ABSURDIST FICTION - SHORT STORY

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—image credit artist/photographer via Google

Leonhard Schmitz once said, "Everything in life is tilted."

The Taxidermist,

Mrs.Witherspoon &

Randolph Hugabee

WRITTEN BY Gregory Miller Troy

Everyone in Dumbly Town always called Theodore Henceforth as T. H., and T. H. just happened to be walking down Main Street when Katie Knickerbocker exited that town’s First Baron Bank building. It was obvious to T. H. that she was crying over something.
T. H. was a close friend of Katie. But then everyone in a small town such as Dumbly―with a population of 8,449 people, 798 dogs, and 688 domestic cats―almost intimately knew one another.
Concerned, T. H. crossed Main Street and stopped in front of Katie.
“Why are you crying?”
Katie pulled a pink-colored handkerchief from her well-worn purse and discreetly dabbed her growing tears.
She nodded toward the bank. “One of the bank tellers told me that Mrs. Witherspoon passed away this morning.”
Mrs. Witherspoon was a well-known and powerful woman in Dumbly and the surrounding areas. With the death of her own husband a few years back, she inherited a huge slice of First Baron Bank shares, making her the richest person in that area. Perhaps because of her enormous wealth and jealousy about her elitist lifestyle, she was hated by most.
“How?”
“You know Hazel, the teller?”
T. H. nodded.
“She said Mrs. Witherspoon was seated at her dining room table, waiting for her personal chef to prepare breakfast and the downstairs maid to serve it to her.” Katie dabbed her eyes again. “Hazel said the maid placed the plate of bacon and scrambled eggs in front of her, then turned and walked toward the kitchen door. At the last minute, she glanced back to see Mrs. Witherspoon bringing her fork of scrambled eggs to her mouth. But then she clutched her chest, sending bits of scrambled eggs flying throughout the dining room. Her head fell directly into her scrambled eggs and apparently she was dead.”
T. H. thought of adding with humor that Mrs. Witherspoon had died of scrambled eggs asphyxiation.
Wisely, he didn’t.

_______________

With surgical gloved hand, T. H. picked up his sharp scalpel from the metal tray before making a careful incision up the dog’s belly. He was carefully working his knife inside to loosen the skin when he heard the family phone ringing upstairs in the kitchen.
Like his grandfather and father, T. H. also practiced his taxidermy profession from the basement of his family house. Unfortunately, his wife Sophia was out grocery shopping, and his two boys were in high school. Yet given that T. H. was preparing the dog to be stuffed, he could only listen to the clicking of the answering machine. He soon heard Woody Crowner’s voice.
“Hey, T. H., it’s Woody. Um, I don’t know how to explain this. Um. A few minutes ago Mr. Cutter called me. You know, that quiet lawyer guy whose practice is right across from the Judicial Court? Um. Did you know that Mr. Cutter is Mrs. Witherspoon’s personal lawyer? Um. She passed away this morning. My funeral home is arranging her burial. Funny that. I didn’t even like her much. Anyway, um, odd that it may sound, Mr. Cutter wants to see you, me, and Randolph at his office ASAP. Two-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Is that okay with you? Let me know. Thanks. Oh. Um. One last thing. Um. Mr. Cutter plans to read Mrs. Witherspoon’s will tomorrow. He didn’t specify why he wants a taxidermist to attend. Like I said, this whole thing is kinda funny. Anyway, um, hope to hear from you soon. ”
As the answering machine came to a clicking end, T. H. heard Sophia open the kitchen door and walk to the island where she always placed her grocery bags.
“Honey?” she called out.
“I’m down here.”
Sophia gently mocked T. H. “Is it really safe down there?”
“Of course it’s safe. Even really.”
Sophia walked down the staircase, but stopped halfway. “Mrs. Witherspoon has passed away.”
“Right into her scrambled eggs, I’m told.”
Sophia frowned down at him, somewhat confused. A brief second passed. Then she nodded and smiled. “You’ve been talking to Katie Knickerbocker.”
T. H. dropped his scalpel on the metal tray, then looked up at his wife. “Pink-colored handkerchief and all.”
Sophia crossed her arms. “I was so surprised.”
T. H. shrugged. “She was in her late 80’s, Soph.”
“Even still—” Sophie didn’t finish her sentence. T. H. studied her, watching her mood change to concern until she spoke again. “So what happens to us and so many thousands of families out there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Many of us have mortgages with First Baron Bank.”
“I guess some business will come along and buy out First Baron Bank. Nothing will much change.”
“What about her son?”
T. H. peeled off his latex gloves. “You mean Randolph Hugabee?”
Sophia nodded. “That’s the one.”
He shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “Woody called. Left a message on the machine.”
“And?”
“He said her lawyer is reading her will tomorrow. He’s invited Woody and me to attend.”
Sophia frowned. “Why would a taxidermist be invited to such a personal declaration?”
T. H. shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow afternoon.” He returned to her question. “But for Randolph Hugabee…”
“Uh-huh?”
“Don’t imagine that character will come along and brighten the mortgage owner’s life. His father was brilliant in the banking business, and Mrs. Witherspoon was certainly his equal. But making Randolph Hugabee CEO of First Baron Bank would be an act of sheer insanity.”
“Maybe.” Sophie’s concerns quickly lifted away. “Oh, I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could pick up our dry cleaning over at Flawless Dry Cleaners? Maybe after this meeting of yours?”

