Fetterman's Wake

I'm the kind of asshole who would hold his own wake just to see what those closest — and not so closest — to me would say. To see if they'd even turn up. Ego, ego, ego; dies at death, or is it reborn and energized?

People say a lot of nonsense at funerals and thereafter about the deceased.

"Oh, he was such a good man, that Malcolm. He'll be dearly missed."

"Oh, Jeffery E was taken too soon from us. He was always putting on functions and parties at his private island. Damn you, Death, why did you have to take another of the good ones?"

Is it wrong that I also want to see if my betrothed dresses modestly or immodestly? I don't think so and don't really care if you judge me. Remember, I'm dead. So fuck you. I died. Let my wife dress in her scotch-tape-assisted leather three-sizes-too-small skirt and crotchless panties with appropriate spiderweb-like fishnet stockings. She's grieving in seriously sexual style.

To my dismay, as the people gathered for the event — congregating in the local bingo hall because my loved ones are penny-pinching bastids — they could see me but didn't know it was me. Or maybe they did. Nah, they're far too stupid and self-important to truly look at the bum visiting one of their fallen greats.

If "A Truly Fallen Great" is not on my tombstone after this, I'm haunting the bastids.

As I sat in a corner of the bingo hall, playing my own game of bingo — yes, they ran some bingo for my wake, just because the equipment was already set up and my mam wanted to have a go at doing the number calling —

"All the pigs in heaven, 77. Sorry, officer," she winked and gave poor PC Potter the finger. We all knew he wanted to give her a different kind of finger.

I should probably point out that as the oldest of a family of eight kids and one mammy, I was expecting a huge turnout. A rolling of the carpet for their asshole-done-good son/brother, if they were a normal, kind, and loving family.

Julie and her two brats, Kyle and Kylie (she's an unimaginative bitch, truly), turned up late.

Sonya and her guy, Pratt — no, seriously, he's called Mr. Pratt, the prick — were on time. Which makes a change. I'll be watching for her spitting on my grave or having a piss.

Raymond was there, as cheerful as ever. To be fair to the shithead, he's just recently been divorced for the second or third time. I forget how many, actually.

Thing is, I hadn't expected to miss them. But here I am, watching them. Stalking them. Hating and loving them all at once. 'Tis family. I guess. The pricks.

I tried a few of the sandwiches they had put on for the do, or function if you're a classy fuck. Stale pigshit in mortar, with notes of ten of the best from Father McDougall.

Di, my favourite, was there, crying. Bless her. My bum persona got a hug from her. She briefly said, "Oh, you smell like Simon. His natural cologne of fuck's sake."

Bless her.

Angela decided to make the event all about her — because, of course, she did — self-involved cuntling that she is. Dressed head-to-toe in chinchilla or mogwai or some other shit. Dead animal fashion. Truly a classy bottle-blonde of a pain in the arse on two stilts for legs.

Tony, or Toni, I forget what spelling they use now, is here. Yay! The answer to no one’s question. Ever. He's a middle-management knuckle-domed frogman. Or something.

Alexandria — I do miss smelling her Peach Schnapps breath every time she opens her godawful gob and lets the shite flow forth from it like the River Thames. She was crying a little too hard for my liking. So I pulled on her flesh tunnel. That's a piercing, for the uninitiated, before I get lynched.

Then there was Dido. Yes. Named after Florian Cloud de Bounevialle O'Malley Armstrong (I shit you not; Google it), who got her stage name from the Queen of Carthage, who founded Carthage and had a tragic love for Aeneas of The Trojans' fame.

That stupid blonde girl that sings about the tea going cold and wondering why she got out of bed. I wondered why Dido got out of bed. Not thee Dido, but thy Dido. She looked a wreck, and I barely registered her as a sister. We had so little to do with each other, other than when mammy would say, "Come dowan tae the houase, Si, yer sister's getting baptised or consecrated." I forget which.

Mammy was holding centre stage — literally. Bent over on the stage, holding it, while trying to read the numbers as Dido handed them to her. Di was still crying a little.

Then Becks turned up. Becks from Essex, as she was known to those who wanted a punch in the balls or tits. Becks, or Mrs. Fetterman, is how she was known to me and most of our clan.

Her red locks fell like flames, framing her pale, blushed cheeks that were as kissable as they were the first time I met her. She commanded any room she walked into, full of joy beneath the black mascara and hard-worn face. Her nails had grown long since I last saw her, and I could just imagine them scratching up my back as we writhed in pleasure. But alas, I was dead, ain’t I?

