Diner at Derek’s
By: Hrvoje Bielen
Tags: Fable, Short Story, Death

Derek was a copper. Copper true and true. He liked everything about coppering. From his oversized copper star shaped badge and belt buckle, to his copper buttons and knuckles. Have I mentioned all those accessories were made from, you guessed it right, copper. He polished them until the Sun was so fed up checking it self up in those shiny surfaces that finally it just called night shift early. But you know how Sun is. Always a show off. Always in everybody’s eyes. So it rose the next morning looking for Derek and his mirror like bijouterie. But Derek was already crossing the river Styx with the ferryman who was now two gold pieces richer. That is the standard price. Don’t even think to hackle for a discount or IOU. You won’t be coming back to pay your dues. After you die two coins is just something that you’ll gladly part with in order to see what is on the other side of the vast but calm water surface. Some will find it disappointing, but some will find joy in finally proving there is nothing there but eternal nothingness. Of course, you’d have to be daft to call it nothing. There was unlimited amount of stuff, but all that stuff is profoundly unimportant once you died. How come? you ask. Well, ghosts can’t pick up anything. Can’t stand on anything physical. Physics is something outside of their grasp. It’s generally appreciated as a good thing. Of course, those that are doing the appreciation in this matter are the living. Anyway, once you step of the ferryboat and say your goodbyes to the ferryman, whose actual name is Dicky, you’d just find yourself falling endlessly through all the floors there are beneath you, metaphysical and concrete, in which process you’d also drop through all that stuff that’s floating in nothingness. It’s a strange sensation with your body passing through random stuff, but you get used to it very soon. Even when your head goes through a toilet seat somehow it looses it’s horror soon enough. And it gets boring by the minute. Finally, you just evaporate and that’s it. Like a big waterfall. First there is a great amount of water flowing in with great strength, but in the end it’s only mist gently forming a cloud with a nice rainbow in every water drop. Can’t say who’s sick joke this was, but it is kind of final and there is no one to complain to afterwards. Well, maybe there is, but who could tell? And Dicky is just cackling all the time, not uttering a word except inevitable she she she she as a result of his complete lack of teeth. While I’m at it, no wonder that Dicky accepted the job of afterlife ferryman. Imagine Dicky the waiter and all those drunken jerks he has to deal with everyday. Or Dicky the bank clerk and all those pissed small timers trying to squeeze some benefits from the monetary institution. But here Dicky was the boss. No one was making fun of him. Everyone was too interested in surroundings to even pay a tiniest attention to his Hello, my name is Dicky sticker on his official long and leathery drags.

Derek’s carcass was left behind of course, laying face down, to Sun’s utter disappointment. Great amounts of animals were exploring his crevices overflowing with liquids. It was a feast. There was something for everybody. It was served. It was warm. It was free. And not to mention extremely rich in the fat department. There was rejoicing beyond comparison since, within the last couple of months, Sun was successfully fighting away any possibility of even a tiny drop of rain. The selfish self righteous bastard.

The slosh party was about to get started.

— What do you mean you want his leg? How dare you? Do you know who I am? — said the Fox.

The Worm was thinking for a second.

— I know you’re a jerk. — Well that wasn’t unexpected. Everyone knew that the Worm is as short tempered as well as short bodied and as short sighted. So, when Fox came face to face with him, if Worm had any legs, they’d tremble like straw in the blizzard.

— Oh, it’s you, your cunningness. I’m so terribly sorry. I thought you’re Mr. Tudles, the cat. You’re more beautiful, but that’s nothing when comparing your cunningness and smartness. Actually all your nesses are far more superior. Mrs. Worm, my wifey always tells me “Look at how smart and handsome Mr. Fox is. Why don’t you grow some hair and balls and be more like him and less a worm you are?” Indeed, why not? I’ll give it a try tomorrow. I’ll grow hair that is as furry and dense as a Persian cat’s fur, and balls as big as an elephant’s. — Worm blurted hurriedly with a nervy apologetic smile.

— This, Worm, is a last straw. — said Mr. Fox matter-of-factly and added — If I ever see you at this diner again I’ll mash you up. Mash you like a brain mash you are.

— Sir, thank you. Sir.

— Why do you always bully little ones? You hairy snob. — Mrs. Wild Dog insisted. Mr. Wild Dog was peacefully snoring nearby, expertly knowing that it’s better not to mess with his wife. She’s nasty when she’s hungry, and he can always catch a hen in the nearby village to fill his culinary needs. He liked hens. The sound of stupid clucking while looking for Mr. Worm or his family drove him nuts, but that was just a small price to pay for a meaty feathery dinner laid down for you by stupid villagers.

— Dear, why don’t you get your lazy ass up and put Mr. Fox in line? — She demanded while putting away Derek’s guts for later. She already usurped bowels and tucked them away safely. For the pups she declared.

— I’d love to dear. But wait. What is that? Is that a squirrel? Gotta check it out. Be right back. — and he trotted into an even deeper shadow behind the bush. Fox was his poker buddy, but now wasn’t the time to introduce Mrs. Wild Dog to that information and to that part of his persona. It never was, and it will never be. Those poker nights were the only free time he had since he got married to that noble breed wannabe a few long years ago. You know how it is. You’re a young stud. Not literally a horse, but in dog’s terms. You first time got to a third base with a girly dog and your member doesn’t realize that this is only final rehearsal for the main event. Yes, she got pregnant and yes, her father and the rest of the pack just wouldn’t understand that you were intoxicated with a piece of chocolate found earlier in the day while scrabbling at some junk. It was a shotgun wedding, but using toothy jaws as an actual weapon. And lots of them. So, they got married and litter by litter, here they are today. He never touched that wretched chocolate again. And tonight was the night to win the game and take all the booty from his buddies.

— How long do you think we have till this fat bastard gets spoiled? — asked hungry Worm still looking at a juicy leg of late copper Derek which was vigorously gnawed on by Fox.

— Few days at least. My cousin Weasel in Badger’s Meadow told me that their corpse lasted almost a week before someone of that selfish people found it and carried it away to be buried. — said boy Weasel while few of Derek’s bloody hairs including pieces of his scalp were dangling from his chin.

— I wish I was there. — sighed Worm of underground dwelling persuasion.

And so they feasted, complained and clucked over their meal. Others joined, some went away when they were fed up by food or by listening to endless bickering. It was Tuesday, and you know how long Tuesday could be.