Even Death Has An Odd Bad Week

"Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to begin with an explanation of sorts. We, the Grim Reapers, sometimes also known as Death Inc., have an endless task set before us. People are born. And people die. We're tasked to bring them to the afterlife. Whatever destination that may be for them. It's a lot easier with animals. They all go to the good place. Humans? Not so much. Especially these days.

The point is, we're busy. And sometimes, mistakes get made.

It's been a hard few days for the world. There's been a great deal of anticipation, expectation, and people waiting for a long overdue obituary. Yes, that obituary. A certain obese obnoxious self absorbed con man who weaseled his way into a powerful position not once but twice. As a grim reaper, may I just say that one should try going through life not being the sort of person whose death will be cause for  global celebration. Because if you're that sort of person, you're really not going to like the place that you're heading to when you leave this life.

So, for the record. Yes. We are working on it. Things just keep getting in the way, but he's definitely running short on time, and the Devil has prepared a place in Hell just for him- a dark void with no exit, no company, and no audience. Just himself. Alone forever. That's kind of fitting, don't you think?

Theologians might say that he can repent his ways and go the other way, but realistically?

You'd have to have a soul. And he frittered that away decades ago.

So no, he's going to Hell.

But we need to set the record straight on some things.

A lot of people have been taking out their anguish on us. Which we get. Because in short order, you had these wonderful people die, who lived their lives very much as themselves, who made an impact on so many lives. People who are widely mourned and commemorated. I mean, the closest thing Earth had to a living saint was Dolly Parton. Kind, compassionate, humanitarian, with a personal interest in childhood literacy and access to books. An entertainer who didn't take herself seriously, but who helped others because it was the right thing to do.

And Tim Curry? Loved him in Clue, by the way. That movie is a big favourite among grim reapers. But Tim was a larger than life actor who inhabited every part he played, and breathed life into every film. People loved him.

And now both of them are gone. To a better world, let me assure you. Dolly has joined that heavenly choir, and Tim is cracking jokes with St. Peter. They're at peace now, in a place which will never be home to an odious slug who resides at 1600 Pennsylvania.

We just want to say that we're sorry. Dolly and Tim dying in short order comes as a shock, because it is. Because these were good people, and even though they lived long lives, it's never long enough when good people pass on.

But everyone has their time to pass on. Except Keith Richards. That guy's going to live forever, because we misplaced the paperwork. And it was Dolly and Tim's time to depart from this world, even after all the good they did and the joy they brought to the lives of people they might have never had the chance to meet. Look, this is our job. And despite our reputation as looking scary, we're not. We're walking you into the afterlife. Like an old friend. Helping you make that transition.

Unless you're going to Hell. In which case we're kicking you in the ass and sending you down into the pit.

I get that people don't want to deal with the idea of Death. But we are a natural part of Life. Namely the ending of it. And when you live the kind of life that people mourn you in the way people mourn Dolly and Tim, you'll meet us as an old friend, taking that last walk together. If, on the other hand, you live your life like a Donald Trump, you're going to be screaming in terror when you meet us. The moral of the story is, be like Dolly and Tim. Don't be like Donald. 

So what we're saying is we appreciate the frustration people are having with us. You want to see him no longer wasting oxygen, and it hurts when good people pass out of this life and horrible people live on. We get that. 

Just rest assured with this:

He's running out of time. We're on it. Trust me."

Return Of The Cancer Widow

It is a universally accepted truth that they never know when to quit, when to give up, when to go away and find an honest line of work. They persist in sending us emails with get rich quick schemes or tug on the heartstrings scams (note: I don't have a heart). They send us spam comments in our posts. I speak, of course, of that vile lot of humanity (barely) that I call homo sapiens spammeritis irritatingus. The internet scammer and spammer. Back in September 2023, I featured one from a typical Cancer Widow scammer, Debbie Grant, with the following sad story. After the bloated Orange Tumor, who is a scammer all on his own.