_______________

Silk’s Freak Me song was screaming through the cracked speaker of a Sony AM/FM clock radio when Boo Boo became so pissed off she reached across her lover’s naked body and yanked the radio’s cord from the socket, screaming, “All you want to do is fuck me!”
Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon reluctantly looked up from his Little Annie Fanny comic book. “That’s not at all true, Boo Boo.”
“It is exactly true. All we’ve done on this bed for the last two days is fuck, fuck, fuck, and after we’ve fucked, fucked, fucked until we’re practically dead, you softly whisper in my ear, ‘I’m still hungry, Baby Boo. Let’s do it just one last time.’”
Randolph’s remembering smile was interrupted by his cell phone app playing Bed Beats. He grabbed it from the nightstand. “Hello?”
“This is Mr. Cutter.”
“Who?”
“Augustus Cutter.”
“Who?”
“Your mother’s personal lawyer.”
His breath caught in his chest in a brief second of intense fear. “I haven’t done anything wrong, you know.” He cleared his voice and added, “Mr. Cutter.”
“My call to you has nothing to do whatever criminal acts you may or may not have committed.”
Another brief second of silence.
“Then for what?” He cleared his throat again. “Mr. Cutter.”
“Do you agree that Charlotte Lily Olivia Witherspoon was your mother?”
“Sound just like her, Mr. Cutter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“Are you currently aware that your mother has just passed away?”
His cheeks burned with shock, evaluation, and then sheer delight.
“No.” He cleared this throat. “No, I haven’t.”
“In your mother’s will, she indicates that you currently live in Nevada. Is that correct?”
Randolph nodded, then added, “She is.” He quickly corrected himself. “Was.” He reconsidered. “Is and was.”
Mr. Cutter continued. “I’m calling you, Randolph Hugabee—to determine you are legally Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon. Are you without question Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon?”
“I am.” For assurance, he added, “Definitely … I unquestionably am.”
“Then you are significantly listed in your mother’s legal will, which I will be reading in my office tomorrow at 14:30.”
“Huh?”
“14:30.”
“Huh?”
“2:30 pm.” He paused. “Will you be there, Mr. Witherspoon?”
“Absolutely!” Randolph grabbed a pen from the nightstand and wrote Mr. Cutter’s address and the meeting time on the inside flap of a Marlboro pack. After hanging up, he happily looked back at Boo Boo. “Looks like I’m going to be a billionaire.”
“Then you can pay me back the twenty-five hundred bucks you stole from me.”
“Since you’ve been so sweet, Boo Boo, you can multiply whatever I owe you by a hundred.” Randolph’s thoughts changed and his eyes began to plead. “I’m just really hungry, Baby Boo. Let’s do it just one last time.”
Somehow Randolph managed to convince Boo Boo to satisfy his sexual needs along with an additional twenty-five hundred bucks—this time to pay his airfare from Nevada to Dumbly and a room at Kozy Inn Motel.
In all ways, Randolph Hugabee was a very happy man.

