Big Al's Last Blast

by Grant Gillard

the better to have more room for more explosive, Frank laughed to himself.

  Once inside the carriage house, Frank carefully slit the outer wrapper so not to disturb the neatly creased paper. Even on these bargain jobs, the crematorium took great responsibility on the details and dignity in the presentation. Setting aside the outer wrap, Frank slit the top of the cardboard packing box and removed the stainless steel cylinder containing the cremains. These cylinders always reminded Frank of three-pound coffee cans.

  The lid was secured like a sleeve, held in place by a friction fit. Frank easily and effortlessly rotated the lid and opened the container wondering why these things were not sealed with some kind of tape. A ghostly wisp of ash rose in the cold air and Frank watched it as it wafted and slowly settled to the floor of the carriage house like dust.

  Frank dumped the last earthly remains of Big Al into a nearby garbage can. A larger plume of dusty ash rose and hung in the air, then coated the rim of the trash can as it settled. Frank laughed aloud at the irony that the trash can was more fitting for the disposal Big Al, maybe even too good for all the garbage he brought to the town.

  Frank lined the stainless steel cylinder with a plastic bag. With hands shaking in anticipation, he alternated layers of crushed sheets of newspaper and fertilizer, adding about a cup of diesel fuel after each layer of newspaper. He tried not to get any fuel on his hands as that distinctive odor would be a dead giveaway of his intent. Why hadn't he thought to wear some latex gloves? When the cylinder was full, he took a scrap of wood off the workbench and pounded the contents firmly, then added more paper and more fertilizer, followed by another cup of diesel fuel. It was the recipe his uncle used for the stumps, with the exception of the newspaper that replaced sawdust in his uncle’s homemade bombs.

  He pounded the contents again, leaving about an inch clearance for the timer. Disassembling the timer, he stripped the wires that ran to the alarm beeper. Frank looked at his wrist watch and set the current time, then set the digital alarm for eleven-fifteen. Surely, that loud-mouth brother-in-law would speak for at least that long. What preacher would deliberately shorten a eulogy that would extol the virtues of such a publically-minded individual as Big Al? Yeah, eleven-fifteen would be perfect.

  Frank nestled the timer into the fertilizer mix and cushioned the timer with wads of steel wool. He embedded the stripped wires from the beeper into the steel wool. When the alarm was signaled, the electronic current that would normally set off the beeper, would instead, ignite the steel wool combusting the diesel fuel and detonating the fertilizer. Frank wondered if there was enough fertilizer to do the trick. The last thing he wanted was any survivors. He laughed manically and hoped it would be good for the funeral business.

  Frank looked at his watch. It was now ten-thirty. He, again, rehearsed the time schedule. The mourners would gather at eleven, hopefully no one would be late. But knowing crowds and public settings, they won’t really start until five after eleven. Okay, fine. That gives the minister ten minutes of grace to allow him to say a few kind words, likely all lies, about his dearly departed brother-in-law. Again, drawing on his disdain for these kinds of preachers, Frank calculated ten minutes would be plenty of time for a fitting eulogy. That lying preacher would likely extend the lies to make sure he convinces everyone that Big Al was a true saint.

  Frank again looked at his watch. It was ten thirty-nine. Time was running short. It was time to close the cylinder. He took the lid over to the far wall of the carriage house where a few stray bricks were stacked up. Frank never knew what they were there for, except they had been stacked there since he was a small child. He set the lid on the concrete floor and gently pinged the rim of the lid. This move would increase the friction and make the lid harder to remove, or at least keep it from accidently falling off.

  His action proved to be almost too effective as the lid did not want to slide back on the cylinder. Sweat broke out across his forehead and trickled into his left eye. He blinked and cursed and a wave of panic rolled through his bowels. With enough pressure and a little wiggling, and with a prayer of desperation, the lid begrudgingly slid on the cylinder. He breathed a sigh of relief, then gave it a slight pull making sure it would not yield. It didn't. He set the cylinder on the floor and gently stood on it with all his weight to secure the lid. That lid was not coming off. He whispered a prayer of, "Thank you, God," never pausing to think of the Divine's partnership in this macabre preparation.

