woman with an evident tobacco addiction. Terence started for the apartment across from Mrs. Finch’s, but stopped when he detected a movement in his peripheral vision. To his surprise, there was a well built man stationed at the doors of an elevator.  Terence cursed his nearsightedness; the man had been there the whole time. “Excuse me, sir, I require your assistance,” Terence trotted over to the man. The man turned and hinged his neck to look Terence in the eye.

Upon observing Terence’s height, the man murmured to himself, “Oh my, what have I done now?!”  Terence raised an eyebrow; did everyone have to assume he was the grim reaper?! “Listen,” the man put his hands up in surrender, “I’m only here to fix the elevator.”  This statement meant bad news for Terence. If the elevator didn’t work, he and Ash would have to figure out a way of transporting Mr. Finch down the stairs!

“My name is Terence Coon. I have desperate need of a strong individual to assist me with a heavy weight,” he explained. The man slowly lowered his hands. He crossed his thick arms over his chest and nodded.

“Well, in that case, I’m your guy!” The man gestured for Terence to lead the way.

When Terence re entered the apartment, he found Ash crinkling his eyes with laughter and scribbling on a notepad. Mrs. Finch appeared to be doing an impersonation of her husband. Several coach cushions were shoved beneath her sweater.

“You’re the reason I’m fat, Fran! You can’t make anything with flavor! First you try to feed me weeds now you’re giving me bread made of sawdust! What do I look like a rabbit!? It’s no wonder I have to resort to eating pastries all the time! It’s the only way I can rid my mouth of all the tasteless crud you feed me!” Her words were slurred and she moved as though she were a disoriented sloth.

“WILSON!” Terence grabbed the notepad from his giggling associate. “Are you drugging this woman to get information for a statement of death?!!” Ash clutched his abdomen; his face was red and tears were rolling down his cheeks. “Wait a minute,” Terence could smell the bitter odor of alcohol, “have you been drinking?!”  Ash continued to laugh.  The graphite markings on the pad of paper were practically indecipherable. Terence crunched his nose in disgust and tossed the paper behind him. “The human race disappoints me on a regular basis,” he said to know one in particular. The stocky man cleared his throat.

“Um, you said you needed help lifting something?” Ash suddenly regained control of himself.

“You actually found somebody!?” Terence didn’t respond. He was not impressed with Ash’s behavior. Instead, he decided to converse with the elevator repair man. The man’s name was Tucker. Terence inquired as to why Mr. Tucker had been asked to repair an elevator at such an untimely hour. Tucker rubbed his buzzed head, uncomfortably.

“I rode that elevator only an hour ago,” Terence said, “how could it have broken within that time?” Now Tucker was sweating; Terence could see the perspiration exuding from his pores.

“Alright! I’m not actually suppose to be repairing the elevator,” he confessed. “ I move furniture for a moving company. That’s my main job. I just like to repair things. I can’t help it!” Terence didn’t know how to react.

“What’s wrong with the elevator?” he asked. Tucker raised his index finger and opened his mouth as though he were about to explain; he promptly closed it and placed his hand over his chin. Evidently, he was collecting his thoughts.

“This is going to sound strange, but every night since last month when I moved in here, I’ve been taking a picture of the elevator shaft. I’ve placed the pictures side by side on my computer and have noticed an exponential increase in damage to the hoist ropes. Normally the counter weight on the opposite side of the sheave weighs about the same as the elevator at its forty percent capacity. Basically, when the elevator is forty percent full, the counterweight and the car are perfectly balanced. It’s kind of like a see saw when you think about it…..” Terence clamped his long hand over the man’s flapping mouth.

“Can we, or can we not use the elevator?” he questioned. Tucker shrugged.

“That’s the funny part. Normally when an elevator is overcrowded it won’t move. It will buzz until somebody gets off. However, the damage done to those cables indicates that there has been a significant strain placed on the wires; a sort of strain that would have been avoided if the elevator had been able to sense an overloaded car.” Terence exhaled so sharply, he appeared to shrink as he lowered himself into a chair.

“In other words, we’re safe unless we enter the elevator with an elephant,” Terence grumbled. Tucker nodded.

“Technically, you would still be relatively safe with an elephant. Even if the cables broke and the car fell, the built-in breaking system would stop the car from crashing into the foundation. If something was going to kill you, it would be the elephant!” Tucker chuckled. “Don’t tell me you called me here to help you lift an elephant!” Terence didn’t even crack a smile.

Tucker was appalled when he saw Mr. Finch’s mountainous form. Terence placed a hand on the tinker’s muscular shoulder.

“He’s not all elephant. Believe it or not, he’s part man too.” Tucker’s mouth hung so low, Terence wondered if he had dislocated his jaw. “You may want to shut your mouth. This man is dead and one of the flies buzzing around him may mistake your tongue for a landing pad.”  Tucker took Terence’s advice and clamped his jaw together.