_______________

He felt very uncomfortable in Mr. Cutter’s office, as if he were in a rodent’s hole, the rat’s whiskers feeling him over, from head to foot. He shivered at the thought.
Mr. Cutter tapped the face of his wristwatch again. T. H. realized that he was also angry.
“It’s 14:50. This Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon fellow is almost twenty minutes late. I intensely dislike that characteristic.” He looked from Woody to T. H. “I’ve always hated it when people are late.” He squealed like a mouse. “It’s like stealing the other person’s time.”
T. H. glanced at Woody, then back to Mr. Cutter. “Each of us suffers lateness at some time.”
Mr. Cutter frowned. “Have you ever calculated how many years we spend waiting for others?”
Before T. H. could comment, a female voice crackled through a speaker on the boardroom table. “A certain Mr. Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon is on his way into the boardroom, Mr. ―”
The boardroom door opened loudly, like a cracker box, and Randolph Hugabee himself sprung into view.
T. H. instantly remembered seeing Randolph Hugabee staggering down Main Street, his hand always wrapped around Dumbly’s prettiest girl. In some ways, T. H. had envied the high life he was always living, but then reality would appear and he would realize that Randolph Hugabee was an embarrassment to them all.
Randolph Hugabee energetically apologized to Mr. Cutter, grabbing his not-extended hand to shake it vigorously.
“I’m really, really sorry. Seriously, I’m really, really sorry I’m late. Boo Boo directly told me I’d be late, and Boo Boo seems to be right.” He looked around the boardroom. “So where do I sit?”
The answer was nothing but dead silence.
Finally, Mr. Cutter quietly eased his hand from Randolph Hugabee and pointed toward a seat.
When we were all seated, he squealed out the specifics, starting with Woody. “I mentioned this to you earlier, Mr. Crowners.”
Woody shifted in his seat, uncomfortable being addressed as Mr. Crowners. The entire town of Dumbly always called him Woody. But he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Mrs. Witherspoon directly asked that $335,000 be paid to the funeral house―meaning you, Mr. Crowners―to see that she is laid to rest next to her beloved husband, Jedediah R. Witherspoon.” Mr. Cutter stopped and looked directly at Randolph Hugabee, who was exanimating the structure of the boardroom’s ceiling tiles. “Mrs. Witherspoon clearly stated that her specific area of the mausoleum will be limited to two, she being the second.”
Mr. Cutter pursed his lips at Randolph Hugabee, then quickly turned his attention to T. H.
“In our records, you are legally known as Mr. Theodore Henceforth.”
T. H. nodded. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Witherspoon considered you to be one of the most gifted taxidermists in this country.”
Ater a few seconds, T. H. cleared his throat. “I think we are all a bit … shocked to hear Mrs. Witherspoon’s wish.”
Randolph Hugabee snorted. “More like a direct command from God, I’d say.”
T. H. leaned forward onto the boardroom table. “I’ll come right out and admit it. I’ve never deskinned a human. Dogs and mice and the occasional bear, but not humans. Human skin is very thin, and the taxidermist would require a hardening solution.”
“Does that exist?” asked Mr. Cutter.
T. H. nodded slightly. “It’s called the Theban Liquid. It’s been used on a small number of humans elsewhere. But never in the USA.”
Curious, Woody asked, “Is it legal to use that here?”
Mr. Cutter nodded again but cautioned his response. “My research indicates it is—at least in this particular state and with the permits we have.” He looked T. H. in the eye. “Your decision?”
