Comedy Shorts - Humorous Fiction Short Stories - Four Comedy Short Stories

by Robin Storey

  He stood gazing at Harold Tanner’s modest headstone. A dull ache squeezed his chest. Was it emotion? Or the fried eggs he’d had for breakfast? Something flashed in front of him. He looked up. A tall figure in a white cloak was coming towards him with easy, graceful strides.

  ‘If it isn’t my old friend George!’

  The voice was familiar, but the body was not. A suggestion of muscle under the cloak, sandy hair, blue eyes, a hint of stubble.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, old chap! I decided on a new body after you shot the old one. More in keeping with my new image. Brad Pitt with a touch of Robert Downey Jr. You like it?’

  George nodded. He struggled for breath, unable to speak.

  ‘I’m glad.’ The Angel beamed and held out his hand. ‘It’s time, George.’

  Georges gaped. The Angel nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Wait.’ George’s voice came out as a rasp. ‘I’m not ready to die. What about your promise?’

  The Angel shook his head. ‘How quickly you forget! You reneged on me, so that makes my promise null and void. But fortunately for you I’m a generous soul, so I’m allowing you to have one of your wishes. I can’t give you the ripe old age but you can have the peaceful death.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The Angel made a sweeping gesture. ‘Look around you! What could be more peaceful? A beautiful spring morning, just the two of us and a few hundred dead bodies!’

  Fear crushed George’s chest like blocks of cement. Sweat poured down his neck. He looked around. If he made a run for it he could escape over the back fence. If he could catch his breath. And if his legs would stop shaking.

  ‘I wouldn’t, old boy,’ the Angel said, ‘otherwise I’ll have to call in some help. Slavering pit bull terriers, scorpions, that sort of thing. Not a good way to go.’

  George forced his racing mind to slow down. He thought of all the advertisements he’d written for death, extolling its virtues – peace, contentment, the final relaxation, a respite from worry and stress. Had he believed them? He’d pretended to, but deep down, like everyone else, he hadn’t believed that he’d die, hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  Now it was time to put his money where his mouth was.

  ‘All right.’ The pain lifted instantaneously from his chest. He could breathe again. He felt an exhilarating sense of lightness, as if he’d just cast off his fear like an old suit. He held out his hand to the Angel.

  ‘I’ll come peacefully.’

  THE END

  A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ the minister droned. So they really say that at funerals! I stared down at the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. I tried to imagine what Uncle Herman looked like in there – it had been 15 years since I’d last seen him, at my own father’s funeral. Back then, he was large and raw-boned, with a nose that had been broken one too many times for repair and a well lived-in face. As he died of a heart attack, I guessed he was still large and hadn’t given up his voracious appetite for smoking and drinking.

  A face beside me peered down at the coffin. Tanned, hard-edged, bleached hair. ‘Was there an open casket?’ she rasped at the minister.

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam.’ The minister regarded her warily as if she were going to demand he open it there and then.

  The woman shrugged. ‘Just as well. He was an ugly bastard.’

  ‘Just wanted to make sure he was really dead,’ she tossed in an aside to me and stalked off. I exchanged raised eyebrows with Brigitte on my other side.

  After the service, the smattering of mourners quickly dispersed. We refused an invitation from two of Herman’s drinking buddies, ruddy-cheeked and barrel-bellied, to join them at ‘the club’ for a wake.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Ali,’ Brigitte said as we headed for the car park. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Brigitte, Herman’s sister-in-law, had tracked me down to notify me of his death. She and I were his only remaining family. I nearly wasn’t going to come, but when I remembered that he’d lived in Fisherman’s Bay, I changed my mind. I was tired and run-down and a week-end away from the dreary grind of Sydney in a picturesque coastal town was just the tonic I needed – even if the price was attending a funeral.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see you again. Who was that woman?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Brigitte pursed her lips in vermillion disapproval. ‘Herman really went downhill after Rosie died. He was mixing with some unsavoury types towards the end – he always did at the racetrack but these people were different. There were rumours...’ she trailed off and shook her head. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’

  Damn, this was getting interesting. Why can’t you speak ill of the dead? Isn’t that the best time – when they’re oblivious to it?

