A Hanging Grave

A Hanging Grave

J. Godfrey:

After Life Consulting

‘Case Zero’

By Brennan Barrett

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Brennan Barrett

ISBN (Electronic Print) 978-0-9918332-4-5

This book is dedicated to:

Carolyn Garber, amazing student, devoted friend

and ever so patient proof reader.

A wonderful lady and rewarding student

who has touched my heart. I miss you.

Author’s note:

It was my intention to write a book where the main character was an anti-hero. I wanted to create a vulgar, boozing, womanizing cretin of a man and then make him not only entertaining but likable, if only in a guilty pleasure sense of the term. I would like to thank the many people who helped with distasteful tidbits for Mr. Godfrey’s deplorable character and will do so at the end of the book or in person.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are completely fictional, except Edgar the ghost. He’s real, trust me. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional. If you are the type of person that needs to be told these things, I would find you very interesting and entertaining.

This eBook is liscensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be sold or given to other people without purchase or permission by the author or publisher. If you would like to share this book with someone, please visit the publisher and purchase additional copies. If you are reading this book and have not received it as a gift or purchased it from a licensed reseller, please visit a reseller that offers my book and purchase a legal copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work as a writer.

Cover by Brennan Barrett ©2014

Tree designed by John Farmer

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Author’s note

About the Author

Dedication

Other Books

Thanks and Credits

A Hanging Grave

J. Godfrey: After Life Consulting

‘Case Zero’

Chapter 1

Get me fire, I don't care what it is, just bring me something substantial with a big fucking flame! I had some woman spread out on the dining room table with severe flu-like symptoms; the only problem was, she wasn't sick: she was infested. I tugged the hem of her dress down for modesty's sake, but the crazy bitch just kept pulling it back up like she was horny or something. Like I was going to fall for that shit; that's how the crap spreads. Well, one easy way. Fuckin' hippies.

I guess I should back up to how all this messed up shit started in my life. If I'm going to tell the story, I might as well tell it the right way and maybe save myself a possible jail sentence. I'm the guy they call The Hanging-Tree-Hugger. No, shit-stain, I'm not a fucking hippie or New Age wannabe guru or anything. I just hugged a tree, one fucking tree, and now my life sucks. It sucks because I never get to finish a meal, I never get to watch an entire TV program, and I spend most of my life driving to the homes or hotel rooms of one stupid idiot after another.

I got drunk this one night. Something I used to love to do. I'm not an alcoholic and don't bother giving me that look. I love a good drunk, not every day or every week, hell, sometimes not even every month. But when I get the chance, I love to pour one on. Loved to pour one on. Yeah, past tense, because now my favourite pastime has become too dangerous. Anyway, yeah I ramble, just shut the fuck up and follow the story. Anyway, I was on a drunk with some friends, and they took me out to this awesome spot in the woods where we could get shit-faced one warm night and pass right-the-fuck out on the ground if we wanted. Nobody around to bother us, a blanket each to roll up in, and a cooler full of hangover cures. A blissful Saturday night where I could utilize copious amounts of booze to wipe the hard-drive and start fresh on Monday. Then some genius yells, Let’s show Jason The Hanging-Tree!

After an endless series of steps where I couldn't be sure which was more spongy, the ground or my legs, we came to this gnarly old tree. The nasty assed old thing looked like something out of a Harry Potter movie, provided the Blair witch had been visiting the set. We stood around it in a circle, a bunch of drunk idiots and assholes staring at this tree like we were a hoard of fat kids at Disneyland and Snow White had suddenly started rubbing candy on her boobs.

That is one serious fucking tree, I remember saying.

That is an evil tree, another drunk said.

I scares me, some idiot blonde offered. She wasn't drunk and slutty enough yet to have become an attractive blonde.

I swear to god, that tree hates us, my friend Julie said quietly. Well, drunk quiet; which is to say a flawless stage whisper that could be heard for a quarter mile.

I wonder what its energy is like? some drunk pseudo-hippie contemplated. And that's where I did a dumb drunk thing that fucked up the rest of my life.

It just needs some love! I yelled and staggered forward to hug the tree.

No! Everyone yelled at once.

Never touch The Hanging-Tree! Someone else, possibly Julie, offered as I spooned and got to second base with the ancient hardwood.

Why the hell not? I slobbered back at the crowd of drunks. Of course, like the complete fucking idiot I am, I continued to hug and caress the tree like a lover.

All kinds of weirdos, from witches to slaves and cattle rustlers, have been hung on that tree, one drunk chick in a hippie dyed t-shirt insisted. You don't know what kind of energy or bad karma might still be attached to it!

Oh my god! I howled, like the drunken fool I was. You're not just drunk off your ass, you're stoned! Then I got the bright idea that the tree needed a little tongue action to go along with the public molestation I was already administering. So, I slipped it a slobbery tongue, followed up with one of those kisses that's only hot when you're shit-faced drunk and the person you're kissing is just as drunk.

