The cold, late December wind blew down 7th Avenue making swirls of soft white snowflakes here and there outside the small Lonesome Dove Funeral Chapel and Off-Track Betting Parlor. The cheap, twinkling Christmas lights and fake fir bows wrapping the telephone pole on the corner looked, if anything, just as gaudy and cheap as the suit Harry Dick was wearing. The suit had been bought during a "close-out sale" at Robert Hall some five years before. Until now Harry had only worn the suit on special occasions and at the race tract where the bright yellow plaid fit in with the crowd.
Inside the chapel, Harry was wearing that very suit as he lay in his coffin while the assembled group waited for, if not a genuine eulogy, a few final words from his friends. What was taking so long? He did have friends, right?
The morning issue of the
Times
carried his obituary, skipping over his many, though dubious, adventures, but giving the cause of death as something referred to as "Advanced Rectal-Brain Dysfunction."
Even though she held a ruffled hanky to her eyes, tears ran down Maria Torres' cheek, dripped from her chin and found their way to the grand canyon between her overly exposed and excessively large knockers. "Oh, Harry. I already miss you so much," she wailed, as she watched the assembled crowd for some well meaning and possibly well hung gentleman to come and comfort her. When it became obvious no one was coming, her sobs became louder and more pronounced, making her fun bags jiggle like Jell-O. Still, she could not see that anyone seemed to notice. Even the funeral attendants playing craps in the back of the Chapel seemed to be ignoring her.
However, Police Inspector "Boney" Malone spotted Maria from the rear door of the chapel as he entered. He moved solemnly forward and sat on the pew beside her and placed his arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her. Actually, he was just trying to peek down the front of her dangerously, low-cut, black mourning dress to see if he could catch a glimpse of her dark brown and well remembered nipples.
Maria leaned over to rest her head on Boney's shoulder while she continued to wail. "Oh, Jenny, why? Why?"
The insane porn writer, Jenny Jackson sat in the pew behind Maria and tried to look innocent, as if she hadn't written Maria's dialogue for her. Jenny was glad to see the minister from the Church of the Immaculate BJ had finally arrived and was mounting the lectern.
After a moment of what seemed like silent prayer, the minister raised his hands toward heaven and intoned, "Friends, this is, indeed, a sad day. Before us lies the remains of...umm..." The minister reached in his breast pocket and consulted a three by five index card then continued. "The famous detective, Harry Dick. Struck down in the prime of life. Harry lies here..." the minister droned on. Nobody really seems to care, as long as they could get Harry safely planted as quickly as possible before he could screw up his own funeral and Jenny would let them leave.
There was a short commotion in the front row as one of the assembled cops slipped up to the lectern and hurriedly spoke in low tones to the minister.
"Um...Yes. That would be Harry Dick and his...umm... cock," the minister corrected. Then off to the side in a low voice he said to the funeral director, "Does this mean I get paid extra for a double?"
The funeral director looked embarrassed and, after looking out over the upturned faces in the pews, nodded. The funeral droned on.
Jenny Jackson had lost interest in the proceedings entirely and was looking around the chapel at the guests. One face she did not recognize leaped out at her. This was a man about thirty, heavy-set with Italian features. The writer scratched her head trying to remember if she had created this character or if he had inadvertently wandered in from some other writer's work. That's when it struck her.
Quietly, Jenny stood and moved to sit next to the stranger. "You're Louis, right?"
The guy turned and stared at the writer. "Yeah. Dats me. I come to get my gun back."
"What the hell is so special about your 21st birthday, Louis?"
Louis' eyes shifted around the room nervously. "Dar's a lota cops here. Let's just say, it was a gift."
"Louis, I never got around to writing that story. So, what gives?"
Sweat began to appear in tiny beads on Louis' upper lip. and trickle in rivulets down his face.. "Hey, just forget it, okay? I got important stuff to do." Louis stood and moved, almost ran, to the exit at the rear of the chapel.
"How odd," Jenny thought to herself. "I only stuck those lines in all Harry's stories to tie them together and confuse the little idiot of a detective. I didn't even write that guy." Jenny shrugged and turned back to the proceedings. Her cell phone chirped in her coat pocket.
"Jackson, here. Who the hell are you?" Jenny listened intently to her cell phone, then grimaced.
"Fuck! I really hate to do this," Jenny said to herself as she pulled a yellow pad out of her purse and began to write.
At the front of the chapel, Harry Dick, third-class private detective and well known masturbator, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "What the fuck?" he said under his breath.
Harry's Cock moaned. "I don't feel so good, Harry."
The private eye sat up and stared at the assembled guests. "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.
The guests jumped out of their pews. Women screamed. Hilda, the Swedish wrestling manager, grabbed the cop sitting in the pew in front of her by the balls. Boney Malone tried to quiet the crowd which was now rushing head long toward the exit in complete disarray, with the exception of Hilda, who was frantically trying to tear the pants of the cop. Boney looked around for Maria and saw her leaving through a side exit with the funeral director.
The minister screamed, "I still wanna be paid for this. Ain't my fault this asshole and his cock ain't dead!"
Jenny Jackson got up and walked toward Harry's casket. "Get up, Big Guy. You have a case."
"What the hell did you do to me this time, Jackson," Harry asked angrily.
"I killed you, Harry. But it looks like you get a reprieve. So get up and get going."
"Fuck off, Jenny. I'm going home. I'm done with your stupid stories."
"Yeah. Fuck off, Jenny," chimed in Harry's Cock.