“I’m still not sure. I’d like to speak to Sophie and my kids.”
Mr. Cutter looked at his wristwatch. “You have three hours to make your decision. If reject the offer, we’ll have to quickly find another human skinner.”
T. H. nodded his head.
“Please keep in mind, Mr. Theodore Henceforth, should you decline Mrs. Witherspoon’s wishes, I will be forced to rip up the $750,000 check made out to you.” Mr. Cutter turned his black, agile eyes to Randolph Hugabee. “Legally, are you Mr. Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon?”
Randolph Hugabee coughed nervously. “As I told you over the phone, I am definably Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon.” He reached into his back pocket. “Would you like to see my driver’s license for identification? Oh, I seem to have lost my wallet somewhere.”
“I’ll accept two forms of authentic identification at a later time. Mrs. Witherspoon expects from you, Mr. Randolph Hugabee—that is, if you wish to legally receive her enormous estate―”
Randolph Hugabee shivered with delight. “My eyes ain’t blinking, Mr. Cutter.”
“Then for the next solid thirty days you’ll be obliged to wear this.” Mr. Cutter held up an enlarged photograph of a fully dressed Mrs. Witherspoon.
Randolph Hugabee frowned. “A photograph of my mother?” He squinted at it. “Taken at Christmas many years ago.”
“This photo is just for definition.” He nodded toward T. H. “Your mother is hiring Mr. Theodore Henceforth to stuff her body and create a version of herself. You will carry this image on your back for thirty consecutive days.”
Shock. Fear. Surprise.
“Huh?”
“Those are her wishes, Mr. Randolph Hugabee. If you don’t do it to completion, you will not see even one penny in way of inheritance.”
Randolph Hugabee, who was still looking at the photograph of his mother, glanced up at Mr. Cutter. “Are you serious? Seriously, are you really serious?”
“Your mother clearly specifies in her will that, for you to receive her specified inheritance, you must accept her lifelike image being clamped or bound to your ankles, legs proper, both shoulders, and waist-to-waist and head-to-head.” Mr. Cutter looked to T. H. “That is physically acceptable?”
“I don’t have a triple doctorate in human physical stress, but I do know that human bodies can withstand what you require. I should point out, though that the true stress point will be the shoulders. As my estimation suggests, the shoulders will carry most of the weight.”
“Even if you use the stuffing method?”
“Given the circumstances of the matter, there is no alternative.”
Randolph Hugabee became so overwhelmed—totally stunned, really—by what Mr. Cutter and T. H. we’re discussing, he found it necessary to grab hold of his chair’s frame to stop from keeling over.
“Why don’t you just sit down,” T. H. suggested
One second passed. Five seconds passed. On the tenth second, Randolph Hugabee felt far more emotionally stabled. “But if I go along with this...” he rasped.
“Yes?” asked Mr. Cutter.
“Um, well, how will I sleep at night? I mean, when my mother is attached to my back like that.”
“That’s just one of a number of conditions. I am also obliged to inform you, and according to your mother’s instructions, at the end of thirty days her lifelike image must be inspected. Only if there is no indication of damage to the image will you receive what the will specifies.”
“But what do I do about the sleeping arrangements?”
Mr. Cutter shrugged. “Be creative. I’m sure your mother has asked you do this for a very sensible reason.”
This very sensible reason caused Randolph Hugabee to grab hold of his chair’s arms to steady himself.