"That bitch," mammy muttered. Transference was a big personality trait of the Fetterman clan.

Becks was composed as ever, the belle of my life’s ball. I never doubted her love and affection — I felt it as sure as when I first clocked her in the offy that time when we were just eighteen and stupidly in love.

I just wanted to go over to her and grab her. Not to grope, but just hold, you understand. But I needed to be strong and see this through.

Besides, she might be doing better without my noise, without my insanity fucking her life up. What if she had already mentally moved on? She wasn't carrying herself like that might be the case. Maybe I was just scared I would break character and be honest, and all my best-laid plans would unravel before us.

Oh dear. Taken aback by Becks’ resplendent elegance, I didn't notice that Dido was being battered with a number of bingo markers because she stuffed up and handed the wrong ball to mammy. How do you screw up handing a ball from a rolly-turny machine?

As is customary, mammy took to her throne — or the best chair in the house, because it has a cushion for her "emmeroids." Bingo was put on hold, much to the annoyance of Angela, who was — and I quote — "so fucking close to a full house, like that one time I went to Soho and met the Chippendales."

Becks was to address the assembled throng of people, the miscreants and forgotten asides and footnotes in my life.

"Friends and family, and Dido," she started, deadpanning in true Becks fashion.

"We are gathered to share a drink, some bingo, and a raffle — because some idiot, looking at you, Dereck the Doctor — and some stale sandwiches in honour of my dearly departed asshole of a husband, Simon Don Quixote Fisher King Fetterman. The bastard died and left me a babyless widow. But he wanted me to play a video for all of you. Dido, can you get the VHS player thing?"

(For full transparency, I have no idea whose corpse they buried. But as I am a bearded sandwich-thieving, wake-crashing bum now — it's not mine.)

Dido handed the VHS to Becks, who set it up for all the celebrants to see. Crackling, my past visage from beyond the grave — well, last week — appeared on the screen.

"You all know he's here with us, don't you?" Pratt commented, gasping at the audacity.

"Don't be a fucking moron, it's just a recording," Becks snapped.

I tried to move closer to get a better view of past-me and everyone's reactions.

"What is this? From olde-worlde times, fuck sake?" Dido asked.

"Shut up, Dildo!" Mammy shut her up in the only way she knew how — by throwing her 5-inch heels at my stupid sister.

"Will you all shut the fuck up for 10 minutes, at least? Fuck sake. My man has something he wants to tell you all!" Becks commanded that room like a drill sergeant.

"If you are watching this video..." past-me paused for dramatic effect. "I've passed away. So you all better be crying. If not, I'll give you all something to cry about. Now, listen closely, you bunch of miscreant bastids, I have some instructions for you."

There was a hushed gasp of some description before Angela bemoaned that someone had spilled Guinness all over her mogwai/chinchilla furry piece of murder-wear.

"I want each of you fuckers to take to the bingo hall stage. And don't act like I wouldn't realise you'd be too cheap to hold my wake anywhere else. Anyway — I want you all to take turns telling me what you really thought of me. None of this performative grief funeral pish. I want to hear the truth. If you manage to tell the truth, there might be a special prize for you all."

Becks surveyed the congregation. "Well, bastards, who's first?"

Julie stood up first.

Becks laughed. "This oughtta be good."

"Do you wanna start something, bitch?" Julie raised her fist as she took her place beside a slightly inebriated mammy.

"Me and my brother were as tight as cheese and ham, mortar and bricks. He was my best friend and I loved him dearly..."

I forgot what an actress she could be, breaking off from her heartfelt speech of bullshit to sob into her blouse.

"Get on with it, Julie, we want to get home tonight," called out Angela.

"He was a light in a darkened world. We will never fully appreciate his passing until the dressing has been ripped from the wound. Christmas will never be the same without him. Such a loss, Simon, I love you."

Everyone clapped, lacklustre. Complete horseshit, of course.

"Dido can go next," mammy volunteered.

"I don't wanna. I didn't even know him. He was a cunt. He treated me like shit. I'm glad he's dead."

"We all treat you like shit because you are shit," mammy proclaimed.

"I'll... go... next... I think. Gosh," came the reliably reluctant Pratt.

"Knock yourself out... not literally, though, that might be funny, hahaha," mammy called out.

