Bad Company

Hank Gibbons passed away at 10:40 a.m. on August 27th at 112 years old. In those last thirty years, he’d received two heart transplants, a new set of kidneys, a liver, and one of medical history’s first successful prostate transplants. But despite the best efforts of a top-tier healthcare system and the latest advancements in medical science, he’d finally given up the ghost.

Per the instructions in his will, all of his financial assets were given to AIPAC, which ultimately amounted to little after the coverage of his medical expenses. His house and vacation home in Sarasota had been sold to Blackrock, leaving his daughter, son-in-law, and sole grandchild his furniture and electronics “if they wanted them.” All that remained were the funeral arrangements.

Although his beachfront condo was on the market, there was still time to make this lonely, serene stretch of beach the site of his grand seeing off. In attendance were some of his former colleagues at the pharmaceutical company where he’d been a sales rep, along with his accountant, who would give the sole remembrance speech. Also in attendance was Juanita, the twenty-seven-year-old home care nurse who’d faithfully ministered to his every—and I mean every—need. Conspicuously absent were Hank’s daughter and son-in-law, who’d been forced to cancel due to his granddaughter’s—formerly grandson’s—most recent suicide attempt.

For this occasion it was necessary for the party to to charter a ship fitted with a crane. The ship was taken a hundred yards out from the beach, with Hank’s yacht, a fifty-footer affectionately dubbed the Farrah Fawcett, beside it. This small group stood solemnly on the deck of the chartered ship, surrounding the cherry-red ‘74 Pontiac GTO that served as Hank’s coffin. His corpse was propped up behind the wheel in perfect accordance with his last wishes.

Kevin Green, Hank’s accountant, cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here. Today we are gathered to honor the memory of Henry Francis Gibbons...”

For fifteen minutes, Kevin gave a rundown of Hank’s life and career, his accomplishments, how deeply this loss would affect everyone he’d known. At the conclusion of this speech, everyone took a moment to offer each other condolences. Bobby Jansen, a fifty-two year old co-worker of Hank’s who’d regarded him as a mentor, embraced Juanita.

“Thank you, Miss Gutierrez,” he said, grabbing a generous handful of her ample, shapely ass.

“I can’t tell you how much Hank appreciates you joining him on his journey.”

“What the fuck does that me-”

Her query was cut short when Bobby plunged a hunting knife into her chest. The next blow caught her in the throat, but not before her nails dug angry red furrows into Bobby’s forehead. With a primal grunt, Bobby ran the blade into her stomach. This time she crumpled and fell to the deck, her expression of rage and confusion giving way to an almost tranquil vacancy. She’d come today under the pretense of an inheritance.

Bobby let the knife clatter to the deck, dabbing at his forehead with a wad of tissues. Kevin placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Good job,” he said, lighting a cigar. “Hank would be proud.”

Together they placed Juanita in the GTO next to Hank, Then each taking a gas can they doused the car inside and out. They grabbed two more cans and began pouring those on the yacht. With this done, Kevin made a motion to the crane operator he’d hired and the car was lifted up. The Pontiac was carefully lowered onto the yacht’s stern. Before the crane released its cargo, Kevin tossed his cigar on the yacht’s deck. Both vehicles quickly went up in flames as the car was released.

Like doomed lovers consummating a suicide pact, the vehicles began to sink as “Bad Company” blared across the sea, all of which of course was in perfect accordance with the final wishes of Henry Francis Gibbons.

---

This story was submitted by Cesare Weltschmerz