_______________

Sophia’s hazel eyes bulged. “How much money?”
“$750,000.”
“We could pay off our mortgage, our credit cards, our boy’s education, and have no fears about anything ever again.”
“Well, um, there’s a bit of a problem there, Sophia.”
“What do you mean?”
“My particular profession has never included dead humans, dear. Mammals, birds, fish, reptiles—sure. Sometimes even bears or deer. But humans? Nope. Our skin is so thin and, based on what I’ve read, such a project often fails. A colleague in London has been experimenting with the Theban Liquid and sent me a canister, should I ever need it.”
“Is it illegal?” Sophia asked in a hushed tone.
“Which part, my experiment or my stuffing a dead human?”
Sophia cringed. “Stuffing.”
“Mr. Cutter seems to think it is legal here. After all, the image of a human is not the true soul itself.” T. H. looked directly at Sophie. “But you never know what is and what isn’t legal today.”
Sophie’s voice suggested soft dominance, but with purpose. “Listen, T. H., you’ve been offered an excellent professional opportunity that will give our entire family a huge degree of financial freedom. We have to be smart about this.” Sophie nodded toward the mounted stuffed shark above the kitchen doorway.
T. H. caught her meaning and quietly chuckled.

_______________

The very first thing Randolph Hugabee did when he entered his #69A suite at the Kozy Inn Motel was to run to the mini-fridge and open a stress curer. Pshhhhhhhh.
After guzzling the first beer, he felt somewhat relaxed. After the second and third beers, he felt so relaxed he tossed himself on his king-size mattress and clicked on a TV porno titled Tease Me Then Please Me + Much More featuring Madame du Endowed.
At this point, Randolph Hugabee’s attention was being pulled in two directions. One eye was firmly fixed to the moaning, the squeaking, the grunting, the yelling, and the whimpering mutually enjoyed by Madame du Endowed and her male partner. The other eye looked up at the mirrored ceiling above his insect-ridden bed.
“I don’t get it,” he mumbled to his mirror self. “I’ve got three hours to decide whether to accept wearing my stuffed mother on my back for thirty days or her wealthy estate will be denied to me.” Both eyes were now fixed on himself in the mirror. “And just why would my mother want me to walk around Dumbly wearing her on my back?” After enjoying another long swig of beer he shook his head. “And why did she hold a grudge against me anyway? What was in her soul that made her hate me so?
One of his eyes returned to the sound of Madame du Endowed’s ultimate pleasure: “Uh ... uh … uh again ... harder ... come on … don’t stop … oh … oh …YES! …uh … OHHH.”
The eye reluctantly returned to the mirrored ceiling. “As I see it, I don’t have an alternative. I simply don’t. Put it this way, if I may…” He giggled. “Am I to be a bit of putrid garbage on the street or am I the guy climbing behind the wheel of a half-million-dollar Ferrari, being my own?”
Mr. Randolph Hugabee Witherspoon’s two eyes quickly came together in total agreement.

_______________

Mr. Cutters called T. H. that same evening and informed him of Randolph Hugabee’s acceptance of the requirement. Under Mr. Cutter’s advice, and as accepted by all, the deskinning of Mrs. Witherspoon’s body would take place in Woody’s funeral home. The process would begin at 20:00 that night.
With scalpel in hand, T. H. delicately sliced away Mrs. Witherspoon’s dry skin to soak it thoroughly in the available Theban Liquid. It soon became apparent that the surgery would be successful.
After seven long hours of intensive surgery, Woody ran his hand up and down Mrs. Witherspoon’s body. T. H. had accomplished what no other taxidermist had ever done before: recreated a human as if truly alive.
“The strength and durability of this woman’s skin is quite amazing, T. H.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised by this successful outcome, too. But I knew it would be important to build up the strength of Mrs. Witherspoon’s shoulders.”
Woody raised a quizzical eyebrow at T. H.
T. H. sighed. “It’s just a matter mathematics, Woody. For Randolph Hugabee to successfully carry his mother on his shoulders for thirty days, her shoulders must be equally strong too.”
Once again Woody ran his hand down Mrs. Witherspoon’s skin. “You’ve definitely done that, As an embalmer myself, and the number of makeup artists I’ve employed, um, this is the finest bit of human recreation I’ve ever seen.”
Several seconds of silence occurred.
Then a broad smile came to T. H.’s face. He grabbed a wet towel and snapped it at Woody. “You’ve always been such an insufferable shit.”
Woody laughed and danced his way from T. H.’s sharp towel snaps. “I’m not lying. You just can never accept praise.”
T. H. snapped the towel at Woody again. Still laughing, Woody warned T. H., “Do that again and I’ll tell Sophie about that little relationship you had with Rebecca.”
“I wasn’t even married to Sophie then!”
Woody shrugged. “So? I’m not so good with dates, you know.”
One second passed. Two seconds passed. Then T. H. broke out laughing and once again snapped Woody with his wet towel.