May the peace of God be with you and your family. I know it will be a great surprise reading from me today but consider this a divine intervention as a pastor explained to my understanding. My name is Mrs. Deborah Grant, a widow from the United State Of America Married in Turkey, and am writing you from my sick bed because I have been fighting cancer and the doctor says I have only a few weeks left. I want to entrust my money (USD 8.5 million) to your care for charity purposes to help the less privileged as my late husbands' relatives want me dead so that they will claim all my late husband and I worked for.I will tell you more about myself and what you need to do with the money once you receive it. Please write me soon as my health is pretty bad and my doctor says I will be moved to the intensive care unit anytime soon. Have a blessed day and please pray for me. God bless you.

Yours Mrs. Debbie Grant

Sad, isn't it? If it was real, which it is not. I received comments recently that Debbie Grant is still alive. She's still sending that same email to random strangers trying to get some poor sucker to send the inevitable 'administration fee' of a few thousand dollars that would come up if someone was dumb enough to believe it. Even to the point of featuring a photograph of a sick woman in a hospital bed. That they probably acquired through stock photos. For a woman dying of cancer like she claimed nearly two years ago, living this long is astonishing.

But there's no cancer. Because it's just a story. A bad one at that. Written by a scammer whose real name isn't Debbie Grant. Because the name Debbie makes one think of a kind grandmother- I should know; I know a Debbie who's exactly that. Whoever they really are is someone at the far end of a daisy chain of email accounts that probably ends somewhere in Russia, or another dark corner of the world, sending this crap out there and hoping someone is gullible enough to believe it.

Cancer isn't a joke, and it's wrong to wish it on someone. But there are exceptions. I would say that the sort of person who is so amoral as to use cancer for their own benefit- the sort of person who weaves this kind of lie, for instance- more than deserves it. They deserve the kind of cancer that leaves them in agony until their last day, that no painkiller is effective against, that utterly destroys their body systematically. Pure hell, before they end up in Hell.

As someone who's lost too many people to cancer, that is the level of my animosity to someone who uses the Cancer Widow scam, "Debbie."

It's sad to see that this person is still trying to scam people with this fake story, but hardly surprising. Scammers and spammers do not change, not even their story and their modus operandi. But time will tell, and one day, sooner or later, they'll meet the bad end that they more than deserve.

And on that particular day, they'll be escorted straight to Hell by this not so friendly fellow. 

A Fall Of An Unfortunate Red Shirt

 

Man Dies In Awful Way, Follows Family Tradition Of Dying In Horrible Ways

Vienna (Reuters) It has been said that mountaineering can be an unforgiving way to enjoy the great outdoors. One small mistake can be your last. In the history of mountaineering, there have been many who have died in the face of adversity while trying to gain one more summit. This past week saw another of those deaths, but one with a bizarre background.

Jean Chemiserouge, originally of Paris, had spent the last fifteen years climbing around the Alps, establishing a record as an accomplished climber. Friends described him as best at home while on a cliff, ascending a difficult route. "Jean was a great guy," Marcel Dion told reporters, looking shaken. "Always willing to help out, real humble. Everyone knew him quite well. The jovial, calm and steady Frenchman who was always seen wearing a red shirt, no matter the occasion. I can't believe he's really gone."

Chemiserouge was leading what some advised to be an ill-thought climb, given the time of year. He was ascending the Eiger, a mountain well known to him, but very late in the fall, when the optimal time of climbing on that treacherous mountain is in the late summer into September. "He lived life to the fullest," Dion said regretfully. "We tried to convince him and the others that it wasn't a good idea, but he just wouldn't listen."

There were six in the climbing party. Five survived. Jean Chemiserouge did not. 

They were ascending the Heckmair Route on the North Face of the mountain, described by some as the most treacherous face on the continent. Chemiserouge was taking the lead on an ascent in an area three quarters of the way up when he slipped. His fall arrest gear failed, and he plunged to his death, in full view of his compatriots. What was left of him was found by search and rescue teams down below, and for obvious reasons, the funeral was a closed casket situation.

"A tragic day," Father Alain Javert said with a sigh. "And a family filled with tragedy," he added to this reporter days after the service. "Everyone was in tears. The only funerals I've seen that were sadder than this were those of children, and fortunately those are very rare."