  She put her hand on my arm. ‘Let’s have our own wake. I’ve discovered a nice little coffee shop on the beachfront.’

  *

  Cara’s Coffee ‘n Cake looked out over the sea, dazzling in the spring sunshine. The coffee was full-bodied, the carrot cake rich and spicy.

  ‘This is exactly the sort of place I want to own myself,’ I sighed. ‘In a little seaside resort just like this. But I’ll probably never have the money.’

  A complicated divorce and property settlement had left me out of pocket, and the prospect of working long, erratic shifts as manager of an inner Sydney restaurant for the rest of my life loomed large.

  Brigitte nodded, doing her best to feign sympathy. With her immaculate hair, high heels and Burberry coat, she looked every inch the Melbourne society woman she was.

  ‘Speaking of money, I have some news for you. When I arrived here, the landlord gave me the keys to Herman’s place. I was going through his papers – just to see if he’d left any instructions about his funeral, you understand – and I found a copy of a will dated two months ago. It appears you’re the sole heir to his fortune.’

  I gaped. She gave a rueful smile. ‘Don’t raise your hopes. I don’t think there’s much to inherit. More debts than money, I’d say.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that,’ I said. ‘I’m just shocked.’

  ‘You’ll have to confirm it with his solicitor. It’s a local firm, Baker Lawyers. Here’s their business card.’

  After I’d waved her off in her hire car to the Sydney Airport to fly home, I took a punt on phoning the solicitor, even though it was a Saturday. Perhaps we could arrange an appointment before I drove back to Sydney on Monday morning.

  ‘I’m in the office now catching up on some work,’ Andrew Baker said. ‘Come on over.’

  Cheerfully informal in rumpled jeans and shirt, he made us both coffee, then leaned back in his chair and studied me.

  ‘Herman did indeed leave all his worldly possessions to you.’

  ‘But why? I’ve had no contact with him for the last 15 years. Not that we’d had a falling out, but we had nothing in common and we’re not the sort of family that keeps in touch for the sake of it.’

  ‘You’re his only blood relation. He told me he liked you even though he hadn’t seen you for years. His exact words were, “She’s got a bit of spirit in her. I like that in a woman.”’

  ‘Really?’ I couldn’t imagine how Herman had come to that conclusion. When I’d last seen him I was married to a workaholic who was never home, had a hyperactive six year old son and was deep in grief for a father I’d been very close to. And feeling far from spirited.

  ‘I think the drink was affecting his mind though,’ Andrew said. ‘He hinted that he had a huge fortune stashed away and one day he’d jet off to the Bahamas and I’d never see him again. But as far as I can see, all he’s got is a few dollars in his regular bank account and some stocks and shares you’d sell for two thousand dollars, tops.’

  Two thousand dollars. Quite a bit short of the amount needed to buy a coffee shop. Just my luck that the only long-lost uncle to leave me an inheritance was a compulsive gambler who
couldn’t hold money longer than a conversation.

  ‘Unless,’ Andrew added, ‘he was salting it all away in a Swiss bank account. Good luck with finding that.’

  Bells chimed in my head. ‘Brigitte intimated that he was hanging around with some bad types. Do you think he could have been involved in criminal activities?’

  ‘She doesn’t miss much, does she?’ Andrew grinned. ‘This is a small town and there’s always gossip. If even a quarter of it is true, he was certainly involved with some shady characters. But it’s all just conjecture. Despite what he told me, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.’

  A shiver shot up my spine. We’d never had anyone in the family on the wrong side of the law before. It was kind of exciting.

  ‘Anyhow, probate has to go through, so it will be a few weeks before the money’s available. The will also states that you can have any of his personal effects that you want. So you might want to check his place out while you’re in town, before the landlord gets rid of his stuff.’