_______________

Early the following morning, Mr. Cutter drove Randolph Hugabee to Woody’s Compassionate Funeral Services, where Woody escorted the two of them down a short hallway to an elevator, which carried them to the basement, where the embalming room was located.
When Woody opened the door, both Mr. Cutter and Randolph Hugabee saw Mrs. Witherspoon stretched out on the metal morgue table. She was now dressed in a very expensive snake-embellished velvet gown she had worn many years before.
Randolph Hugabee nervously walked to his mother’s dead body. He touched her skin hesitantly. Then he looked back at T. H. “Are you really sure she’s dead?”
T. H. was not being purposely cynical when he responded. “Do you really think your mother would like being stretched out on a metal table located in Woody’s Compassionate Funeral Services?”
Randolph Hugabee pinched his mother’s skin once again. “But her skin is so soft. It’s like she’s just rubbed some dry skin repair into her skin.” He stepped back from the table, mumbling, “This is really weird. Seriously. Really, really weird.”
Mr. Cutter cleared his throat. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Once again he informed Randolph Hugabee that to claim his mother’s massive inheritance he must agree to wear his mother on his back for thirty consecutive days and nights. He then asked Randolph Hugabee if he agreed to this.
One second passed; then another. After five long seconds, Randolph Hugabee agreed, reluctantly.
It took a half hour or so before a hefty-sized off-duty police officer—off duty and looking for a little extra cash—arrived at the funeral service to fasten Randolph Hugabee to his fate. He first lifted Mrs. Witherspoon from her metal bed and attached her body to her son’s back: first to his ankles, then his legs and waist, and finally his shoulders and head. He asked Randolph Hugabee, “Is everything secure?”
Randolph Hugabee wanted to scream no, that he didn’t feel comfortable, he just wanted to be wealthier than God and would do anything to make it so.
Instead, he nodded. “I suppose so.”
Both T. H. and Woody offered restrained laughter as they watched Mrs. Witherspoon’s head rise and fall with her own son’s movement.
Mr. Cutter cleared his throat once again. “As agreed, for the next thirty days it is mandatory for you to report to Mr. Henceforth and prove by sight you have not lost or harmed your mother’s likeness. If you do not see Mr. Henceforth or should there be damage of any kind, then your inheritance will immediately be forfeited.”
Mr. Cutter then asked Randolph Hugabee if he fully understood what he said.
Randolph Hugabee nodded that he did, and his mother nodded in agreement as well. “Again, how am I supposed to sleep or do whatever I need to do?”
“Just be imaginative,” answered Mr. Cutter. “That’s all you have to do: Just be imaginative.” He further dangled the bait. “And should everything be in legal order, Randolph Hugabee, you’ll be one of the richest people in this area and well beyond.”

_______________

Every morning Randolph Hugabee exited suite #69A to drag himself—he really couldn’t afford to rent a car and, given the circumstances, he really couldn’t fit behind the wheel—down Highway 201 until he reached Robin Hood Lane. T. H. and his family lived along this street, and Randolph Hugabee was obliged to report to him for thirty consecutive days.
On the fourth or fifth day—a warm Saturday morning—T. H. was in the front yard clipping back some overgrown rhododendrons when he heard a car speeding down Robin Hood Lane. He looked up at the sound of squealing wheels.
An updated Mustang Shelby GT350 slowed as it passed Randolph Hugabee and Mrs. Witherspoon, who was still securely fastened to his back, dragging their way to T. H.’s house. T. H. would never know what vulgar things they shouted at Randolph Hugabee, but he did see Randolph Hugabee come to a stop, raise his fist at them, and shout something quite vulgar back at them. Once the youths had squealed away, Randolph Hugabee continued to drag his mother until he was standing in front of T. H.
As always, he would say, “Everything is fine, Mr. Henceforth.” His eyes however would plead, “How many days left?”
With considerable sympathy, T. H. responded, “Twenty-five days left.”
Randolph Hugabee would groan, then turn around and the two of them would make their way back down Robin Hood Lane.
On that particular day, T. H. shouted after him. “Keep going, Randolph Hugabee. Fight against the humiliation. In twenty-five short days you’ll be richest person around here.”
Randolph Hugabee grunted but carried on, his mother’s head always wagging in agreement.
But something very odd happened near the end of his quest.

_______________

After the twenty-first day, Randolph Hugabee was so short of money that he took on a front/back counter service job at a local McDonald’s fast food. Perhaps it was the store manager or the franchise owner who thought hiring Randolph Hugabee and his mother would be good for publicity. But other employees, especially Sebastian Wicking, had a different opinion.
Wicking shared his disdain with a local newspaper reporter. “I didn’t find anything wrong about that guy at first or anything. But his mother attached to his back was knocking everything around. I mean, it was the way that guy swooshed his mother in the grill area which probably caused the fire blaze.”
Sadly for Randolph Hugabee, he and his mother were fired shortly thereafter.
Even worse, his failure to pay his growing room charges resulted in his eviction from the Kozy Inn Motel, and he ended up living in residence under the Hankerson Bridge, known by all as the derelict happy residence.
Still, even given those trying times, Mrs. Witherspoon always survived.
Then something seriously odd happened.