The family has had some dubious distinctions in history, all related around death. Chemiserouge had an Australian cousin who died several years ago, eaten by a cranky saltwater crocodile. One Chemiserouge was said to have been the first French death at the Battle of Agincourt. Another was said to be the very first French settler to die on the North American continent in the New France era by falling into an icy river. 

There was Jacques Chemiserouge, who met the guillotine during the French Revolution. And his son Pierre, who was the first French soldier to die at Waterloo. An American member of the family was the first Union officer to die at the Battle of Gettysburg. Another Chemiserouge was the first to meet his maker at the outset of the Franco-Prussian war. Members of the family drowned in the sinkings of the Titanic, Lusitania, and Empress of Ireland. A father and son, decades apart, had the unusual distinction of being the first French soldiers killed in the First World War and the Second World War.

"I don't know if it's a curse," Javert admitted. "I'd like to say I'm more rational than that. But how does one explain all this death? Over and over and over again? It surely can't be the family habit of wearing red shirts. I mean, yes, that Roddenberry fellow did speak to Jean's grandfather Andre before he started that science fiction series full of red shirts dying horribly, and yes, Andre's death was pretty public, what with being chased off a cliff by angry kangaroos while he was in Australia. But the point is, of all the Chemiserouges to have died in the family's history, not one of them died peacefully in their sleep after a long and well lived life."

Time will tell if it ever happens. There are, at this time, approximately 1500 members of the family scattered around the world, all at least distantly related to each other. "I try not to go out," Michelle Chemiserouge, a sister of the deceased Jean admitted. "I couldn't even attend the funeral. What are we to think? Is the family cursed? Did we do something before living memory that offended God? Is this all some big cosmic joke at our expense? I don't know. All I know is... I don't want to die a horrible death. I don't want to end up like my brother, screaming all the way down to the ground and getting pounded into the earth."

Never Trust Me With Your Eulogy

 The following is why I should never be allowed to give a speech, whether it's for a funeral, a wedding, or anything else.

Dear friends, thank you for coming out on what is a somber day, when we remember our good friends Alex and Kate. We're all still trying to process the news. It seems so unfair, to die so young, with their whole lives ahead of them and so much to be done. Better that it would have been peacefully in their sleep, decades from now as elderly people. Just like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like the passengers in his car, but let's not get off track.

Kate and Alex lived life to the fullest, even at their young age. They had known each other since childhood, were the best of friends. Went off to university together. Caused all sorts of mischief, some of which I was part of. The infamous prank we pulled on Professor Watson and sending his car into the River Tay is still talked about all over St. Andrew's. Oh, Professor. I wasn't aware that you would be attending today. Sorry, forget I said anything.

Where was I? Oh, right. Alex and Kate. Inseparable in life, and inseparable in death, it seems. Both of them in these coffins before us, to be buried side by side. Most of us who knew them would have expected them to get settled down after university, get married, start a family, that sort of thing. But that's not going to happen now, is it?

Because they're dead.

It's tragic. Because they loved doing what they did.

What they did killed them.

Let's just deal with the facts at hand. I know we're all unsettled by what happened. I mean, those caskets are closed for a reason. 

In some ways, I blame myself for it all. If I had been there, it wouldn't have happened. They'd be safe and we'd probably be having lunch down at the pub right now instead of attending a funeral.

But things happen. We were all supposed to go on a jump last Saturday, but of all the days to come down with a cold... well, that was mine.

So instead they asked that bloody sod Daniel Wallingford to come along.

Now, yes. Admittedly Daniel is a rated, qualified skydiver... just like me, just like Alex and Kate were. But Daniel is, sorry to say, a full blown alcoholic these days. 

So let's go through it. We've been told that the three of them went up with the pilot for a jump. Alex and Kate have done this dozens of times. They're up there, getting ready to jump. But from what we're hearing, what they didn't see was Daniel, opening up a can of Guinness and taking a few swallows. Which breaks a few rules of skydiving. Don't drink and jump. I'm just saying. But again, Daniel is a full blown alcoholic.

So Alex and Kate jump. No issue. They start on their way back to earth. 

And then there's Daniel. Pilot said he stumbled to the door and just stepped out.

