Head Case
an excerpt

The funeral home was quiet. Amazing, really, to anyone who had been there just an hour before. Anyone who had witnessed the arguing aunts and the drunken uncles, watched the breakdown of the heartbroken mother, and the general ire at the grandmother who had nothing to say but, "He deserved it," probably wouldn't even believe it. It had been, basically, the type of funeral you would only see on the news, on some half assed sitcom. Of course, who said this wasn't going to be on the news?

The owners of the funeral home had been glad to see the party finish, to say adieu to the grieving family and the mourning fans, and see them off to the home of the nearest relative, the one not too bereaved to set out party platters and serve drinks, but still upset enough to be a proper host for the event. This time, it had turned out to be an aunt, though where she lived no one much cared or knew. Everyone who was attending would simply follow the line of cars headed south, then stumble out into a cab later that evening, leaving their car parked in an unfamiliar town, on an unfamiliar street, in front of the home of someone whose name they hardly even knew, let alone the telephone number. Weren't funerals spectacular like that?

Of course, that was everyone who was attending. Everyone else did whatever the hell they wanted, and grieved or generally dealt with the loss in whatever way they deemed fit. Everyone else included the friends of the deceased, those around 20 to 30 years old, who didn't really feel like sitting in a smoke filled room and listening to people they most certainly did not know ramble on about the beautiful flowers that had been at their husband's funeral, and how they wished they had been able to get those for the service today. What were the names of those flowers again? Marigolds? Oh yes, gorgeous, they were. No, these young men were going to strip off their black clothes and play pool, head to the nearest bar and get shitfaced, plastered, wasted, find a girl and a back room and just get it all out with no strings attached. These young men were going to be young men. And they were certainly going to avoid the press.

Which is precisely what the five young men, sitting out in the alley behind the funeral home, watching their cars forlornly, and wondering if the reporters currently swarming the lot were going to need to go out and get a drink or some food at some point, or if they had a catering service, wanted to do. Luck would have it, the media hounds would have some bastard bring them their food, and the poor stranded men would be left sleeping in the alley because the funeral home owners refused to let them back inside. Fuckers.

"Look at those lucky bastards," one of the five men grumbled, his breath coming out in a puff of smoke as he pulled a cigarette away from his lips. He was a tall, thin man, with dark red, almost brown, hair, dark green eyes, and freckles covering his face. Though his age was ambiguous and difficult to discern, he was clearly one of the older of the group, and, as he leaned against the door frame of the funeral home, suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, white button down half undone, and black tie shoved in his back pocket, he looked as if he aged a good ten years in the wrong light. Despite his demeanor, his general lack of wrinkles, even laugh lines, he held himself like a man who had lived. Not a naive boy, but a man who knew what he was doing because he had done this all before, and he was sick and tired of it. "All getting to leave and shoving it in our faces like that."

"Want me to get a spike strip set up so they can't get past the intersection onto Gravenstein Highway?" said another one of the men, currently seated on the steps leading out into the alleyway, a paper bag concealing what was most likely whiskey, or whatever other form of alcohol he had decided to latch onto now. The drinker looked younger than the red haired man, but there was something much harder about him. Something that said he might have lived more, or simply aged worse. As if, though he were younger, he was really the oldest one here. His hair was a dark brown, usually pushed flat against his head by some form of a hat sporting a skateboard logo and matching the color of his shirt, though today it was free and messy, and his eyes were a light shade of brown. He didn't smile as he spoke, despite the laugh lines formed around his mouth, but no one said anything to signify this was in the least bit out of the ordinary. At least not today.

"Fuck it. Let's just hop the fence and go to the bar down the street," the first sighed, and he stabbed out his cigarette on the porch below him. No one moved. But no one seemed to disagree either. "I need to get out of here." That was something they could all get around.

The men got up and began to move, each helping each other over the fence until the tallest of the five was left behind. And he really didn't need any help, as he simply ran up to and hopped over the back fence. They began to make their way around to the front, each finding some way to draw attention away from their face, to give someone a pause and keeping them from recognizing them right away. Or, at least, trying. Luckily for them, no one seemed to be watching that side of the funeral home as the one leading the charge absently knocked the letters off the sign up front, reading "CAIN McENTIRE FUNERAL, 2:00 PM, THURSDAY".