What a Way to Go…
Created | Updated Aug 13, 2007
He watched and listened with interest. Recently he had found that eaves dropping in on conversations could be rewarding in many ways, much knowledge could be gained on all manner of subject matter. Normally matters of gossip mainly focused on someone who wasn’t in the room, but sometimes the braver seasoned gossip would talk of someone in their orbit. Whilst talking they would firmly keep an observant eye on the subject ready with a knowing wink or cough to indicate the approaching danger.
He mingled, many a good tale was being told for the reason of this gathered. The occasion was one which he always had a feeling of discomfort. Pleasure was much more his standard emotion, but here he always felt a twinge of guilt at showing even a smile.
As far as he was aware many of the people in the room faced such a dilemma. Some however laughed out loud, one man in particular. He was a large framed, portly faced man. His voice was the loudest in the room and as usual he could be heard saying such things as, “He knew him very well,” or, “Of course I helped in his career greatly. The advice I gave him stood him in good stead.” Etc, etc. The man went on.
Most people here were dignifiedly quiet and respectful. He did enjoy a good wake.
Looking around he could see most people gorging themselves with all manner of drink and fare, no one really cared, they weren’t paying, the one who was, today’s benefactor had no more use for his money as he was rich anyway.
The assembled mourners were here to celebrate the life of inventor, author and satirist Albert Morris. He was the textbook mad scientist. His outward appearance was shabby. The untidy hair which sat on top of his head had not seen a comb for many a year. All his money had been spent on his inventions, experiments and his day to day living costs. Never really had he looked up from his work to notice the temptations of modern living. The car that stood on his drive was the same Mini he had bought in 1966.
On occasion, members of his considerably large family would remove him from his world and take him out for dinner, normally at Christmas or birthdays.
He though, was always much happier with his work.
Everyday in the post envelopes would arrive, be opened and the cheques contained would be put between the fruit bowl and the fireplace wall. When a collection had amassed he would take them to the bank.
His incomes were considerable while his outgoings were minuscule.
All at that wake knew that, what would happen to his money? An appearance was needed just in case, keep in with the family.
The party was now in full swing, most of the fabulous buffet was gone, only the odd celery stick remained on the empty plates. The bar bill mounted, then at precisely three o’clock someone tapped on a glass like the toast master at a wedding reception and called everyone to attention. A silence fell over the room. Standing at the back of the room he waited to see the reactions of all present to the reading of the will.
A small man stood at the opposite end of the room, he was a soberly suited man with slicked back hair and some tortoise shell glasses. In his hand he held a piece of paper.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he waited for absolute silence before continuing, “I am here in my official capacity as Mr Morris’s solicitation and I will be following my clients’ express wishes by reading this document now.
Mr Morris was quite specific on the arrangements of his own internment. I have to read the following statement left by him.” He cleared his throat before beginning. “This is my last message to the world. Albert Morris, the man everyone called a crackpot and crank, but made a fortune is dead. You know I am dead because you’re here.
I know the room will now be full of people waiting to hear what I have done with my money, all of you mocked me at sometime or other during my life, but now you’re here, so here are my final words.
Not being a believer in any kind of Almighty I have left instruction that the coffin that travelled to the crematorium was filled with all my notes and books, they went up in smoke, none of you will profit from my work. My body has been recycled, used again.
The money in my bank account, what ever it was, the last time I checked it was over two million pounds was also in the coffin.”
A look of shock hit the assembled people’s faces in the room, everyone that is apart from one smiling figure at the back.
The solicitor continued, “Oh, yes, one last thing, I started to say that my body has been recycled, my good friend Ian, who is the village butcher made a quick million by cutting me up and serving me in the food you have been eating here today.”
The room erupted in panic. Several people vomited where they stood, some drank vast amounts of whatever liquid they could find while many ran to the bar or out of the room. The figure at the back laughed, “Oh I do enjoy being dead, you always have the last laugh.” Albert Morris announced.
He mingled, many a good tale was being told for the reason of this gathered. The occasion was one which he always had a feeling of discomfort. Pleasure was much more his standard emotion, but here he always felt a twinge of guilt at showing even a smile.
As far as he was aware many of the people in the room faced such a dilemma. Some however laughed out loud, one man in particular. He was a large framed, portly faced man. His voice was the loudest in the room and as usual he could be heard saying such things as, “He knew him very well,” or, “Of course I helped in his career greatly. The advice I gave him stood him in good stead.” Etc, etc. The man went on.
Most people here were dignifiedly quiet and respectful. He did enjoy a good wake.
Looking around he could see most people gorging themselves with all manner of drink and fare, no one really cared, they weren’t paying, the one who was, today’s benefactor had no more use for his money as he was rich anyway.
The assembled mourners were here to celebrate the life of inventor, author and satirist Albert Morris. He was the textbook mad scientist. His outward appearance was shabby. The untidy hair which sat on top of his head had not seen a comb for many a year. All his money had been spent on his inventions, experiments and his day to day living costs. Never really had he looked up from his work to notice the temptations of modern living. The car that stood on his drive was the same Mini he had bought in 1966.
On occasion, members of his considerably large family would remove him from his world and take him out for dinner, normally at Christmas or birthdays.
He though, was always much happier with his work.
Everyday in the post envelopes would arrive, be opened and the cheques contained would be put between the fruit bowl and the fireplace wall. When a collection had amassed he would take them to the bank.
His incomes were considerable while his outgoings were minuscule.
All at that wake knew that, what would happen to his money? An appearance was needed just in case, keep in with the family.
The party was now in full swing, most of the fabulous buffet was gone, only the odd celery stick remained on the empty plates. The bar bill mounted, then at precisely three o’clock someone tapped on a glass like the toast master at a wedding reception and called everyone to attention. A silence fell over the room. Standing at the back of the room he waited to see the reactions of all present to the reading of the will.
A small man stood at the opposite end of the room, he was a soberly suited man with slicked back hair and some tortoise shell glasses. In his hand he held a piece of paper.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he waited for absolute silence before continuing, “I am here in my official capacity as Mr Morris’s solicitation and I will be following my clients’ express wishes by reading this document now.
Mr Morris was quite specific on the arrangements of his own internment. I have to read the following statement left by him.” He cleared his throat before beginning. “This is my last message to the world. Albert Morris, the man everyone called a crackpot and crank, but made a fortune is dead. You know I am dead because you’re here.
I know the room will now be full of people waiting to hear what I have done with my money, all of you mocked me at sometime or other during my life, but now you’re here, so here are my final words.
Not being a believer in any kind of Almighty I have left instruction that the coffin that travelled to the crematorium was filled with all my notes and books, they went up in smoke, none of you will profit from my work. My body has been recycled, used again.
The money in my bank account, what ever it was, the last time I checked it was over two million pounds was also in the coffin.”
A look of shock hit the assembled people’s faces in the room, everyone that is apart from one smiling figure at the back.
The solicitor continued, “Oh, yes, one last thing, I started to say that my body has been recycled, my good friend Ian, who is the village butcher made a quick million by cutting me up and serving me in the food you have been eating here today.”
The room erupted in panic. Several people vomited where they stood, some drank vast amounts of whatever liquid they could find while many ran to the bar or out of the room. The figure at the back laughed, “Oh I do enjoy being dead, you always have the last laugh.” Albert Morris announced.
