Thanks for the heads up on the punctuation – I’ll have to revise that one methinks. If you do want to read the rest, which is (in my humble opinion) as funny and twisted as this, then you can download it for free via Lulu.com, or or if you’re feeling particularily flush you might even want to buy a real paper copy – both versions include photos and other little gimmicks, so if you get bored reading you can at least look at the pictures – thanks again for the review, and for taking the time to read our stuff.
Novel Treatments / Smiler - Corpse Disposal Idiot Style
Smiler – we had thought it might evolve into one of the most pointless projects we’d ever undertaken. If only that were the case. I guess when you put so much effort into something, then something is bound to come of it, remember Newton’s third law of motion, ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,’?
It should all have been harmless fun, a stupid pointless project done just for the sake of doing it. Instead we’re mourning the loss of one of the founding members of the Doogy Rev clan. Maybe the epiphany we were afforded needed to come at a price…
Johnny the Fullback is dead. His life lain to waste by what the authorities believe to be a tragic auto-erotic accident. I’m not convinced it wasn’t suicide; he had refused to talk about his bathtub experience, maintaining that nothing had happened whilst becoming increasingly withdrawn and sullen. As if his mind was elsewhere. The only thing he could be coaxed into talking about was his desire to die surfing, under a super sized wave in the South Pacific. Instead he died masturbating under a middle sized wave in the Midlands.
Exact details of his demise are sketchy, but his body was found on the bottom of the Forest Glades Leisure Centre swimming pool in Kidderminster, (famous locally for its exciting ‘wave machine’) with his genitals entangled in the one of the filtration vents.
As he’d neglected to leave a will, it was up to his next of kin to decide on funeral arrangements. As his next of kin were somewhat embarrassed by the cause of death, those arrangements were left to us, his friends.
Now, being as though our average age is somewhere around thirty, we don’t have too much experience of arranging funerals. I decide to take charge and dish out tasks, whilst we are morosely mulling over our responsibilities with the aid of a few pints of beer.
‘Right,’ I announce. ‘I reckon the best way to do this is to split the funeral into smaller tasks, write them on the back of these beer-mats and then take it in turns to randomly pick one. Whichever task you pick is the one you complete. All we need to do first is come up with five ‘tasks’ that will cover everything, agreed?’
Everyone agrees, and after five minutes collective confabulation we decide that the elements of a hopefully successful funeral are as follows:
• Coffin
• Crematorium (cheaper than burial)
• Wreath
• Music
• Hearse
We discuss who to invite, but I’m not sure that a funeral is something you generally invite people to – they usually just turn up and try to feel appropriately awkward for as long as it takes for the buffet to start.
Chig picks first and bags himself the task of organising the hearse. ‘Piece of piss,’ he says smugly before sloping off to the bar to get the next round in.
The Senator goes next and after deliberating for a pointlessly long time, eventually comes away with organising the coffin. ‘Shit,’ she mumbles.
Duckhouse seems visibly excited, nothing new there, even this is like a game to him – he picks the crematorium. ‘Burn, baby burn!’ he shouts triumphantly.
Gregdude picks the wreath, a relatively easy one. ‘Yes!’ he exclaims, clutching a fistful of air to his chest.
Music, evidently is mine and although I maintain a solemn air in keeping with the occasion, I do afford myself an imaginary pat on the back for winding up with a task that should be well within the realms of my capabilities. The Senator reminds me that Johnny wanted ‘Break on Through’ by the Doors. Bonus – I’ve got that track somewhere.
The week long deadline we set ourselves rolls round irritatingly quickly and we meet up again in the pub for a progress report. In line with our apathetic approach to most projects, little or no progress has been made. Duckhouse is the only one with anything remotely worthwhile to report.
‘The crematorium was pretty much all booked up,’ he states. ‘But, I managed to sort something out for Wednesday at two through a mate; you lot need to get your arses in gear and get everything else sorted by then or else we’ll be fucked.’
The Senator looks stressed and agitated – she’s got two days to sort the coffin, no easy feat I imagine. Still, Johnny was one of us, and I’m confident that between us we’ll be able to give him the send off he deserves. Chig seems as nonchalant as ever, so although he doesn’t have anything finalized regarding the hearse, I can only assume it’s all under control. That leaves Gregdude, with the wreath, and myself with the music – surely two days is plenty enough time to sort those out.
‘Ok, kids,’ I say addressing them all. ‘I spoke to Johnny’s dad. The body is round at his and is good to go, let’s go away, get everything sorted and meet round there at one pm on Wednesday. Once it’s all over we’ll come back here for a reminisce and piss up that Johnny would be proud of.’