What happened next defies physics.

Alex and Kate had pulled their chutes and were slowing down their descent already. 

Daniel had another can of Guinness with him. It slipped out of his harness as he pulled his chute, and started falling. At high speed.

Straight towards Alex and Kate. 

Somehow- and again, all we've got at this point is Daniel's statement to the police on this one- the can tore right through Alex's chute. It must have hit Alex in the head before it kept going, because he didn't pull his reserve chute. His main chute started tearing apart because of the damage, and he started falling faster. 

And if that wasn't bad enough, that same can did the same thing to Kate's chute. Tore a hole right through it, causing enough damage that it started coming apart too. We can only guess that she was hit by the can in the head as it went by, because she didn't pull her reserve chute either. 

That can was later found, having reached its final velocity, smashed through the front windshield of a Porsche driver. The driver, we're told, still owes 75 000 pounds for it and is said to be devastated.

Alex and Kate? They hit the ground. Faster than they would have expected.

It was that old crone Mrs. Gogarty who heard two loud thumps outside her farmhouse. Oh, Mrs. Gogarty, I wasn't aware you were gracing us with your presence. Where was I? Oh, right. Well. What can I say? 

It's a hell of a thing, skydiving. You experience the thrill of falling through the air, the rush of pulling that chute, and the joy of existence. 

And then one day, a whole lot of little things go wrong all at once, and you're.... well, you're pancaked. 

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it that way. It just would have been better if it had been Daniel pancaking into the ground, instead of sitting in a jail cell right now facing criminal charges. I've always hated that wanker.

Well, to wrap things up. Let's all remember Alex and Kate as they were in life, happy and joyful.

And try not to dwell on the last twenty seconds of their lives.

Try Hard Not To Speak Ill Of The Dead

The following is why I should never be trusted to give a speech at a wedding or a funeral. Because I'd make it an occasion to remember.... for all the wrong reasons.

"Thank you, Reverend Murchison, for that kind introduction. And thank all of you for coming out on this sad day to pay tribute to a man who left us far too soon. It falls to me to give a eulogy for my old friend Peter. For one thing, we knew each other since childhood. For another, I'm not on the suspect list.

When we think of the manner in which Peter died, we must shake our heads at the unfairness of it. A man's life snuffed out at the prime of life. A man who had succeeded in life, built a reputation for himself of good standing in the community. A man with a loving wife and three children. And his faithful Spaniel Muffy.

It's tempting to ask God... why? Why him? Why not someone who really deserves it? Like Chester Holloway, for example. That bastard deserves to meet a bad end if you ask me, and you are asking me. Oh, don't look at me like that, Chester, everyone in town hates you. You're not going to make friends in this life if you listen to ABBA, let alone headbang to ABBA. Honestly, man, were you born with bad taste or did it develop gradually?

But I digress. We're not here to talk about Chester and his horrible taste in music and how much he deserves to get thrown into a pit of hungry fire ants. We're here to talk about Peter. Pillar of society. Upstanding citizen. Family man. President of the Lions Club. Gave to charities of his time and his money. Member of the town council. Successful businessman with his own hardware store. Beloved by all. Or so we thought, until three days ago when his life came to an end. Because someone went out of their way to kill him.

It's shocking, really. One minute you're driving along, the next you're facing the Almighty and being told that your brakes were cut, your car was wired to explode, and for good measure, someone double tapped your corpse with a 22.

I probably shouldn't have said that. I have this bad habit of speaking without considering what I'm saying. Sister Mary Margaret of the Sisters Of Little Or No Mercy said that would get me in trouble someday. The point is, we don't really need the visual, do we? Not when we're trying to remember the good, not the bad.

And yet the bad is there. We can't dispute it. We can't dismiss the reality of the awful way that Peter died. We can wonder who did it. We can try to come to terms with what's come out since his death. What the police have learned. About how he'd been skimming funds out of the town council budget and depositing it in a Panama bank. About how that money he raised for Schauffhausen Syndrome went into another account in the Caymans, and how Schauffhausen Syndrome doesn't actually exist. About how he was cheating behind his wife's back with his secretary. What's that, Bridget? You didn't want the kids to know? Oh, my bad.

