In the middle of Main Street like a buffoon. Cars swerved, drivers blared horns. Drivers cursed. Flipped single and double birds. But in the middle of Main Street he remained. Skipping, hopping and dancing like a buffoon.
He smiled and laughed at a funeral procession proceeding past him. The widow caught sight of him, stared in disgust, in shock…he really didn’t know if it was one or the other or both. Family, friends, loafers of the deceased watched as he drunkenly staggered on in the middle of Main Street.
The hearse lurched, screeched to a stop. The dead man had leapt out of his casket, stumbling out of the back of the car. Staggered over towards the buffoon. The two shook hands and exchanged introductions, a few moments of pleasantries: the weather, the Cornhuskers’ season, the upcoming elections. And then, as if having not a care in the world, turned and headed south on Main Street. They skipped, hopped and danced. Like buffoons.
In her frail state, the formerly deceased man’s widow gasped. Collapsed. Dead on site as all those in the procession quickly discovered. So they lifted her body into the formerly deceased man’s casket, closed the lid, placed it back in the hearse, and continued on their way to the cemetery.