“H-he’s dead!? You didn’t kill him did you?! Oh no, I’m not helping,” Tucker threw up his arms, “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m not going to touch that dead….thing!” Terence forced a pair of blue latex gloves into the man’s hands.

“That ‘thing’ was a human being. We didn’t kill him. He did that all by himself. We’re funeral directors and we’re skinny, so help us move him for God’s sake!”  Tucker shrugged. He sighed and bent to lift the man’s head. Terence took the left leg, while Ash took the right. Even with Tucker’s help, they still only managed to slide Mr. Finch half a metre. Ash hung his head.

“Terence, this is impossible!” he groaned. “ Why don’t we just call someone for help. Even if we manage to move this man out of the apartment, we can’t take him on the elevator and we can’t use the stretcher.” As Ash talked is face became cyanotic and his breathing was labored. He grabbed hold of the side of the wall as though he was about to lose consciousness. Terence eyed him curiously.

“How long have you been having difficulty breathing?” Terence asked. Ash looked at him, his eyes foggy; he opened his mouth to respond. “Nevermind. Don’t talk, save your breath. Your face is turning the colour of a ripened beet. I suspect you're having an allergic reaction to the mold.”

“Mold!?” Tucker leapt back from the body of Mr. Finch.

“Yes. Mold grows in between the fat flaps on obese subjects. Go out to the balcony and get some fresh air. Breathe deeply, but don’t hyperventilate!” Terence directed his anemic friend toward the balcony doors.  As soon as the word ‘balcony’ was mentioned, Mrs. Finch came stumbling into the room.

“B-be careful, dear. The ants have eaten the wooden support railings on the balcony. Fumigator got them, but the balcony is shot. I never got around to replacing it,” warned Mrs. Finch.  Ash nodded and filled his stale lungs with fresh air.  “Stupid husband,” Mrs. Finch murmured. A disturbing idea was taking shape in Terence’s twisted mind.

“How stupid?” he questioned. Francine scoffed and narrowed her eyebrows, crossly. “How much did you hate him?” Terence came up behind her. She shook her head, refusing to look Terence in the eye. A tear rolled down her cheek. She sucked her cheeks in; her lips were pursed and protruded stiffly from her face.

“I’m better off without him,” she whispered, tensely. Terence grinned a lopsided grin.

“Do you hate him enough to push him off of a two story balcony?”

Both Mrs. Finch and Tucker exclaimed, “WHAT!?” Terence laughed triumphantly; although, to the average ear, he sounded downright maniacal.  His pale eyes sparkled like the stars in the sky.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move! And make sure Wilson doesn’t plummet to his death out there!” Terence took off as though some supernatural force had suddenly possessed him.  His long legs propelled him down the stairs until he was outside in the cool air. Everything was quiet.

Terence enjoyed the cool night air. He often went for walks at the late hours of the night when nobody was out. The night was so silent, he could hear himself think.  It was during those walks that he felt as though he owned the world. Several nights ago, Terence had strolled past the Crystler apartments and past a house, a block west, which was selling a truck. He remembered the truck because of the suspiciously low price that was attached. 500$. It was a bargain.

Terence rocked on his heels in front of the door. The house was a charming brick foundation with two rocking chairs swaying back and forth on the porch. Terence had already sounded the doorbell twice. Using the window as a mirror, Terence attempted to fabricate his best nice person face. When he was satisfied with his expression, he rang the door a third time; some people took longer to wake up than others. A yawning woman and an old, creased man answered the door.

“Mill, call the police,” the man ordered upon seeing Terence.  Perhaps his smile had been a bit too robust.

“WAIT!” Terence shouted. “I’m here to buy your truck.” The man blinked at him and tightened the belt on his bathrobe.

“Son, it’s 5am in the morning!” His voice was raspy and Terence could smell his putrid breath from the extra foot he had over the man. 

“Yes. And I have 500$. Does your truck work and is it filled with gas?” Terence pulled the bills from his coat pocket. The man’s eyes lit up like a candle light.

“Well…yes it’s all in perfect working order.”

“Good. Then for an extra hundred dollars you’ll drive it to where I need it to go.” Before the man could respond, Terence crammed the crumpled bills into his hand and pulled him out into the night. The man didn’t fail to do exactly as Terence requested.

Ash ran a hand through the curly bush of hair atop his head. He stood square in the centre of the balcony, making sure to avoid leaning against the weakened support railings. He placed his chilled hands in his pockets and exhaled slowly. Peering through the wooden bars of the balcony, Ash saw an odd sight. There was an orange truck pulling up directly below the balcony. It halted and out strolled a tall, dark figure that could have been none other than Terence. Ash did a face palm and trudged back inside; Terence was executing another one of his devious plans.