  Frank gently set the cylinder back in the packing box and attempted to replace the neatly creased wrapping paper on the outside. His hands were shaking with an anticipatory tremble. His breaths came in shallow, short bursts. But the paper would not go back on the same way it came off. He cursed and tried to rewrap it, but again, it looked like someone had obviously opened the paper and stupidly tried to put it back as if it was never opened, just like what his younger brother tried to pull one Christmas as he mischievously unwrapped a few of his presents to sneak a peek the week before Christmas. His intrusion was obvious and he was duly punished.

  Frank cursed again and tore the paper loose and tossed it in the garbage can with the real remains of Big Al. The plain box would have to do. Maybe the minister will want to remove the cylinder anyway. He glanced at his watch again and cursed. Ten forty-five. He had to go.

  Gingerly placing the box containing the cylinder in the back seat of the hearse, Frank backed the hearse out of the carriage house and headed toward the cemetery. He wanted to hurry, but with the city streets pitted with an unusually high number of potholes, he was in no mood to rush. Each jarring bump tightened a knot in his stomach. An exploding hearse would truly be Big Al’s last triumph for his neglect of the city’s streets. And it would mean Big Al won, but Frank had bigger plans. He envisioned better days ahead for Bollinger Mills. There was no turning back, now.

  Arriving at the cemetery, Frank couldn’t believe his eyes. There must be three hundred people standing around. What the hell are they doing here? he thought to himself.

  Frank identified several prominent citizens, likely present for the sake of their appearance than for any need for closure and grief. There were others present who probably came to make sure this wasn’t some hoax upon Big Al’s part.

  As Frank pulled up to the tented gravesite, the crowd milling around the tent gradually parted to let the hearse through. On one hand, Frank feared the delays. Time was slipping away too quickly. He wondered if it was eleven o’clock, already. Frank didn’t care to blow up his hearse, especially if he was in it. He thought of pulling up to the tent, then running away to avoid the explosion, but that would simply generate a high level of suspicion.

  On the other hand, with all these people, he wanted to keep driving and pull out of the other driveway on the other side of the cemetery. He didn’t intend for all these people, most of them innocent onlookers, to get caught up in the blast. Maybe the minister would be quick and the non-family mourners would leave early.

  For the contentious ambivalence wrestling in Frank’s mind and gurgling through his lower bowels, it was too late to change the course of his actions. The minister and family looked expectantly for him to bring the box of cremains to the gravesite. There would be no retreat. There could be no retreat.

  With meticulous care feigning loving dignity for the deceased, Frank ceremoniously lifted the box of explosives and walked stiffly to the gravesite. With one hand holding the box, he peeled back the fake carpet that hid the sheet of plywood over the grave hole. Lifting the plywood, he ceremoniously placed the cardboard box into the hole with great deliberation and presumed reverence. Thankfully, the hole was more than big enough to accept the box.

  Frank caught a whiff of diesel fuel. Another round of panic jolted his bowels. He wasn’t sure if the package was leaking or if he spilled some fuel on the sleeve of his suit coat. He began to wonder if anyone else would notice and become suspicious. He found some c
onsolation that the family would be so immersed in their grief that they probably wouldn’t notice. Besides, he concluded, they’d be dead in a few minutes. He pondered his route of escape so he didn’t end up dead with them.

  Again, with great deliberation, Frank replaced the plywood and returned the fake grass carpeting to its original position, smoothing it out with his open hand. As he stood up, a chill shivered his body. Sweat drenched his torso and his cold, clammy shirt adhered itself to his skin. Head rush, he said to himself. Hold still. Don’t pass out.

  The minister, who had been standing at his side during the interment, slapped Frank on the back, almost knocking him over the covered grave hole. “You’re sure sweatin’ hard for a man of your age,” he chortled, “Don’t you do any honest work to stay in shape?”

  Frank hated being slapped on the back and took scornful notice that the minister's excessive girth depicted soft living and ample consumption. A vision of Frank's uncle swept through his mind. His uncle, grossly overweight himself, used to say, "I'm not out of shape...round is a shape." Frank would then watch his uncle laugh uproariously, his large belly dancing atop