His wife (whom he hated) had promised to carry out his final wishes to the letter, but Geoffrey knew better than to trust a woman schooled in the subtle arts of emasculation. In secret he had a second will drawn up and passed to a trusted confidant.
As he laboured in the final stages of his illness he was warmed by constant rumination on how, in death, he might best offend his god-awful family. Various conceits were considered: having his cadaver loaded onto a trebuchet and fired indiscriminately into the air, being liquidised and surreptitiously added to the reception punch (where he could quite literally become a pain in everyone’s arse), and orchestrating a remote controlled resurrection; his eyes flashing red.
What he settled upon was simpler and more grotesque.
Come the big day mock mourners were met with absence – no coffin, no flowers – Nothing save for a cream stove upon which sat a solitary oversized mug. As empty platitudes were flogged into apoplexy Geoffrey’s filleted remains responded by farting and bubbling their way over the rim in a last glorious gasp of defiance…
Written for: Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers