Scabby and ornery with liver spotted arms.  He had one hand that shook an imaginary tambourine, the other took control of the accusatory gestures.  One foot in the grave, the other on a banana peel.  His bum wife, with her sandpaper face, followed his lead.  That’s all she knew how to do.  Follow.  A mutt without a leash.  Both of them were in need of baths and flea collars.  The husband did the talking.  Negative, negative, bitch, bitch.  The world was out to get them.  He never took a second to look in the mirror.  It would have been obvious.  The way his face sagged ,the unscrubbable scowl, the bad breath and mis-set dentures - the world had already gotten him.  

This man was a scuffling virus.  With any luck, he’d forgo the iron lungs and collapse mid-bitch.  Facedown, head splitting open, leaking cold porridge.  He would have blamed the tile, the faulty soles on his slippers, bad lighting, bad eyes, bad, bad everything.  All of it correct.

He got away with it, too often.  Everyone wanted to shove his face in the steaming piles he left in his wake, but no one had the nerve.  No one had the nerve to grab him by the ear when he went on a tirade over grocery bags packed too heavy.  Twist that delicate lobe right from the side of his head.  Pull it all the way off and watch mud pour out of the wound.  Watch his unleashed wife rush to his aid.  Both of the nothings, feeble and fumbling to stop the bleeding.

Oh the glory that will be had on that day.  Maybe the ear will be kept.  Sealed away in a sandwich bag and stored in the back of a freezer somewhere.  Labeled in magic marker, “The ear of a pest. (DO NOT EAT).”

It won’t be long before the miserable couple are in the ground.  The worms will avoid them.  They’ll be the left in the dark where they belong, turning into black, stinking paste.  A small seance will be held.  The funeral director and an estranged, vaguely sympathetic son will be present.  The son took the day off work, not out of respect, but to make sure the casket were nailed shut.  The last thing the world needed was a pair of miserable zombies.  

A song plays, something with forgettable lyrics.  The tractor malfunctions.  Both caskets fall vertically, headfirst.  Inside them, two moist skin socks crumble like wet paper bags.  It’s not worth the effort to fix the mistake.  The tractor operator pushes dirt on them as is.

Buried headfirst.  No flowers. Empty headstones.  Two grumpy names, which will never be uttered.  Not out of fear, not out of respect, but out of love.  Out of love - the way the old man and his wife lived their last years on earth.  No love given.  None accepted.  Some say their toenails have continued to grow.  Up and out of the soil like rosebushes that never bloomed.