But it's shocking, I tell you. Shocking. How a man presents himself in one way and hides secrets. And he was the last person you'd expect in this town to be hiding secrets. Oh, we all expect secrets being hidden by old Elsa von  Berger over there, who to this day refuses to divulge what she was doing in Berlin in 1944. And we expect it out of Helen and Tommy over there, trying to hide their affair from their spouses. But Peter? Good, upstanding Peter?

Who wasn't so good and upstanding?

Yes, shocking. But someone knew. Someone had enough reason to want to kill him. And to do so in a way that would make sure he really was dead. Who was it? Could it have been the ABBA loving nitwit we all hate? Don't even start, Chester, or you and I can go outside right now and I'll beat your ass into a coma. Could it have been the reclusive possible former Nazi dominatrix Elsa von Berger? Could it have been a random stranger passing through town who just decided they'd kill someone in a spectacular way? Could it have been Miss Scarlett in the drawing room with a candlestick?

Could it have been the mayor? After all, the police have arrested him on corruption charges. It does appear they were both in on the siphoning budget dollars to Panama gambit. A falling out between two cohorts in an illegal scheme could lead to something even more illegal. Like murder. I'm just saying, I don't know. You don't know. Nobody knows but the killer. 

I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sure Chief Seddings has her list of suspects well in hand. For all we know she's got her sights set on the grieving widow as Suspect #1. Because Bridget had a whole lot of reason to want to off her philandering, money laundering husband. Not the least of which was that ten million dollar life insurance policy.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Peter. Peter the upstanding member of society. Peter the secret crook. Peter the cheater. It is patently unfair when someone we love leaves us too soon. It is even more unfair when we find out they were a dirty rotten lying skunk. And it is dismaying to me. I consider myself a reasonably smart person. Even if I say things without thinking ahead from time to time. But I'd known Peter for years, and even so, I never saw what he was hiding. And that just baffles me.

Well, Peter, at least you went out quickly. Horribly, but quickly. Hopefully justice is done for you. It'll even be better if justice being done means Chester is the killer and winds up getting thrown in prison for the rest of his days. Which won't be long once the gang in lock up finds out he loves ABBA."

The Curse Of The Lucky Hangman

The following is another example why I should never be asked to be a best man, or to give a eulogy at a funeral. It just won't end well.

“Thank you, Reverend Benton, for that kind introduction on this most somber day. We come together to mourn our friend Brian, whose life came to a tragically short end four days ago. I see his family, his friends gathered here together to mourn. And I see the lawyers hoping to cash in. Thank you all for coming. Well, not the lawyers.

Amanda asked me to eulogize Brian, and I only hope that I can be up to the task. When we think of him, we’re left to mourn the man that he was. People are supposed to die in their old age, not when they’re in the prime of life. Brian was certainly in the prime of life. Happily married, three wonderful kids growing up in the countryside, a good career in real estate. Not a complaint to be heard from him. Brian was the sort of fellow who could just lift the mood, and if he was here now- well, beyond the way that he actually is here now- he might tell a joke, kid around and lighten this gloomy atmosphere.

But he’s not. He’s in that coffin, and we’re out here, trying to make sense of the injustice of it all.

And so we have to take into consideration what happened four days ago.

On that day that changed everything for Amanda and the kids.

And so many other people, for that matter.

Because let’s face it, there are a lot of funerals going on in these parts right now.

It was supposed to be just another day. Brian left the house early, driving in that convertible of his. That was his gift to himself for closing the Midwick estate sale. He was proud of that one- that place had been for sale for five years, and no one could close the deal. Nobody wanted to buy the place. It didn’t help that the house had a reputation for being haunted after Old Man Midwick threw his butler off a balcony. But that’s beside the point.

Brian was driving along, enjoying the day, heading for town, heading for his office. It should have been just another day. But it wasn’t.

We know that the last people to see him alive- well, to talk to him, anyway, because there were witnesses who saw him rush by- were the staff at that pub out at the intersection of Highway Thirteen and Gallows Road. On a related note, what kind of place names itself the Lucky Hangman?