“Terence, whatever you’re planning, I suggest you not go through with it,” Ash said, as his employer burst through the doors with a disturbingly parabolic smile. Terence gently pushed his co-worker aside.

“Mrs. Finch, are you going to keep your husband’s mattress?” Before he had even heard her answer, Terence was pulling up a pair of blue gloves around his narrow wrists and peeling the soiled sheets from Mr. Finch’s mattress. “Tucker, open the balcony door,” Terence commanded. Tucker appeared to be stunned.

“W-what are you doing?” he asked. Mrs. Finch stepped forward just then.

“I-I think I understand,” she stammered. She pressed her twiggy body between the two men and, with trembling fingers, unfastened the door. “Wait just a minute,” she ordered. Terence raised his eyebrows; the woman’s sudden determination was intriguing. “Alright,” she said, tapping a steel baseball bat against the floor, “let’s see if I’ve still got it!” Francine raised the bat above her head, making her appear several feet taller. She bared her teeth the way a mother bear does to scare off predators, and charged toward the balcony railings.

“NO, MRS. FINCH, YOU’RE GOING TO KILL YOURSELF!!!” Ash hollered after her. A sound that resembled the crunching of bones shook the apartment.

“Good, God!” Tucker’s hand was clamped over his mouth in bewilderment as he watched the frail form of Mrs. Finch decimate what was left of her balcony support railings. Terence couldn’t help but chuckle; both Ash and Tucker looked as though they had just been kicked in the teeth.

When Mrs. Finch had finished directing her rage toward the wooden beams of her balcony, she waddled past Terence, Ash, and Tucker, sweating and out of breath.

“How do you feel?” Terence beamed. Mrs. Finch nodded, her face was flushed.

“I feel alive and liberated.” Terence took either end of the dilapidated mattress and heaved it over his head. 

“Good. Save some strength. You’re going to need it to push your husband off of your balcony.” With a grunt, Terence tossed the mattress over the side of the balcony and watched as it thumped below, into the truck bed. Ash pulled Terence aside. His eyes were wide and lined with red.

“Terence, have you gone mad!? Please don’t tell me you’re actually going through with this! It’s insane! There’s got to be at least a million rules against this in the legislation!!” Terence glanced at his partner and then walked past him. Ash followed suit. “Stop! Terence just listen! You’re going to make Mrs. Finch push her own husband off the balcony!! What if she misses the mattress?! He’ll smash like a pumpkin! She’ll be traumatized.”

Terence placed a hand on Ash’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, “ Wilson, trust me. If Mr. Finch breaks in two like Humpty Dumpty, I’ll put him back together again! I’m a master restorative artist!” Ash blew his next exhalation through his teeth and rubbed his eyes woefully. He was far too energy deficient to argue with Terence. Instead, Ash reduced the stretcher to a fabric-covered plank on wheels.

“Well, if Mrs. Finch is going to do this, she may as well have a little help to ensure she doesn’t go joining her husband over the edge.” Ash rolled the stretcher toward Terence, who stopped it with the apex of his long shoe.  He winked at Ash, and with Tucker’s help the two of them piled as much of Mr. Finch’s body onto the stretcher as they could.

“Now, Mrs. Finch, I want you to concentrate,” Terence said, cracking his knuckles. The woman nodded. “You need enough strength to roll your husband over the edge and into the truck bed below.” Again, Mrs. Finch nodded. She reminded Ash of an Olympic bob sledder. Her fingers were curled tightly around the bars of the stretcher. The skin over her knuckles was stretched and white and her nostrils were flared. Her sled was the preposterous grandeur of Mr. Finch. Ash couldn’t believe the woman had been inebriated only moments ago.  Now she was driving the entirety of her noodle-like form against her lumpish rock of a husband. Ash, Tucker, and Terence stood audience at the entrance of the balcony. Terence cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled encouragements to the struggling Mrs. Finch.

“Remember the time when you fed your husband a lovely spinach quiche and he said it tasted like paper maché?!” Terence’s deep booming voice crashed through the neighborhood like fireworks bursting in the night sky.  Ash wanted to make like an ostrich and bury his head under one of the couch cushions. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to meet the gaze of Mr. Tucker.

“How does he know that?!” Tucker whispered.  Having heard the man’s inquiry, Terence raised his eyebrows and laughed ferociously.

“I can smell it in his purge!” he cried. Both Ash and Tucker gagged. Mrs. Finch gasped when she saw the brown seedy liquid oozing from her husband’s lips.

“HE REGURGITATED MY FOOD EVEN WHEN HE WAS ALIVE!!!!” Mrs. Finch bellowed a number of offensive profanities and, with one last heave, sent her husband flying off the edge of her balcony. “TAKE THAT YOU FILTHY SWINE!!” She shrieked at the plummeting corpse of Mr. Finch. Terence, still full of jolly laughter, took two long strides and stood adjacent to Mrs. Finch. He peered over the side and the corners of his lips rose to devour his thin features.

