I Was Gonna Offer You a Brewski, But I see You’re Covered

Her hand shaking as she wipes the tears away from her rosy cheeks, Modesty Naylor, soda mogul Percival Warren Naylor’s shapely twenty-seven-year-old widow, leans against her mother Empress for comfort.

Modesty’s babyish lisp endears her to the reporters and photographers gathered by her Olympic pool to interview her. “I wuved him. I weally did. But people wouldn’t wet me.”

Embarrassed by the cutting headline he’d published the day before, (“Gorgeous Gold Digger Strikes Gold As 92-Year-Old Soda King Goes Pop!”). Eyewitness News Reporter Harlan Hasselback says, “It’s obvious how much you cared for him, Modesty.”

“You were white about one thing, Harlan. Percy was true-we a business monarch. He sat a-woan on the throne. I’m going to give him a funer-well fit for a king.”

“What about his daughter, Ophelia?”

“They were es-twaynged since she moved to Aus-twailia two years ago.”

“That coincided with your marriage,” Harlan points out, his boyish features and bright gotcha smile making him look like he’d just seen Modesty naked. “And what about Percival’s fortune? A lot of people are laying claim to it. There’s close to a billion dollars at stake, right?”

Frowning, Empress repeats the words scripted by her lawyer. “We’ll continue to litigate the matter after a respectable period of mourning. It’s the Christian thing to do to stop fighting while observing the death of a loved one.”

“Is it true the funeral arrangements are being made by Percival’s lawyer, Allen Adair, and his accountant, Donny Dahl, even though Adair was the first one to challenge Percival’s will?” Harlan asks.

The candid close-up photographs taken of Modesty capture her encroaching sorrow.

“Percy knew I would have twuble twying to make his funer-wall awangements.”

“While our relationship with Percival’s best friends could be better, we have faith they’ll conduct his funeral ceremony with dignity and respect,” Empress adds.

Allen Adair hands Digby Hoel a fat envelope.

The slightly built, bespeckled funeral director looks inside at the stacks of cash, whistling approvingly.

“Is this a bribe?”

Allen smiles, his pallid skin, pointed teeth and the eye patch over his left eye making him look like a sixty-year-old urban vampire.

“I’m just following Mr. Naylor’s wishes to the letter. That includes giving the funeral director a tip for complying with his unique last wishes.”

Donny Dahl, Percival’s balding thirty-five-year-old accountant, can feel his anxiety rising.

“You’re sure he didn’t want to be embalmed? Isn’t he going to stink after a while?”

“He drank a quart of vodka every day. He’s beyond embalmed already,” Allen responds.

“People will be coming in to pay their respect soon,” Digby says politely. “I have a few things to do before we can admit any visitors.”

As Digby walks off, Donny whispers, “Percival’s idea of a wake will drive Modesty nuts. Modesty and Empress are traditional, religious people.”

“That’s why I suggested this type of wake to Percy before he died. They’re hillbillies from Fatback, Tennessee. Neither one of them lives up to their names. Modesty wouldn’t know which end of the camera to look into if we hadn’t hired people to tutor her. She’s a gold digger, Donny, nothing more, nothing less.”

“She says she loved Percival and I believe her.”

“You should try looking in her eyes, instead of at her chest,” Allen snipes. “Do you really believe a platinum bombshell nicknamed ‘The Body’ married a wheelchair-bound, deaf, and incompetent billionaire for love? It was a payday. She knew he only had a few years left, and she knew what to do to shorten his life.”

“Aw, have a heart.”

Allen’s predatory, coal-black glance suggests he doesn’t have one.

“She took him places. Went shopping with him…”

“And spent millions of dollars on herself,” Allen points out. “I rue the day he saw her in that underwear catalog. She lisped her way into his heart from day one.”

“Men in love are like that. You’d know if you’d gotten married.”

Donny immediately regrets his words.

“I didn’t mean to remind you of Belinda.”

“I only lost an eye in the accident,” Allen says. “She lost her life, and we lost a lifetime of happiness. You think that’s right, Donny?”

“No, of course not. But that doesn't mean other people, even a mismatched couple seventy years apart, don’t have the right to be happy. You chose to stay miserable and let the past dictate your future. You shouldn’t project your unhappiness on others. Modesty bathed Percival. She changed him. I’ve seen her carry him upstairs. That’s love.”