Wednesday 12:30pm – I’m the first one to arrive at Johnny’s dad’s house, a CD I’d hastily burnt off that very morning nestling in my inside jacket pocket and portable stereo secreted inside the rucksack on my back. The rucksack kind of spoils the look of the dark suit I’ve managed to dig out, but wearing it still makes me feel pretty much empowered as suits sometimes do. Johnny’s dad is doing what Johnny’s dad usually does, practising shooting his air rifle, in the house – seemingly oblivious to the corpse of his son resting atop a trestle table in the hallway.
‘All right Ian?’
‘You definitely getting rid of that today? It’s starting to stink the house out – I’ve started smoking twice as many fags as usual just to try and mask the smell. I even doused it in Hai Karate aftershave, and put Odour Eaters in all its pockets.’
‘Its pockets?’
‘Look, I probably sound harsh, but Johnny died doing what he loved best, he died happy and is probably right now spurting pearl necklaces all over the pearly gates – that,’ he points to Johnny’s supine form with his roll-up. ‘Is nothing but a shell he once inhabited. He’s all right, trust me. You just worry about getting rid of, okay?’
I make a weird face that I think signifies my agreement, and Ian tuts at me, and then returns to target practice.
Wednesday 12:42pm – Duckhouse and the Senator arrive together in her little hatchback. ‘Where the fuck is the coffin?’ I ask as she gets out of the car.
‘I had a few problems with that, but don’t worry, it’s all under control,’ she says opening up the boot of the car.
‘What coffin did you get? A fucking inflatable one?’
‘No – I looked into it on the net, you don’t actually need a coffin. “Burial without a coffin is permitted providing the deceased is suitably wrapped, thus causing no offence to the living or indignity to the deceased,”’ she quotes somewhat sarcastically.
‘But we’re not burying him – the crematorium might not cremate him if he’s just wrapped in a blanket.’ I say, finger and thumb massaging the bridge of my nose.
‘Chill out dude,’ chips in Duckhouse. ‘It’s all under control, I told you the Crematorium was pretty much booked up so I sorted it with a mate to use the incinerator at the hospital whilst his gaffer is out at lunch.’
‘Is that even legal?’ I ask.
‘I dunno – but the Crematorium wanted four hundred and twenty five quid – I haven’t got that kind of money kicking around, so needs dictate I’m afraid, and besides making a saving there, it also means we can save with the coffin.’
‘Right, the coffin, I’d forgotten about that, come on then let’s see it. Let’s see the final, dignified resting place of one of our best mates.’
The Senator reaches into the boot of the car and pulls a couple of armfuls of material from inside. ‘It’s a fucking sleeping bag!’ I exclaim.
‘Yeah, I know, but it’s not just any old sleeping bag. Duckhouse and me were up till two this morning decorating it with shells and glitter!’ she says, evidently proud of her handiwork. ‘You see, he liked camping, he liked surfing and the sea so what better way to celebrate his life than to combine the two?’
‘Why the glitter?’ I ask.
‘That was my idea – I just thought it made it look wet and shimmery,’ says Duckhouse excitedly.
‘It makes it look like a sleeping bag that has been dredged up off the bottom of the ocean!’
‘Exactly!’ they both retort in unison. I’m left shaking my head in disbelief.
Wednesday 12:51pm - I’m still shaking my head when Gregdude rolls up carrying something fairly substantial looking in a black bin liner. ‘You got the wreath sorted then?’ I say, motioning towards the package he’s carrying.
‘Not exactly – the florist couldn’t get anything sorted at such short notice, so I got this instead,’ he reaches inside the bag.
‘It’s a fucking Piñata, you retard!’
‘I know, but it’s made of coloured paper so it’s just as pretty as flowers – and guess what – it’s even got sweets inside.’
‘Johnny didn’t even like sweets,’ I say somewhat dejectedly.
‘He is dead, I’m sure he won’t mind – besides, did he even like flowers?’
Wednesday 01:32pm – Still no sign of Chig. We’re all sat on the curb outside waiting for him. Johnny is laid out on the path, resplendent in his ‘coffin’. Twice I’ve had to explain to Duckhouse that despite how ‘comfortable’ it looks it would be inappropriate for us all to use Johnny as a ‘bench’ while we wait. I hear the cheerful chimes of an ice cream van in the distance. A flurry of front doors opening tells me the ginger kids can also hear it. The chimes draw ever nearer.
Wednesday 01:33pm – An ice cream van pulls into the ‘Acre’, clips the curb and pulls up alongside where we are waiting. I stand up to remonstrate with the driver, who is now blocking the area we need to load Johnny into the hearse. Would you believe it – yes you probably would. Chig is the driver.
‘So this is your idea of a hearse?’ I ask.