_______________

The first thing Randolph Hugabee did when he awoke that morning, being extremely careful not to bruise his mother, was to leaned over carefully and kiss God’s earth with thanks for the freedom would soon have. That very night, at twelve o’clock to be exact, Randolph Hugabee would shift from being a humiliated peasant to that of a wealthy and powerful aristocrat.
The beginning of his demise happened while he was crossing Hankerson Bridge. The fallen angel Lucifer touched poor Randolph Hugabee with his trident, and he immediately stumbled over a discarded milk crate.
Randolph Hugabee went totally hysterical.
How could someone come so close to success only to have the door slammed closed in his face?
He overcame his fears somewhat after a thorough examination—as thorough as he could be. Still, he asked Mr. Pineapple—a slang name everyone used for a heroin and Ritalin addict—if he’d be kind enough to look his mother over and indicate whether there was any damage.
Mr. Pineapple stood up, staggered over to Randolph Hugabee, and carefully examined his mother from head to foot, literally. “Your mom looks okay to me, Randy.”
Randolph Hugabee sighed in relief.
But as that day progressed, Randolph Hugabee felt a growing pain in his ankle, until he staggered along Highway 201 to the regional hospital, which is where Randolph Hugabee’s outcome would finally emerge.

_______________

Some people have difficulty separating their private from their professional lives. Dr. F. Studebaker is a prime example.
That afternoon she was genuinely miffed over her husband referring to her father as a little stinking weasel. It so affected her, in fact, that when she saw Randolph Hugabee with his dead mother attached to his back, she tossed the Hippocratic Oath out the nearest window and went quite literally mad.
Dr. F. Studebaker pointed to Randolph Hugabee and his back companion. “I simply will not examine this particular patient with that obvious dead thing attached to his back.”
“But Dr. Studebaker,” protested the nurse beside her. “This man is suffering from considerable pain in his left ankle.”
“Detach that vulgar thing or I will not examine his ankle—or any other part of his body.” She stormed out of the examination area.
Three nurses approached Randolph Hugabee to tear his more-than-just dead mother from his back, yet struggle as they did, the nurses were not successful.
Finally, Nurse Jackie Kneoff ordered hospital security staff to drag Randolph Hugabee up to the psychiatry ward, where Dr. Santiago Del Castillo immediately injected him with a high dosage of Propofol.
As Dr. Santiago Del Castillo expected, poor Randolph Hugabeelost conciseness and immediately fell to the linoleum floor. Sadly for Randolph Hugabee, once the nurses removed the likeness of his mother from his body, so ended what would’ve been his most glorious future.

_______________

When Randolph Hugabee woke up, he had a wonderful feeling of lightness. Then it occurred to him that his mother possibly no longer existed. He moved his head around to look at his back but sadly saw nothing.
He grew agitated.
More than just agitated. With growing fear, he jumped out of his hospital bed and desperately ran into the room’s lavatory. In the protected mirror—most psychiatric wards protect all things that could be used as weapons—he confirmed that his mother no longer existed.
“What the shit is going on here?!” he shouted into the mirror. “What the fuck happened?! Thirty fuckin’ days and nights. Indescribable humiliations. Now my own fuckin’ mother disappears on me.”
At that moment, he noticed something in the left corner of the protected mirror: his mother’s likeness seated in his room chair. One of his mother’s artificial eyes winked at him. “Vultures do exist, honey bun.”
Randolph Hugabee chocked in shock.
Odder still, through the barred open hospital window, he heard the crackling voice of Hank William singing Mother is Gone.