“That’s just keeping your eye on the prize.”

“I understand why you think you should get his money,” Donny says. “You built and protected his soda empire, and you don’t want some southern fried spendthrift getting it. But you’re not family, she is.”

“I worked for Percy for thirty years. I deserve a big slice of the pie, not just a retainer, and I’m drawing a line in the sand to get it, Donny.”

“Fine. But you’re using our best friend’s body and his legacy as ammunition.”

Pulling her mink stole around her neck, and still wearing her sunglasses to hide her puffy eyes, Modesty glides out of the limousine. She strikes a pose. Dozens of cameras flash, making Modesty look like a photo-friendly icon, while Empress’ unprepared witchy scowl makes it appear as if she’s searching for her broom.

Allen and Donny’s backs stiffen when they hear the click-clack of Modesty’s Louboutin heels approaching them.

Sighting Percival, Modesty passes out, her voluptuous 5’ 11” frame falling on top of her pint-sized mother.

Still fanning herself with one of the funeral home’s paper fans, Empress exclaims, “What in the name of our Lord have you done!” 

“Just following Percival’s wishes.”

“You sound and act wike a Nazi. Just follow-wing orders!” Modesty cries out.

Instead of lying in a traditional coffin for his wake, Percival Warren Naylor’s body sits propped up on a red velvet Queen Victoria chair behind a mahogany card table. Wearing a spiffy black Fedora, his best tuxedo, ruffled shirt, red silk bow tie, and a slightly askew grey toupee, Percival looks at ease, a frozen smile stretched across his wrinkled cheeks. A tall glass of Grey Goose Vodka sits by his right hand, and a bottle of Naylor Chocolate Soda is near his left hand. Spread out in front of Percival is the winning hand of poker he held when he suffered his fatal heart attack.

Percival’s closed, rheumy blue eyes are obscured by a pair of sunglasses.

“You’re a sacra-wijiss animal, Al-when,” Modesty lisps.

“And you’re a cash-sucking phony!”

Modesty bursts into tears. Hugging her mother, she practically lifts Empress off the floor.

“Percy said I kept him a-wive!”

“This ungodly, disrespectful display will only serve to pervert Percival’s memory,” Empress says.

“He cherished playing cards with the boys,” Allen replies. “It was the only night he could escape the clutches of this female Elmer Fudd. He never won when we played cards, but he enjoyed sitting around drinking and talking with his friends. Percival wanted us to recreate his happiest moments after he died. One night, Percival finally won a hand. It was the last hand he ever played and that’s what he wanted his friends to see.”

Feeding off her anger, Modesty stands, towering over Allen.

“If it’s the wast thing I do, I’m gonna woo-in you, Al-when.”

Allen quietly groans, cupping his head in his hands as Modesty’s scatological eulogy drags on.

“This is like listening to a Sesame Street kid trying to recite the Gettysburg Address.”

“She’s overwrought,” Donny offers.

“She’s overmatched,” Allen returns. “Her peanut-sized brain isn’t up for the task of making her life with Percival sound normal.”

Modesty looks down from the pulpit at Percival’s casket. She daintily brings a handkerchief up to her nose honking louder than a docking ocean liner.

“…Percy was a kind man. He could appreciate the innocence and pure-witty of a bunny wabbit, yet he was also a brill-went businessman who wan a worldwide soda empi-wa. He was a true when-a-sonse man.”

The massive wooden doors to the cathedral creak open and a voice shouts, “HE WAS A THIEF!”

A disheveled, Medicare-eligible man wearing dingy cargo shorts, and a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt staggers in carrying a half-consumed twelve-pack of Maximus Stupor Malt Liquor.

“That’s Ian, Percival’s son. The profession failure,” Allen whispers to Donny.

“I didn’t know he had a son.”

“Neither did Modesty,” Allen replies, giving Donny a predatory smile.

Belching loudly, Ian shouts, “I invented Naylor Chocolate Soda when I was twelve years old! Do you know how my loving father repaid me? He buried me in the military school system. Now, finally, I’m here to bury him!”

Donny wrings his hands. “This is awful.”

“Actually, it’s an improvement,” Allen responds. “When Ian showed up at my office he was in handcuffs. He’d been in jail for the past eight months for passing bad checks.”