‘It’s good enough isn’t it, there’s plenty of room in the back and it’s ever so cold inside – just what you need for a dead body.’
I don’t have the time, nor the energy to argue. What was supposed to be a solemn orderly affair has turned into a pantomime. We load Johnny into the back of the ice cream van, much to the chagrin of the ginger kids milling about who were hoping for a ‘99 Flake’ (some of whom we had to ask nicely to stop standing on our dead friend so that they could reach the van’s serving hatch).
Wednesday 01:51pm – we pull up outside the hospital and almost instantly we’re surrounded by more kids hankering after ice cream. ‘Fuck off you little cunts!’ yells Chig, who is in an irritatingly obnoxious mood – we’ve fallen out temporarily over my absolute refusal to let him play the ice cream van music despite his insistence that it might ‘cheer things up a bit’. I’m also aware that the window of the day generally classed as ‘lunchtime’ is slowly passing us by and Chig has yet to have a pint. The kids, and anyone else in the vicinity soon disperse in a slightly panicked manner as we drag our shell encrusted cadaver into the hospital foyer. Noticing a vacant wheelchair, we load Johnny into it and set off in search of the incinerator.
Several minutes and one mobile phone call later we’re in the presence of Duckhouse’s mate, a towering shaven headed Brummie who despite the occasion still see’s nothing wrong in counting out the hundred quid Duckhouse has surreptitiously slipped him. ‘None of yous lot are allowed in – unnerstand?’ he growls whilst pocketing the cash. ‘Jus wait ere, an arl bring out the remains in ten minutes. I catch any of you arseing around and you’re dead – okay?’ We all nod in agreement and Gorgo wheels our deceased friend through a heavy metal door and out of sight.
‘Shit,’ exclaims Gregdude. ‘What about the music, and the piñata?’
‘Well I can do the music,’ I say unzipping my rucksack. ‘And I guess it would be a shame to just incinerate the piñata without eating some of the sweets – did you bring a stick to beat it with?’
‘No, it came with one, but I didn’t think we’d need it so I left it at home,’ says Gregdude as I load the CD into the little stereo. ‘We’ll just have to kick it open,’ he says placing it gently into the middle of the circle we find ourselves stood in. A few seconds pass and the tinny little stereo kicks in, the sound quality is so poor that it takes everyone a moment or two to realise that instead of ‘Break on Through’ by the Doors, Johnny’s last ever song is in fact ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ by Billy Ray Cyrus.
‘What the fuck is this?!’ demands Chig. ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve my friend for saying we came up short of the mark with our tasks – you had the easiest one!’
‘I’m sorry – I only had “Break on Through” on vinyl, and couldn’t work out how to transfer it to CD – this was the closest thing I could think of.’
‘You’re a fucking cunt and a half you are – why didn’t you just download it?’
‘Because it’s about eighty pence a track, and why would I want to pay for something I’ve already got?’
We all look dejectedly at the floor, upon which sits the weird yellow piñata, realising just what crap mates we have been. How we were so wrapped up in ourselves that we didn’t notice quite how much Johnny needed us. Pitifully we kick the piñata around the floor to the tinny sounds of a mullet wearing redneck until it’s sugary guts spill out onto the hard grey linoleum.
Our sweet kicking activities come to an abrupt end as the heavy door swings open once again. ‘What did I just say about arseing around, you fucking retards?’ says Gorgo staring at the colourful mess now scattered about the corridor. ‘Here’s what’s left of your mate,’ he says angrily thrusting a Thermos flask into Chig’s hands. ‘And I want that flask back when you’ve finished with it, cleaned I might add. Now clear up and fuck off.’
Wednesday 03:02pm – we’re sat back in the pub, the one aspect of the plan that actually went to plan. Although I should imagine that was more through force of habit than through any concerted effort.
The tartan Thermos sits in the centre of the table, five fresh pints equidistantly placed around it like a poor approximation of a neolithic stone circle.
‘What do we do with the ashes?’ asks Gregdude.
‘Scatter them in the sea I guess – it’s what he would have wanted, maybe we could take a drive down to Croyde or Newquay at the weekend,’ I reply.
‘Can I suggest something?’ says Chig. ‘Why don’t we just flush them down the fucking toilet, they’ll reach the sea eventually and I for one can’t be arsed to drive all the way down to the coast.’ A couple of us flash him a ‘how dare you suggest such a thing’ look, but as the consumption of beer continues and as time drags on the suggestion sounds more and more like an acceptable idea. Besides, it would at least be in keeping with the previous indignities of the day – which is as much of a reason as I need to satiate my guilty conscience.