  *

  I went back to my motel, changed into jeans, shirt and sandshoes and arrived at Herman’s house mid-afternoon. Perched at the end of a sleepy cul de sac, it was little more than a shack, besser block in a small, overgrown yard. I opened the front door with the keys Brigitte had given me. It was instantly apparent it was a single man’s residence. Worn carpet, shabby couch strewn with clothes and a small TV on a stand. A wooden table and two mismatched wooden chairs filled the small dining area. One of the chairs was piled high with newspapers – it was obvious no-one ever sat there. The air was thick with the odour of stale fat.

  I opened a couple of windows to let some air in. Even though Herman hadn’t died here – he’d dropped dead walking home from dinner at the club – it was spooky. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting for him to burst in and bring it to life.

  I was pretty sure there was nothing here that I’d want, but I wandered through the house. Two bedrooms, the bed in the main bedroom with the sheets thrown back as if he’d just got up, the second bedroom full of junk, grungy bathroom and toilet, poky laundry.

  I opened the laundry door and stepped into the weed-choked back yard. A tiny aluminium garden shed huddled in the corner. I opened the door and peered in. An ancient hand mower, a box of tools and several plant pots, all dust-covered and draped with cobwebs. Couldn’t see myself being in need of any of those.

  I closed the door of the shed and had just re-entered the laundry when I heard the bang of another door, coming from the front of the house. Then footsteps inside.

  ‘Hullo!’ A man’s voice called out.

  ‘I’d laugh if he answered you back,’ said another man’s voice.

  ‘Very funny. It’s weird the front door being unlocked,’ the first voice said.

  ‘They’re like that in these shithole places. Never lock anything. You could make a killing, if they had anything worth nicking.’

  I’d been about to go out and confront them, but I stopped in my tracks. Whatever these guys were here for, it was obviously not to pay their respects to Herman.

  ‘If only they knew the old bastard’s got a mint here just for the nicking,’ the first man said, ‘wherever the fuck it is. I’ll start here and you go down the other end of the house.’

  My breath caught in my chest. Now was the time to step out and introduce myself, tell them that everything Herman owned was legally mine and demand they leave. After all, what could they do?

  Ignore me? That would be humiliating. Hurt me? Kill me?

  Heart thumping, I squeezed into the broom cupboard just as footsteps clumped past the laundry to the bedrooms. I opened the door and crept out into the yard again. I didn’t want to risk running around the side of the house to my car, in case one of them looked out the window and saw me. Besides, I wanted to hang around to see if they found anything.

  There was a marked scarcity of places to hide in the yard, but I raced over to a couple of bedraggled bushes across from the garden shed and crouched behind them. Presumably the men would come outside and search the shed. Unless they found what they were looking for in the house.

  My heart pounded so hard I felt nauseous. Were they searching for the stash that Herman had hinted about to Andrew Baker? If it really existed, it was almost certainly ill-gotten gains, otherwise why would he hide it? And for these guys to know about it, they must be part of whatever illegal activities Herman had been involved in.

  Cramp pains were shooting through my legs by the time the laundry door creaked open. The two of them bowled out and over to the garden shed. I peered at them through the leaves of the bushes. One was tall, with straggly hair and a droopy moustache and the other was shorter and stocky with a large bald head, which gave him a Humpty Dumpty-like appearance. The sort of guys you wouldn’t look twice at in the street. I don’t know what I was expecting – shifty eyes and evil sneers?

  Droopy wrenched the shed door open. ‘If it’s not in here, I don’t know where the fuck it is.’

  They disappeared inside. After a few minutes of grunts, bangs and clangs, they emerged from the shed, brushing dust from their clothes. And empty-handed.

  ‘Time for smoko,’ Baldy said. He dug into his jeans pocket, dragged out a roll-your-own and cigarette lighter and lit it.

  Droopy looked around. ‘He’s probably buried it somewhere. Next step is to dig up the yard.’

  Baldy exhaled and choked at the same time. ‘Are you crazy? That’ll take weeks! How are we going to do that without someone noticing?’