“I’d say that cannonball dive deserves a full score of 10! Excellent shot, Mrs. Finch,” Terence congratulated. The woman sort of laughed and cried at the same time. She flung her arms around his narrow waist and thanked him profusely.  Terence beckoned for Ash and Tucker to come stand with them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He said, eye’s shining with the reflection of the morning sun. What Terence was referring to was not just the marbling of the pink colours in the lemonade sky, but the mushroom cloud of fluffy, white feathers dancing around the sight of Mr. Finch’s body.

“I always told him we needed to go mattress shopping! But he never listened!” Mrs. Finch sighed; a glimmering tear trickled down her cheek.  The engine of the truck rumbled to life and the vehicle, with Mr. Finch in the truck bed, motored onto the streets.

“Where’s it going?!” Mr. Tucker demanded.

“The funeral home,” Terence answered. He grinned deviously, “people will do anything for money.”  At that moment, Terence’s phone vibrated. He groaned and plucked it from the interior of his jacket. “Talk about a buzz kill,” he murmured before answering it. He stepped inside to speak privately with the individual on the other line. When he emerged minutes later his gremlin-like grin had turned in on itself and he was now frowning quite intensely. “Wilson, go to the neighbor right of Mrs. Finch and ask for his shovel. It would seem one of the so-called Vandel Busters has vandalized the front of a train.” Ash remained stationary with a look of complete perplexity imprinted upon his face. “With his body,” Terence added. Ash understood.  Terence returned the phone to his pocket and folded his arms, cooly.  “As for you, Mr. Tucker, you can get back to doing whatever it is that you do. Thank-you for your assistance.” When Ash returned with the shovel, Terence instructed him to go home to bed. Ash couldn’t have been more grateful; he barely had enough strength to keep his eyelids open for the duration of his drive home.  Terence approached Mr. Tucker, who was stroking his strong jaw and inspecting the damage to Mrs. Finch’s balcony supports. A shadow passed over Mr. Tucker and he looked up.  “Have you ever seen a colon up close?” Terence inquired.

“Uh…” Mr. Tucker couldn’t tell if Terence was being serious. Terence offered him the shovel. Mr. Tucker’s face went pale. “No, no, no, no, no!! I-I think I’ll work on fixing Mrs. Finch’s balcony,” he declared, waving the shovel away.

“Oh, very well,” Terence replied, voice laden with disappointment.  Before leaving, he turned to address Mrs. Finch. “When you feel ready, stop by the funeral home and we can discuss those prearrangements you made. I think I have a few ideas as to how we can make your husband’s funeral more interesting.” Mrs. Finch nodded, her face alight. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have the spattered contents of a human pizza pocket to scoop up.” The strange funeral director flashed them both a smile, snapped a pair of gloves over his long, slim hands, and left with the shovel proudly mounted upon his shoulder.

The End

Author's Note

Let me know what you think!

Reviews

[Margo Seuss]

Wow... I am applauding... I loved this story..the plot, the characters all so very unique and fitting to this particular writing... The details were amazing and just the right amount, not so much I got bored and skipped through... not too little that I wished more.. you hit it spot on... Great job!!

[Margo Seuss]

Thank-you so much! I appreciate your response! I very much enjoy writing about these characters. I have written many other stories surrouding them that I hope you will also enjoy!

sure.. I would love to keep up with these characters and they other fixes they wonder into... If you can when you post more.. send me a read request or a e-mail letting me know yoiu have posted more... I read constantly and there are a lot of good writers... its hard to rem them all...

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

I was laughing so hard at several parts of this. Terence has an interesting job, that's for sure! You're a very skilled writer

[avant security guard]

very funny--excellent work--kind of a dead body party--you have real talent--please publish some ebooks, if you haven't already, and tell them John Blandly sent you

[Margo Seuss]

Thanks! How do I publish an ebook?

[avant security guard]

go to smashwords or amazon direct--smashwords has tough formatting rules--but has many outlets--amazon/kindle--is easier
I know you will get sales and make money--
looking it up--kindle direct publishing--go there--
you need to create covers---but that can be done--
I am not that good at it--as you will see by searching John Blandly ebooks---I just choose pics of pretty women---a weakness, I guess--
but most ad campaigns use pretty women

[Woody]

I loved this story. endearing characters.
great sense of humour. well done.

[Margo Seuss]

Thanks! Try some of my other stories. I use the same characters and setting for all of my stories.

[Woody]

will do. definitely.

[melissa]

Great story keep sending me more to read i love reading them you should turn this into a book.

[Margo Seuss]

Thanks! I actually have written a book with these characters! I'll send it to you.

[melissa]

Your welcome ok cool i can't wait to read it