Wednesday 08:34pm – we’re all crowded into one of the pub’s toilet cubicles, Johnny balances precariously on the porcelain cistern. The fact that the cubicle is relatively clean makes me feel somewhat less uneasy about what we are about to do. ‘Does anyone want to say anything?’ I ask, unscrewing the lid of the flask. ‘We can’t just tip him down the bog without someone saying something appropriate.’ No one answers. ‘Well?’
‘Dude I think you should say something,’ Gregdude says. ‘You knew him the longest after all.’
I think for a moment or two, trying to make lucid my inebriated thoughts, and then I tip the ashes into the toilet bowl, take a deep breath and solemnly begin. ‘I saw a man the other day, dancing on the beach as I was out walking, staring out at the sea. As I drew closer I could see that he wasn’t dancing after all but was picking up starfish and flinging them back into the ocean. There were thousands of starfish all along the beach that had been stranded by the tide. “What are you doing?” I asked the man. “I’m throwing starfish back into the sea,” he replied. “If I leave them, the sun will dry them out and they will die.” “But there are thousands of them,” I reply. “You can’t possibly make a difference.” Upon which the man bent down once again, picked up another starfish and flung it back into the ocean. “It made a difference to that one,” he replied.’
Everyone is looking at me – strangely. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that Johnny was like a starfish, and that Smiler is like the sea and that perhaps if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with Smiler I might have taken the time to toss Johnny back into the sea. Whatever happened has happened though and we need to look forward, we need to honor his memory by spreading Smiler’s positive message. There may be more poor little starfish out there that we could help.’
‘I’m not helping you toss off any starfish!’ Trust Chig to ruin what my drunken brain considered to be a quite beautiful little speech.
‘Trust you to ruin my speech – what I’m trying to say is that it would be wrong for his death to serve no purpose, we’ve all been on a journey and learnt things about life, death, the universe and each other. I learnt that divinity is within, and that if you need answers then that is the only place you should be looking. And I learnt that it’s what you do, not what you believe that is important, and that any true and loving god would acknowledge that. Proper stuff, the stuff that everyone should be taught.’
‘So what do you want us to do?’ asks the Senator.
‘I want you to spread Smiler’s message, but I want you to want to do it – you know, of your own accord, because if you can save just one little starfish then you’ve made a positive difference, you’ll have changed the whole universe for the better. Are you with me?’
‘I’m with you,’ agrees the Senator.
‘Count me in dude,’ Gregdude responds.
‘Me too brother!’ says Duckhouse.
‘You’re all a bunch of fucking hippies,’ sneers Chig. ‘We’ve been stood in here long enough, let’s go and get some drinks in.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Let’s go – hold on, better just flush the chain first.’
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BigMamaMags reviewed Version 2 -
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This was a hoot!!! Some people think I have a weird sense of humor, but those people would have missed a great deal reading this! What can I say, I loved your Smiler!!! When I read the way Johnny died I smiled and shook my head. The picking of chores to do, was expected, but humorous. When they got to his dad’s house I thought, Oh my God, in a less than solemn tone I especially liked the the Hai Karate and Odor Eaters. The sleeping bag with the shells and glitter was ingenious! I lol. Likewise with the pinata. By the way, How did you do the dilde over or pinata? The ice cream truck was crazy! As soon as you made mention of it, I knew where it was going to stop. When it stopped and the kids were standing on Johnny, I laughed so hard I scared my new puppies and they barked at me! The final straw was the song, Achy Breaky Heart. I fit right in. The hospital incinerator was par for the course. The thermos was a little strange, but fit right in. He even wanted it back!!! The toilet burial, very cleaver. The story of the starfish was a nice touch. Although you didn’t, as you say, develop the characters. You still expressed their character. While the situation was far from reverent, the Doggy Rev. remained a nice tight knit family with good intentions. I think Johnny would have been proud! A truly enjoyable read. I can’t wait to share it with others!
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ultraviolence reviewed Version 2 -
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“remember Newton’s third law of motion, ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,’?” This should be a separate sentence. Also, the punctuation is incorrect.
Other than that—wow. I laughed so hard I felt sick. And I thought that the ashes scattering scene in “The Big Lebowski” was painful. This is great stuff, it made me want to read all that came before. Great dialog, comedy, tension. I will say, even though you said not to bitch about character, that it was a little hard to believe, just from this, that people could be so callous, but I’m sure it makes more sense with the rest of the novel. Great job.
NancyAllen reviewed Version 2 -
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I could see where this could be a very funny movie. I got the pictures in my head as I was reading. As I began I was frustrated because I kept thinking if he was being cremated you didn’t need a coffin and a hurst and then when I read further I realized that most of what we consider necessary for a funeral is not really necessary and the friends figured clever alternative ways of dealing with the task. Good job.
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