A Penny Down the Well: A Short Story Collection of Horrifying Events by J. A. Crook Page B

awkwardness. It didn’t
work.
    Clint nodded and extended
his hand toward the man. It was the only thing he could think to
do. “Clint. Like she said. Good to meet you.”
    The man with the sandwich
watched Clint for a second, ignoring his hand at first. He glanced
to the slightly taller, much more silent fellow at his side.
“Clint. Like Eastwood? Pow pow!” He made a “gun” with his free
hand, thumb and index finger extended, “shooting” at Clint. Clint
smirked. He’d heard that wisecrack since from what seemed like the
beginning of time. The man laughed then, put the sandwich in his
left hand to free up his shaking hand, wiped quickly the crumbs of
fish bits and bread to his dark grey shirt and took Clint’s hand in
a firm shake.
    “ Larry.” The man said,
still shaking. He broke the shake to gesture to the man at his
side. “And this is Morton.” And the large man at Larry’s side
nodded but remained silent.
    “ Like the three stooges?
Larry and Moe.” Clint tried to fire back with a bit of his own
witticism. But, if the silence was deep prior to his first words in
the parlor, it came on much more strongly in response to his
statement.
    “ What?” Larry asked,
narrowing his eyes with the sort of speculation reserved for stupid
people. “How do we seem like the stooges? There’s only two of us.”
And he waved his sandwich, his wand of denotation, to Morton. “And
his names Morton. Not Moe.” He smirked, looking to Marie. “Anyway,
Marie, you ready for us to move the stiff?”
    Clint was too embarrassed
to even make a remark of the dishonorable reference to the military
veteran in the coffin, but Marie responded rapidly, seeming, at
this point, interested in getting the two men on their way before
the impression of the funeral home became any worse.
    “ The casket is ready to be
loaded up.” Marie said in a more politically-correct way, returning
some balance to the suddenly unromantic scene. With the two men in
the room, the majesty was ripped out of it, making the candles
simple candles and the casket a box with a “stiff.”
    After Larry and Morton
loaded the casket, Clint went over what was required of him once
more. Second vehicle in line. Follow the lead vehicle. It seemed
simple enough. The simplicity of the action, however, didn’t make
much of a difference in the dreariness that came with the
transporting of a dead body. As the family members arrived, loaded
into their limousines, painted black to match the black-clad
mourners, the funeral procession began.
    Clint took his time as
they went along, occasionally peering into the rearview mirror and
being mindful of the bumps in the road. His mind played an image of
him hitting a speed bump or pothole too quickly, causing a
dislodging of the casket to allow for it to fly out the old hatch
and into the road. This was, what he considered, the most precious
piece of cargo he’d ever carried---not because it was a dead piece
of cargo, but because it was the center of all of today’s
attention.
    When the procession
arrived at the cemetery gates, the entirety of them were brought to
a halt. The lead care spoke with the attendant at the gate, drawing
Clint’s attention forward. He was unsure if this was a normal part
of the process. With Clint’s attention drawn toward the gate, he
was unaware of the approach of a person toward his hearse. The door
was opened and in sat a tall, broad-shouldered military man,
adorned in his service-dress uniform riddled with awards and
decorations to his shoulder.
    Clint’s mouth dropped
agape. This, after all, wasn’t part of the process. He looked
around, absolutely speechless, as if someone would come and save
him. Without introduction, the military man (likely of an officer’s
rank, with the shining insignia) began to speak.
    “ You never heard anything
like it. Travelling across the Atlantic, hearing the screams and
cries of your friends and brothers.” The military man shook his
head, looking out of