Hammish's Last Week on Earth Part II

By Gary

Read Part I

The Hammish chunks rained down onto the few that were tricked into attending this funeral. Rubbery chunks of flesh smacked his distant cousins, former employers, and his Ex and her lover on the top of the head like someone whipping New York Strips at football helmets.

"Fuck You. Fuck you, clown!" A phrase that repeated over and over in Hammish's understimulated head, as the cream of the pie dripped down his face like the aftermath of a million grand money shots. Instead of saying what he was thinking all that came out was a grunt. With that grunt and a shake of the head he reached out and slammed the door on the clown. The clown all the while gripping the colorful balloons and tilting his head as the door to maintain an uncmofrtable eye-contact with Hammish as the door closed.

Hammish was not angry. Hammish was not happy either. Hammish just simply shuffled back to his 'I dont give a shit' chair in hopes that this would be the last time he ever sat down. Hammish tilted his back and blopped his feet up on the foot rest. As the cream filling dripped on to the floor with a surprisingly arousing splat noise, Hammish could not help but lick his lips and taste it. Shit, It tasted awful...what the fuck was that made of expired baby food and tree bark? Oh well, Hammish's mind was far too old and too far tired to play "What the Fuck Did I Just Eat' any further. He drifted into a deep sleep and as he did, he couldn't help but laugh, a little, hoping that he or the world would die.
"wouldn't it be funny..." thought Hammish. "If I died and they find me just sitting on this chair, dead for days, and covered in a pie to the face?" He quickly scooped that thought from his mind and whipped it across the room. For the record, it would have indeed been funny. Damn, funny. But instead he took out his hankerchief and lazily whipped his face about three-quarters clean. He'd get the rest off later, as it dried, picking it off would give him something to do and add a handful sprinkles to vanilla laced life.

As he settled into his fat old man groove of his recliner, he felt a sense of depression and apathy sweep over him, that almost made him leap from his sadness and sweat soaked throne. However, the warm comforting arms of melancoly wrapped around him, and whispered sweet lazies in his ear, an embrace that was just to safe and familar to have any desire to ever escape from. Fuck this world. "Goodbye" he said to himself, but really wanted to say to the world. Hoping this would be the last time he ever uttered his favorite word.

Just as his eyes closed. A knock at the door ripped him from the grasp of his wishful thinking that a voice calling him to the light would be the next thing he be aware of.

Who the hell could it be now? Fuck em'. "Can't an old piece of shit like me just die in piece?" thought Hammish. He ignored the pounding like a long abused wife. He squeezed his eyes shit like he was trying to make his eyebrows touch his cheekbones. The knocking either became louder and harder or the consistency of it was so relentless that it became harder to ignore. Suddenly an explosion rocked the entire house. and the door fell open. Pink smoke that smelled of cat piss and ether filled his living room.

Hammish shot up from his chair and is necked cracked as he swung his face towards the front door. There stood the clown. The fucking clown. Clutching balloons, laughing, and shaking his head NO. He kicked off his oversized shoes with a flick of each ankle and blobbed down onto the couch next to Hammish all in one fluid motion. He handed Hammish a handwritten note that read 'Life's a joke. Lets tell it to the world. "Fuck....this clown isn't going anywhere." Hammish sighed as he resided back to his chair the door wide open for the funnyman to come right in.