The coffin exploded. It exploded - it really exploded. Not just explode, like, 'that was weird... A coffin doesn't usually explode during a church service--weird'. No, it EXPLODED. Like it scorched eye brows and gave the Post-Traumatic Stress shits to the entire front row. Dried their tearful eyes and covered them in confetti. Oh, that's another thing when it exploded into a fiery fury of flames and charred body chunks, it also produced a decent amount of multicolored cheer-inducing confetti.
Yeah, it was strange but not as strange as the story that led up to this bizarre event.
It all started with a man by the name of Hammish. He led a rather uneventful life. Yeah, it was fucking boring. Even Hammish himself would forget that he existed on occasion, only to remember that he did, followed quickly by regret that he had become aware of his completely stale white-bread vanilla-frostingless-cake life. That's how he saw his life; a big ole Birthday-cake, no wait, not big at all. A rather unimpressively sized Birthday-cake.
Shapeless and no frills, and most importantly, no frosting. The kind you get from a box and not even that name-brand classy shit, no. One that only featured bold plain ALL CAPS letters that said VANILLA CAKE, and a picture of cake that only under the most diligent fucking following of the directions would the contents of the box produce such a unimpressive pastry-like product. A product that was meant to celebrate another year of survival in this cold uncaring fuckyou world. And that's how Hammish saw his life, a poorly made generic brand from the box semi-moist average sized block of survival celebration pastry-lite Delite. That's how he saw his life...that is, until the last week of his life.
It all started with a morning that was as frostingless as any other. He arose to the random noises of neighbors next door doing 'things' like tending to gardens or raising kids or whatever--playing house. Naked, he grimaced at his frail rapidly aging sad excuse of a body. Such a sad excuse for a body that it was quickly going beyond sad excuse, to profusely apologizing to him. Snaps and pops rippled through his entire body for about the first 500 or so steps of his waking morning. All the while his brain wishing that it had never awoken and begging and finding any excuse it could to stay in bed and escape this fuckyou world for another 10-15 minutes or so, and often his brain beat out his apologizing body. It wasn't hard. His feet were constantly saying, 'fuck it' and his back was like, 'You ain't gonna hear me complaining about not getting used'. So he would go back to sleep not quite ready to suck the day's dick.
That's what happened this morning. As he drifted into a dream about his long since ex-wife leaving him for his old high school softball coach, there was a beating on the door. At first it manifested itself in the dream...their was knock at his bathroom door while taking a shit only to have it swing open to his ex-wife in her prime, swallowing his never had a prime ex-coach's soft balls.
Even in his dream he was taking shit and getting shit on. Just as his brain threw up its arms and he passively observed the most awful and unexpected thing to see while taking a toxin release. His brain got stopped in mid 'par-for-the-course' eye roll, when it realized it was a knock in real life. Probably something even worse than this dream, but hell, no one had knocked on his door since it was his Ex-wife saying she was leaving him for his boss, he wondered if this was related. Nevermind, maybe it was some good news.
Well, it appeared to be just that. It was a smiling clown with 6 multicolored balloons and Hammish was greeted with a gentle toss of multicolored cheer-inducing confetti. 'Neat, this doesn't happen everyday!' No it doesn't, Hammish. No it does not.
To be continued...