We know he left there- with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. We know he got behind the wheel of his convertible and drove off. Then what happened?

From what the police have been able to put together, Brian was driving with one hand, holding the cup with the other. And it seems the coffee was a bit too hot. For whatever reason, he spilled the coffee, all over his shirt.

That’s how he started to lose control of the car.

Joe MacArdle saw what happened next. He was out on his walk along Highway Thirteen, just like he does every day since he retired. He told the police he heard a car coming up behind, turned, saw it weaving back and forth on the road, coming right at him. That last moment, he saw Brian and Brian saw him. Brian somehow managed to swerve to avoid hitting Joe, and kept going. Joe counted his blessings and wondered why on earth Brian didn’t stop the car.

We’ll never know why. Maybe there was something wrong with the car- that’s something the police haven’t told us yet. Maybe Brian wasn’t thinking straight. You try spilling scalding coffee all over your chest and see how you like it. But that’s beside the point. By this point Brian was racing downhill around hairpin curves. Swerving all over the road. Oncoming cars tried to get out of his way.

Edith Newton was the first fatality of the day.

Yes, that crazy old battleaxe we all knew and hated.

She was driving up Highway Thirteen in that station wagon of hers. Her kids had been trying to get her to stop driving for years on end. Apparently her eye sight and reaction time wasn’t what it once was. But she wouldn’t listen to the concerns of her kids, just like she never paid any attention to anyone else and would routinely scream at people for no reason. And it was still six months until she had to get her license renewed, so she was still driving.

Until that day.

We know that Brian was honking his horn, swerving back and forth. We know that he came into the path of Edith’s station wagon on that stretch of the highway alongside Dead Man’s Canyon. We know he swerved out of the way- but so did she. While he sped past, we know that her car went through the guard rail and out into empty space, a couple hundred metres to the bottom of Dead Man’s Canyon.

Brian kept going. Honking his horn, downhill, unable to stop. He still had ten kilometres to get into town. Out of control, maybe thinking of his wife and his kids and what would happen to them if he didn’t make it home that night.

What happened next nobody could have expected.

Aside from that geologist from the university who published a paper about the slope three years ago.

So there Brian was, speeding downhill past Dead Man’s Mountain. And he inadvertently triggered something that none of us saw coming.

Except for Professor Sedgwick. Are you happy now, James? You got proven right.

Brian’s car sideswiped a rock by the side of the road. That rock turned out to be the lynchpin in holding up what James said was a slope of unstable soils and rocks. The only thing standing between it and disaster.

And he sideswiped it.

Just enough so for it to shift in place.

Not that he would have realized it. He somehow got back on the road and kept on that terrible last ride. I wonder if he might have had a chance to look in the mirror and see thousands of cubic tonnes of soil and rock barrel down the slope, pouring west over the road and down towards the village of Alton.

Well, they’re still busy over in Alton as I speak. Ninety homes buried in rock and soil and landslide. A hundred and thirty seven people dead or missing. And all because Brian sideswiped one boulder.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

No, Brian was finally coming down from the high ground and into town. He must have been panicked by this point. Spill your coffee, lose control of your car, find yourself on an endless careening downhill towards what had to feel like certain death.

And it was.

Brian’s car finally came to a stop.

By colliding with a tanker truck at the Petro Canada at the corner of Highway Thirteen and Aspen Street.

Incidentally, the corner of Highway Thirteen and Aspen doesn’t exist anymore.

Long story short, twenty eight more people were added to the death toll. Brian was one of them. All because of a spilled cup of coffee. Which is why all the lawyers are here- the big question is, will the Lucky Hangman pay a steep price for their too hot coffee?

I hope not. Weird name or not, it’s still my favourite watering hole.

That’s beside the point. One hundred and sixty six people are dead in what’s already being called Black Thursday. Our friend Brian is one of them. He leaves a wife and children who love him, friends who will miss him, and lawyers seeking to cash in on this whole thing one way or another.

We might find ourselves dwelling on the unfairness of it all.

Instead, I might suggest we look for the silver lining in it.

After all, one good thing came out of this.

That crazy old battleaxe Edith Newton is roasting in Hell right now.”