  ‘We’ll have to be quick. We don’t have to dig up the whole yard, just look for spots that have been freshly dug. Under that bush, for example. It’s an easy landmark.’

  Shit. I held my breath and tensed myself, ready to take flight should Droopy produce a shovel from somewhere and advance in my direction.

  ‘Speaking of that bush, I just saw something move,’ Baldy said. ‘I think we’ve got company.’

  Double shit. I darted out from behind the bush. It was pure desperation – like one of those nightmares where you’re trying to escape from the baddies but you know, with that terrible sense of dread, that they’re going to catch you.

  I didn’t get far. Droopy and Baldy leapt in front of me, grabbed an arm each and pinned them behind my back.

  ‘Let me go! I’ll scream!’

  Droopy raised a clenched fist. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you, sweetheart. I’ll knock all your pretty teeth down your throat as soon as you open your mouth.’ His breath reeked of cigarette smoke and garlic.

  ‘Who are you?’ Baldy said. ‘And what the fuck are you doing, skulking around here?’

  ‘I might ask you the same question.’ My haughty tone belied my quaking insides.

  ‘Play nice,’ Droopy said. ‘We asked you first.’

  ‘I’m Herman’s niece, and I’m the sole beneficiary of his will. So all that stuff you’re going through is mine.’

  ‘Feel free,’ Baldy said, with a sweeping gesture. ‘Rusty tools, dirty dishes, dirty jocks, it’s all yours.’

  ‘And the money, of course,’ I said.

  Droopy dug his fingers into my arm and I let out a yell. ‘What do you know about the money?’

  ‘Loosen up a bit and I’ll tell you.’

  He relaxed his grip a fraction on my arm.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ I said.

  Baldy yanked at my other arm. ‘Listen, you smart-arse bitch...’

  ‘It’s the truth. I only found out today about Herman’s will and I didn’t know about any money until I heard you two talking about it.’

  Droopy and Baldy exchanged glances over my head. ‘See if you can find anything to tie her up with,’ Droopy said.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ I said, struggling against his vice-like grip. Something hard jabbed me in the back.

  ‘Keep that up, and this gun might go off, it’s very touchy.’

  I froze. A gun? This was sleepy Fisherman’s Bay – people didn’t
have guns here. Someone should tell them that.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  As soon as I uttered the words, a terrifying thought arose. Please God, not that, anything but that.

  ‘Just shut the fuck up.’ Droopy marched me over to the house, opened the laundry door and shoved me inside. The pile of dirty laundry that had been in the corner was now strewn all over the floor. Searching dirty laundry denoted true dedication to the cause.

  Droopy kicked the clothes out of the way and closed and locked the door behind us. The gun was still in my back. Baldy poked his head in from the hall. ‘Nothing here. Not so much as a ball of string.’

  ‘You’d better find something,’ Droopy growled. ‘Otherwise you’ll be here all night, as her bodyguard.’

  It was a toss-up as to which was the most disagreeable prospect – being tied up or spending a whole night in the laundry with Baldy.

  ‘I’ve just thought of something,’ Baldy said. He disappeared. Obviously the thought of us spending the night together was as unappealing to him as it was to me. He re-appeared a short while later brandishing a roll of black duct tape. ‘It’s been in the boot of the car for a while, but it should be okay.’

  Droopy ordered me to sit on the floor and aimed the pistol at my chest while Baldy taped my wrists together behind my back. The pistol certainly looked real, based on my zilch experience with firearms. Baldy then wrenched my shoes off and taped my ankles together. It was only after he fastened two large strips of tape across my mouth that Moustache lowered the pistol.

  My first impulse was to scream and flail about, but of course, I couldn’t. The tape on my mouth made me claustrophobic – I swallowed my panic and breathed deeply through my nose. Surely they wouldn’t have tied my legs together if they were going to rape me.

  ‘You have a lovely night now,’ Droopy said, ‘and we’ll be back at the crack of dawn with a couple of shovels.’

  I glared at him and he grinned. ‘If looks could kill, eh? If you’re a good girl we might think about letting you go when we’ve finished.’