_______________

He was removing the liquid innards of a very large Lake Trout when he heard his answering machine click on. It was Mr. Cutter.
“Good morning, Mr. Henceforth. I’ll be quite specific. Not long ago I had a conversation with Mr. Randolph Hugabee. According to him he took a fall and ended up having a somewhat swollen and painful ankle. Dutifully carrying his mother on his back he walked his way along Highway 201 until he reached our local hospital. He cannot remember why, but he was removed from the ER and admitted to their psychiatric facility where he was injected with a dosage of a general anesthetic and was unconscious until the following morning. It was at that point when Mr. Witherspoon fully realized that someone had removed his mother from his back. Based on what Mr. Witherspoon told me, we can only conclude that he is no longer a participant in his mother’s will. According to Mrs. Witherspoon’s specifications, her considerable wealth will be reshaped into the form of a fund, and each year a percentage of the profit will be dispersed to specified charitable organizations.”
T. H. lost interest in Mr. Cutter as he became increasingly angry at a woman who would be so cruel and vindictive to her desperate son. What would possess a mother to do that? There was little question that Randolph Hugabee was overwhelming narcissistic, certainly obsessed with constant sex, and financially didn’t know the value of a dime. Even knowing that, how could a mother justify humiliating her own child as she did?

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That Sunday morning, when T. H. and Sophia were exiting St. Michael & All Angels' Episcopal Church, Katie Knickerbocker approached them with some degree of concern.
“Is there something wrong, Katie?”
“It has to do with Randolph Hugabee.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was walking Pancake—that’s my Spaniel dog, Pancake—over Hankerson Bridge when I thought I heard Randolph Hugabee’s voice in the darkness below the bridge. And it wasn’t just his voice, T. H. There was also this female—funny, I think he called her Boo Boo—who was really angry over some money he owed her.”
According to Katie Knickerbocker, Randolph Hugabeebecame somewhat defensive.
“As I recall it, he said to her, ‘I don’t have twenty-five hundred bucks, Boo Boo.’ And she said, ‘But you told me right up font you’re going to be richer than sin.’ And he said, ‘Apparently sin is discriminative’.”
That was the last time anyone in Dumbly ever saw or heard of Randolph Hugabee.

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Sophia was pressed to attend a meeting at Dumbly High School to raised more money for the Lung Cancer Research Foundation, so T. H. alone attended his Aunt Madelaine’s funeral.

After the church service, T. H. headed to the cemetery where his aunt would find her final residence. Once the Catholic priest had said the prayers and blessed the casket, T. H. shook hands and hugged the small number of participants.
The last was to Lenny, Aunt Madelaine’s only son.
After they embraced, Lenny said, “It’s hypocritical funny, huh.”
“What do you mean?”
Lenny nodded toward a number of elaborate and large mausoleums built on a slight rise in the middle of the cemetery. “Even when we’re dead we’re still overshadowed by them. It’s goddamn shameful of it all.”
After most of the mourners had gone, T. H. walked up the small hill to the rows of mausoleums. Soon he found himself standing in front of a smaller version of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Within the belly of the marble structure, T. H. read the names chiseled into the walls until he saw:

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HOLLINGSWORTH

& WITHERSPOON

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Woodrow Hollingsworth lived seventy-five years, begat a son in his own likeness, and called him Bartholomew Americus. And Bartholomew Americus lived eighty-two years, begat a son in his own likeness, and called him Randolph Edwin. And Randolph Edwin lived sixty-five years, begat a son in his own likeness, and called him Jacob Rittenhouse. And Jacob Rittenhouse lived eighty-one years, begat a daughter in his own likeness, and called her Charlotte Lily Olivia. And Charlotte Lily Olivia lived eighty-seven years and married Jedediah R. Witherspoon, principal share owner & CEO of the Dumbly First Baron Bank. They had one son.

Proverbs 30:17

The eye that mocks a father and scorns to obey a mother will be picked out by the ravens of the valley and eaten by the vultures.

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His thoughts returned to him a number of years before. He nodded as he realized why Mrs. Witherspoon behaved so cruelly toward her son. Essentially, Randolph Hugabee wasn’t good enough to be a family member, even if there was no one else.

He then thought of Lenny’s words. “It’s goddamn shameful of it all.”

Ethics of this Story

Never put weight on
your mother’s shoulders
& always pay back your debts.

END

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TO PURCHASE

The Taxidermist, Mrs. Witherspoon &

Randolph Hugabee

SEE ONLINE BOOKSTORE

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