Tuesday, 27 October 2009

"So, how was the funeral?"
"Well, as good as these things generally are." Max replied. His grandmother, I should inform you, had died in an accident involving a bin lorry last week.
"Except her Priest fell ill at the last moment, so we had to have a stand-in Rabbi instead. Nice man, conducted the whole thing in Hebrew though. No-one knew what was going on."
"Oh... That year your friend David taught you Yiddish didn't help then?"
Max glared at me for a moment. It was well known that David had spent a great amount of time and effort secretly teaching Max Klingon on Friday afternoons.
Since his grandmother was dead, I decided to drop the joke at Max's expense. But before I could change the subject, he began to think out loud:
"Who'd have though a bin would fall on her, let alone think another 6 would just roll off the back of the truck right after." He looked at me, "I guess you could say she paid the mortal price for the 7 deadly bins!"
I looked at him sadly, allowing him the small chuckle that followed. After all, he was in mourning, and should have been forgiven for one badly formed play on words. However, after a moment, he began to roar with laughed. This continued for several minutes.
Under the table, my homicide-suicide gun cocked itself. 'Not yet', I murmured to it.
Not yet.

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