The Rothschild Funeral

Not many fist fights break out at funerals. But not many families are like the Rothschilds. For one, the number of billionaires in the world is finite, and the crusty corpse in the coffin, glassy eyes staring up eerily at the action, was one of them. A multi-billionaire if we want to be absolutely accurate. As the Old Vulture (an unaffectionate nickname used behind his back by all who knew him) liked to say, “After the first billion, the rest just seem to roll in.”

Per his wishes, he was preserved, eyes wide open so he could keep an eye on everyone, even at his funeral. Milky and off-putting, his sights probably hadn’t anticipated a fight breaking out literally over his coffin. As the two young men, once good friends, now slugged it out with vigor, absentmindedly bumping into the coffin, the massive oak behemoth was knocked off its legs and sent careening past the two, sliding down a flight of stairs into the seated spectators below.

Normally one would expect shrieks or sobs as the family watched their ancient patriarch’s coffin surfing down a dozen tastelessly teal carpeted stairs, finishing on its side and spilling the body out in an acrobatic move he could never have achieved in life. Instead, silence reigned. Not even a shocked silence, just a silence as if everyone was waiting for someone else to get up and stuff the old codger back in his box.

The moments ticked by before Alice, the old man’s young wife, snapped her perfectly manicured fingers at one of the brawlers standing up by the memorial picture, then pointed sharply at the corpse.

With a sigh, he reluctantly lowered his fist from its mid-punch position and hopped down the stairs, his khaki shorts showing off bronzed calves of perfection. Heaving the heavy box of golden and wood back onto its base, the young man used his impressive physique, betrayed by flexing muscles and a too-tight polo shirt, to heave the shriveled dead man up. He unceremoniously began to stuff him back in the coffin; the Vulture’s face was now smashed up against the side, his gnarled hands no longer in gentle repose but rather tucked under his ass.

Somewhere in the back of the private hall, head ducked down so none could pick him out, one of the more unaffiliated mourners began to laugh. It started as a small chuckle, then swelled into a loud guffaw.

Tsking, Alice stood up abruptly, glancing down at the decrepit figure in the coffin and grimaced. She snapped her fingers again, this time at the thoroughly befuzzled hall attendants that were waiting on the sidelines, amazed at the turn of events.

“I think we’re done here. Box him up.” Grabbing her Louis Vuitton purse off the front row seat, she did her trademark move, flipping her blond locks behind her like a Charlie’s Angel, then slipped on a pair of sunglasses and turned, exiting the hall. After a beat the fit fighter who’d responded to her snap jogged after her, and slowly the rest of the attendees stood as well, turning their backs on the dead man, and filing quietly out.

                                  *************

The day was dreary, which would normally be appropriate for such a solemn occasion, but the impatience of the crowd, not to mention the now-resumed fist fight in the graveyard, dispelled any expectation of normalcy for this interment.

The priest had to shout to be heard over the scuffle and yells of, “Gold digging pool boy!” and “Spoiled brat!” The holy man, a plump belly showing even through his black, billowing vestments, started and stopped in his prayers, the constant distractions finally pushing him to his limit. Losing all composure and throwing his holiness to the wind, he turned sharply to the fighters and began smacking them with his Bible, crying, “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

The will had been read. That was the short answer. In a hyper masculine study, decorated in plush leather and dead animal heads on the wall, it was revealed that the Old Vulture had left everything to Alice despite her flagrant affair with the Adonis of a pool boy. And her stepson, boxer #2, was not happy about it. While most of those mentioned in the will resigned themselves to the pittance that Scrooge had left them, his son swore, as soon as the words tripped off their lawyer’s lips, that he’d fight the will tooth and nail. No one realized then that he’d meant it literally.

Under the admonishments of the priest, both young men paused in their exertions to turn towards the figure in black. Then, in unison, they both hauled back and clocked the man, sending him sailing through the air and onto the perched coffin. 

Under the sudden weight, the abused wooden vessel gave way to the path of least resistance and plummeted the six feet down into the ground, taking the cursing priest with it. 

Unsure of what else to do under this recent turn of circumstances, one by one the mourners rose and, in a perfect line, passed by the coffin, tossing their lilies down into the hole while the frantic grave diggers tried to decide what to do. 

In the background, the fist fight found its conclusion as the son hauled back and with one last, powerful punch, laid out the pool boy, swearing at his sore knuckles. 

He strode up to Alice as she finally rose elegantly from her seat, bringing up the rear of the pack. In a harsh, angry voice he shouted, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. If you think I’m going to let you and lover boy over there…” 

She placed a finger to her lips in a shushing motion and, ignoring his presence completely, walked past him to stand at the edge of the hole where the grave diggers were lowering a far-too-short cord to the apoplectic priest.

Peering down into the dark grave, she gave a grim smile, the edges of her perfect lips raising subtly. She held up the lily in her hand, looked at it for a moment and then cast it down atop the coffin.   “Good riddance.”