“So, he’s allowed to attend the funeral?”

“I got him furloughed for a few days.”

Digby Hoel stealthily approaches Ian.

“Please, sir. You’re disrupting the ceremony.”

Ian puts down his almost-twelve pack. Picking up one of the cans, he shakes it vigorously.

Ian pops the top, spraying Digby with a cascade of foam.

“I was gonna offer you a brewski, but I see you're covered. And you, Bridezilla, yeah you, lack of Modesty, did you know the Viagra-eating love of your life had three mistresses on speed dial? Wait until you get the bill for their consulting services!”

Two of Digby’s brawny assistants grab Ian by his arms. Dragging him to the back of the church, they stuff him in the last pew.

 Digby admonishes Ian. “Now, sit down and be quiet! My sons are former wrestlers, and they’re out of practice, understand?”

“I’ll sit down, but I won’t be quiet,” Ian replies, passing out.

Despite his addled condition, Ian’s words are prophetic. His snoring is heard throughout the funeral ceremony.

The pallbearers gather near the pulpit to move Percival’s gold-plated casket out to the hearse.

“Notice anything odd, Donny?” Allen asks.

“Yeah, Ray Wonder from the Taste Testing Unit is the lead pallbearer.”

“He wanted Ray to be part of the ceremony.”

“Isn’t Ray blind?”

Allen laughs quietly. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Digby Hoel’s two gargantuan sons and Percival’s chauffeur are on one side of the casket, while us little guys are on the other. It’s going to be hard to keep the coffin balanced.”

“Okay, gentlemen, time to go,” Digby calls out.

The six men lift the casket. When the taller men put the casket on their shoulders it begins to tilt toward Ray, Allen, and Donny.

Allen and Donny have time to look up at the casket as it falls on top of them. Ray lets out a surprised, “What the hell?” as he’s knocked to the floor.

Percival’s body spills out, rolling down the aisle toward the front door.

Having regained consciousness, Ian sees his father’s body rolling toward him.

“Hey, isn’t that abuse of a corpse?”

Allen jumps over Percival’s body. Emptying his wallet, he waves a wad of cash under Ian’s nose.

“Is this hush money?”

“Think of it as payment for being such a loving son. And because you’re so overwrought, you’re going to skip the funeral, right?”

Allen hears the click of a camera phone. He looks up to see Modesty, Empress, and Harlan Hasselback wearing smiles as wide as the doorway.

“Here’s the headline,” Harlan cracks, “’Cola King Calamity As Sultan of Soda is Spilled.’”

Feigning shock, Modesty faints. Harlan takes a picture of her, then helps her to her feet.

“And the caption of this picture is, ‘This is how Allen Adair treats his friends.’”

Modesty lets out a vengeful, guttural laugh as she and her two conspirators walk away.

“Still think she’s a stupid, hillbilly opportunist?” Donny asks.

“Well, she’s not stupid.”

Percival’s grieving friends gather around his gravesite, which is overpopulated with orchids - Modesty’s favorite flower. A cage containing cooing white doves sits on a table near the grave.

His expression grim with purpose, Reverend Houston Angel crosses himself, saying, “Out of respect for Mrs. Naylor, I ask that you turn off your cell phones.”

A blonde-haired woman wearing a tight lime green dress with tattoos on her forearms bolts from the crowd, running to the casket. Throwing herself on top of Percival, her feral wailing unnerves the confused crowd.

“Oh, Daddy! Daddy, please don’t go!”

“Who’s that?” Empress asks Modesty.

Modesty’s respectful expression fades.

“More competition.”

Donny asks Allen the same question.

“Eunice. One of the kids Percival had out of wedlock.”

“One? How many did he have?”

“Five have materialized… so far,” Allen replies.

“Maybe Percival should have signed a scorecard instead of a will.”

Digby Hoel’s two burly sons drag Eunice back toward the limousines, her high heels digging trenches in the dirt.

Reverend Angel is about to speak again when Ray Wonder totters forward.

The slight, bald soda tester unzips his fly, urinating in Percival’s grave.

“It’s been four fricken years since you gave me a raise. You think because I can’t see I didn’t notice my paychecks haven’t changed? Last time I asked you, you said it was because of overhead. Well, there’s some overhead for you, you skinflint!”

