... Kermit Does What Morticians Do Best ...
When I arrived at the Office Friday morning, and my Diener introduced me to my newest Client, I was a bit surprised to see it was Frankie Minot. Not that I knew him WELL, God Forbid, but one somehow expects people like Minot to live forever. No one knew exactly how old he was and he was rumored in some circles to actually be a Vampire, but actually he was just a Debauched Arrogant old Fag who did some pretty reprehensible things to a large number of people. He'd been 64, and was found dead on his couch after he hadn't shown up with his Theatre Column nor been observed in the audience of the Play he was supposed to review the night before, The Last Bad Week of Edgar Allan Poe by Carlos Carrasco. He was lying there dead with a bottle of Inver House and an ashtray full of Benson & Hedges butts and Captain Black pipe tobacco on the table beside him, and, SOMEHOW, a typescript of a Book currently being written by ME! God knows how he got it, but the title was the same, although I use a Brother Word Processor. Strange, but I'm putting the fact that he was reading MY book in MY book, see?
All I had to do was Embalm him. I didn't have to give him a fucking AUTOPSY or anything. The Cause of his Demise was either a Heart Attack or a Stroke. A Cerebral Hemorrhage, perhaps. All of which are just really sweet ways to say he Drank himself to Death.
I was a little late for work since I'd been fucking Melanie Hassler the night before and we fucked again in the morning. Fenton Rochilieu was scamming on her and she knew it, but I was sure gratified when she told me that it was I she was in love with. I used my tongue in her and she came about 30 times, too, and we fucked in about 20 different positions, and ended up spanking each other with me fucking her up against the WALL and when I finally Shot my Bolt, I noticed I was late for Work. GOD she's a great fuck. Just what I need after a Hard Day at the Office, and this was gonna be another.
When I'm embalming people, I can talk all I want and they won't talk back. I record myself doing it and transcribe the tapes as my Book, the one I'm writing Now. Frankie Minot's Corpse was pretty fucking disgusting, brown teeth, looked like he hadn't bathed in YEARS. And yes, I know all the stereotypes and jokes about Morticians, but believe me, 'ol Frankie had nothing to worry about THERE. But I did reflect that he had a wide ass and a pretty small Pizzle, which looked remarkably smooth considering all the shit he'd put it through.
Anyway, mine is actually a pretty boring occupation, and as such I've made a Compilation CD to play at Top Volume why I'm Tiger Balming these dead assholes. I've burned copies for several other Morticians at their Request and given them out at Conferences, to which I never have to go very far since they're all held at the Convention Center in New Orleans!
My CD doesn't have a lot of "Don't Fear the Reaper"/"Let It Be"/"Candle in the Wind" maudlin bullshit on it. Most of it rocks pretty hard, actually. Keeps me going. "We're Not Gonna Take It" by Twisted Sister, "Already Gone" by the Eagles, "Cold Ethyl" by Alice Cooper, "Breakin' the Law" by Judas Priest, they're all on there. Then there's some Fred Astaire Torch Song shit, some "Boys in the Back Room" Dietrich action, some Ratt, some Sabbath ("Is this the end my friend/Satan's coming 'round the bend") some Dirty Deeds by AC/DC, and while I'm sure Minot would have liked to be Sent Out with Gordon Lightfoot sitting on the Edge of his Bed singing, "Sundown, you better take care . . . " I was blasting a Dixieland version of "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight."
See, that shit's always burned my ass, a bunch of people sitting around Granddad's bed and holding his hand and telling them how much they loved him and they just take it for GRANTED the bastard's going to HEAVEN just because THEY liked him, see? Doesn't that little Notion just beat all? I like to imagine a world in which it's just tacitly ASSUMED that when a Loved One buys it, they're Roasting in Hell! So, same scene, family around Granddad's Death Bed, but instead of saying "I love you, Daddy . . . " they'd be patting his wrinkled little head and saying, "I hope the flames down there aren't too hot, Paw-Paw," and "It's all right, Uncle Earl, soon you'll be roasting, getting pumped full of lava-hot come from the Devil's barbed penis, thanks for taking me to all those Cubs games when I was a Kid." GodDAMN, I'm loving it. And if ANYBODY was Roasting, it was that Drunken Pedophile Frankie Minot.
The Embalming Process just takes about 45 minutes or so, and it's pretty uncomplicated, but Frankie's was gonna take about 30 since I wasn't worried about making him look all nice for Family. I bet you've always wondered how this is done, haven't you? Go look at Mortician's Web Pages and they'll tell you how much Care they Take, but, believe me, we don't give a SHIT. Fuck, I don't care that they're dead! Get real.
You get them nude and you hose 'em down. You sew up the mouth. No more BJs for YOU, asshole.
You spray the dead meat and everything around it down with some MAJOR disinfectant spray. Then, wearing latex gloves, you make a small incision in the cartoid and another in the jugular, which are both on the right side of the neck, and you Drain their Blood. You put a tube into the Cartoid Artery and a Drain Tube in the Jug, and pump the Fucker full of about 3 gallons of Pink Formulin and water. By the way, the first thing that starts to make a body decay are the little bacteria in your OWN motherfucking small intestine.
Okay, so then you get this dagger-needle called a Trocar, and shove it in an inch above the navel, and turn on a Suction Machine and all that shit in there comes out. Sometimes you get the brain out by putting a slightly smaller Trocar in through the corner of the Right Eye, and then you hide it with Makeup.
Think about all this the next time you're at the dentist.
Then you're supposed to clean them up and shave them and do their nails and shit, but with Minot, I didn't bother. I did wonder how much sperm he had had in his stomach, like when every few years you hear that urban legend where some old Fag like Rod Stewart or Richard Gere or some coked-up Hoor like Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey gets a gallon full of cum pumped out of their stomach or some shit.
It happens from time to time, actually.
And then I wondered how much BLOOD the bastard had in his stomach. It'd be impossible to tell at that point.
I'm not overtly superstitious at all, but I cut a sharp piece of wood off a chair with a Bone Saw, and before I left the room I picked up a little hammer and drove that wood right thru his dead fag Heart.