"Unless you have a problem?" Becks asked.

"I don't really give a fuck. I want this done so I can rip ties with you wastes of space."

"Pratt. The stage is yours, ballbag."

Pratt took to the stage, mumbling. "Death is not very kind, my guys and girls. We need to be caring for the dead, or the ones who remain."

Kill me now, I thought as I wandered closer to Becks. I'd have reached out and squeezed her delicious arse, but I didn't want her to think just any old bum was hitting on her.

Alexandria was up next. She wiped crocodile tears from her eyes with a paper napkin, grabbed a large glass of Peach Schnapps, and dropped it all down her top.

"To Simon, whom I never really liked. He was cheating on you, Becks. Cheating on us all. Cheating on mammy, cheating on the Pope. He was a born and bred cheater just like my da."

"You're talking out of your drunk arse, lass," Becks said. She knew I'd never cheat on her.

Raymond — good old salt of the earth — was next.

"I never really saw eye-to-eye with him," he said, "and he always insisted on calling my... wait... was it second or third wife, Molly Hoovers-All-Day?"

"It was the third idiot to sign up for a life of dull nothingness." Mammy was merciless but not wrong.

Those words stuck in my stomach a bit more than I expected. I shifted before heading to the back of the room to see if I could score a free pint.

"Si, Becks... I think I want to say something..." Di stood, before being interrupted by Angela.

I saw red but held back.

"Excuse me, Sis! It's my time to speak. Simon was an asshole, but at least he was honest. Unlike most of the shower of shits in this room. He was a bastard, a dick, a cunt, but never pretended to be anything other than that. That's why he was better than me and why I hate him too."

For once, Angela was not directing the attention to herself.

Then the tears streamed down Di's face. Almost, I thought, I would rip off my fake beard and run to embrace her. Almost.

"We could all learn something important from Simon. I, for one, am going to move forward being more present and more honest in my presence. Whatever that even means."

Alexandria raised her glass. "Here's to Angie sis becoming a cheat like Si. Cheating on the Pope, like Si. Cheating on his boots with slippers."

Tony seemed reluctant at first, stood up to say the briefest of words: "Bro." Then cried and sat down.

There was more honesty coming to the fore than I ever imagined.

Mammy cleared a pathway back to the stage. The room fell silent, expecting her to say something matriarchal, something poignant.

"Time for the raffle, I think."

"But before the raffle, Simon was my favourite son. The most problematic little shit that ever did venture forth from the hallowed tomb of my womb. But, beautiful and mine."

Gulp. Did I just read that? It didn’t sound like shite.

"Now, Dido. The prizes. Who has ticket number 121?" No one responded. I raised my hand quietly.

"Who the fuck are you, and who said you could come to my son's wake?" Mammy barked.

"Did you pay for a raffle ticket or did you steal one?"

Becks laughed. "Leave the guy alone. What is the prize for the fella?"

"A kiss from Simon's belle, of course."

"What?"

"You heard, lass. Kiss the bum. Though we both know you've done that more times than you'd like to admit."

Becks looked a little put out, like she wanted to punch Mammy in the tit.

"Fine. I will give the lovely fella a kiss."

She turned to look at me across the room, and my heart sunk into my feet. The hardest part of this worthwhile venture was leaving her. Now I was going to kiss her. Maybe I could give them all an Irish goodbye. There was no way I could kiss her and she not know who I was.

"You. Here now," she pointed, commanding me as she always could.

Although my legs were like jelly and stone all at once, I slowly made my way through my family.

I felt greater unease as I approached my belle, my Becks. Before I could ask her the ground rules, she grabbed my hands and pulled me close. I thought she was just trying to prove a point to the rest of my awful family, to make Mammy annoyed.

"You're a cunt, Si," she whispered, kissing my cheeks, one at a time, before smacking her lips against mine.

I am not really sure what my family and the hangers-on were thinking at that moment. But, fucking hell, did I not care one iota. In that moment, as we embraced, I forgot all about my petty plan to upset the applecart that is my stupid family. My parting shot would be walking away with them none the wiser that I was still alive. Thriving with my gal by my side. My Becks.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Fancied writing something a bit unhinged and funny. The title and general premise came about from my own fascination with attending my own funeral and a misunderstanding of what the book Finnegan's Wake is actually about. I also find that funerals, people do talk a lot of crap about the deceased because of politeness and societal norms. So, it was influenced by that too.

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