Raising both middle fingers, Ray wanders off, leaving the crowd slack-jawed. He nearly stumbles over a grave marker and bounces off a tree before locating the shady path leading out of the cemetery.

Soon after, the honk of a horn and a thump suggests Ray didn’t get far.

His bald dome and upper lip dripping flop sweat, Reverend Angel surveys the muttering crowd.

“I trust there will be no more interruptions. And now, a selection from the Hootmon Royal Dragoons.”

Three bagpipers fill the surrounding air with the sound of a flat, tuneless dirge.

The report from a gun sends mourners diving into the dewy grass. A bullet strikes one of the bagpipes. It deflates with a defeated wheeze.

Mourners duck behind nearby tombstones as the Hootmon Royal Dragoons toss their bagpipes and flee.

Reverend Angel remains still, committed to his duty, quivering as he repeatedly crosses himself.

Eunice steps into view, her homely features made more so by her determined grimace.

She fires her gun with reckless abandon, nicking the smooth finish on her father’s coffin.

“Where’s Modesty! Where’s that hussy! She’s trying to steal my daddy’s money!”

Empress tries to protect her daughter by lying on top of her.

Digby’s mountainous sons grab Eunice from behind, shoving her face forward into the ground. When they pull her up, strands of grass dot her surprised expression.

Digby’s sons drag Eunice off again as she squeals, “It’s not fair! She was just one of his silicone bimbos!”

The crowd turns its attention toward Modesty. Brushing grass off her clothes, Modesty proudly proclaims, “I’m a hundred percent wheel, no fill- wers.”

Wiping sweat from his forehead, Reverend Angel announces, “We have a special presentation by Reverend Aaron Parker, the minister who married Modesty and Percival in Las Vegas.”

Reverend Parker sashays to the gravesite.

“He looks a lot like Elvis Presley,” Donny observes.

“That’s because he runs the Presley Parsonage.”

“I bet he got his diploma online,” Donny comments.

“Probably paid all of twenty bucks for it,” Allen replies.

Reverend Parker sings “Suspicious Minds” a cappella, twisting, grinding, and bumping his way through the song. When he reaches the lines “We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out,” some of the mourners look contemptuously at Modesty.

“Looks like the court of public opinion is swaying in your direction,” Donny says.

Reverend Parker bows. “Thank yew, very much.”

Stunned by the performance, Reverend Angel says, “Words cannot accurately describe what we have seen and heard today. Before our final prayer, Mrs. Naylor would like to say a few words.”

Modesty moves next to the cage.

“Percival always said that despite not being able to walk, my love for him gave him wings and made him feel free as a dove. This is for you, my love.”

Modesty opens the cage. Half a dozen doves fly out and are immediately attacked by a passing kettle of hawks.

The mourners duck as the dove’s carcasses fall around them.

Reverend Angel looks skyward. “This is a test, isn’t it, Lord?”

A cell phone rings.

“JESUS CHRIST! DIDN’T I SAY NO CELL PHONES!” Reverend Angel screams.

Reverend Angel takes a deep breath, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry. I got caught up in the frustration of having an imminent breakdown.”

The phone rings again.

“Please, don’t hesitate on my part,” Reverend Angel says. “Answer the doggone thing.”

Coughing, Percival slowly sits up in his coffin, reaching for his phone. “Hello? No, I don’t want to extend my car’s warranty.”

The spectators in the front row faint into the arms of the people behind them, who drop like dominoes into the arms of the people behind them.

Shrieking with glee, Modesty rushes to his casket, hugging her husband.

“I’m so happy you’re a-wive!”

“Me too, pumpkin. Remind me not to mix my meds with my double martinis, will you?”

“This makes me want to poke my other eye out,” Allen says.

“So, you won’t get his money. I wouldn’t obsess about it.”

“What do you mean?”

Donny squirms in his tight suit. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this, but you seemed to be having so much fun engaging in a power struggle with Modesty. Percival had me keep two sets of books for the past two years, the real one he shows to the I.R.S. and the one he shows to you, Modesty, and Empress. He never had billions or millions of dollars, more like thousands. He owes millions to the I.R.S., pays extravagant alimony to his three ex-wives, and has a huge bill for the upkeep of his mansion. He’s broke.”