The moment my lips hit the tree, I was looking down at myself. Call it what you want. Out of body, technically dead, fucked up beyond reason and hallucinating: you pick. Whatever you choose to describe the situation, I was looking down at my own face, and I looked like I had died from fright. You're probably thinking, wow, that is so cool. Yeah, pretty neat. I'm here telling you the story, so I must have survived. Oh man, you saw the other side, right? Yeah, I shit myself. I filled my pants right up. Oh, it was early Sunday morning by that point, and I had been eating bar food and drinking my ass off for two days straight. So, yeah, it was pretty much twice as bad as you can possibly imagine.

One of my fellow drunks was down in an instant, doing chest compressions and yelling at someone to breathe for me. The hippie chick tried but almost barfed in my mouth from the stench. I remember looking down at the beads of sweat falling from the guy's face as he continued to perform CPR on me. I watched as a bead of sweat dropped onto my open eye. That was enough for me.

You fucking idiot! I screamed at myself. You couldn't just leave well enough alone! You had to go and fuck around, make a scene. Well done, you twat! Then I tried to kick myself in the head, and the moment my spectral foot came in contact with my physical head I was back in my own body. I was back alright, lying in a about a gallon of my own soggy waste. Oh, and wait, that's not the best part. I came back to life just in time to hear a loud crunch as my hero broke or cracked two of my ribs and puked all over me. I had to hand it to the fucker though; drunk as shit and still together enough to pound the shit out of my chest until I came back. I didn't even know his name. I didn't actually want to at the time though, because I was choking and covered in puke, lying in my own shit, in terrible pain, and hero boy was sprawled across my chest in his own puke, hugging me and crying.

You can't make this shit up; seriously, try, I dare you. As the hero of your story, would you shit yourself? I dare say, not fucking likely. Anyway, I had to reach up and push Mr. Hero away from me because I really needed to puke all over the grass. It was the right thing to do at the time. The shit-head kept stroking my face while he cried, and I was in the mood to knuckle his right eye for his troubles. That's when I saw the Quaker hanging from the tree. Seriously, she was like one of those people that shun everything modern and clop along the highway in horse drawn wagons. You know the type: all dressed in black with the little white hats that are kinda halfway between a hat and a hood. Whatever, she looked like a Quaker or a pilgrim. Her buggy eyes were fixed on me, and when I looked right at her, she just sneered at me. I could have sworn she mouthed the word Idiot.

So, yeah, I passed out. Oh sure, meat-stick. You would have whipped out your pad and pen and taken notes, maybe interviewed her. So, Mrs. Pilgrim lady. I notice that you're hanging by the neck and looking none too healthy. Any reason why you're still lucid and giving me the stink-eye? Passing out seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan at the time. And, honestly, I have to admit it's worked for me so many times in the past; I thought, 'Why not just roll with tradition?'

I woke up in the hospital a day and a half or two days later. I wasn't quite sure at first. I had a headache like I'd been to Guantanamo Bay for an extended stay filled with electro-shock therapy and water-boarding, and my chest hurt. Yeah, no surprise there genius; broken ribs don't go away after a good sleep. I mention it again because, yes, my chest really, really hurt, and I think I've earned the right to bitch about it. And before you ask, yes, some brave soul cleaned all the shit off me. Thank god I was asleep for that. Yes, I was miserable, and there were a bunch of random assholes just hanging around in my room. They weren't talking to each other. Just standing around looking sad or lost, sometimes confused, but, fuck, I didn't know any of these losers, and this was a private room: one bed, maybe a hot nurse; didn't know, hadn't seen her yet.

Hey, who the fuck are you people? I asked. At first, no one listened, or seemed to listen, so I tried again. Hey, you, blondie, tiny tits, yeah I'm talking to you. Who the fuck are you and why are you and your friends in my room? She looked like she was suffering from an acute case of constipation for a second, then all the mopey fucks in the room were looking at me like I was an alien. For some reason god decided to smile on me for a brief instant. My nurse chose that exact moment to walk into my room and straight through tiny tits. I'll tell you, I just about shit myself all over again. Fuck, no, it's not what you think. My nurse was not hot. Oh my god, dude. I thought she was a butt ugly guy at first. I shit you not in the slightest. Five o' clock shadow and one wonky eye. God damn, the guy upstairs was unkind to that poor fucker. Oh yeah, the room was full of ghosts, but put that aside for just a second and try to focus on what I was going through with this nurse. I felt violated! What if this fugly specimen was the lurching gimp that had hosed me off? How the fuck was I ever going to get an erection ever again with that thought in my head.

Thankfully, after a cursory inspection to confirm that I wasn't choking on my own vomit or anything, 'Lurch' left the room, and all the spooks rushed over to my bedside. A ripple of chills ran up and down my spine, and I closed my eyes for a second to try and pull myself together. No, fuck, I'm still talking about the nurse. Pay attention, god. Anyway, after the shock of being within arm’s reach of my health care professional had passed, tiny tits spoke to me.

You can see us? She asked.

No, but I can hear you. I said. She looked confused but hopeful.

Then why did you call me tiny tits? She asked.

Ok, fine, I can hear you and I can see you. So what? I fumed at her for a few seconds. Dead or not, her and her buddies were still a bunch of freeloaders lurking around in my room, and I hadn't noticed any of them paying my expensive HMO premiums. Yeah, I have great health care; on purpose. I'm an asshole and a drunk. I know it, I'm ok with it, and I plan ahead by paying for great medical. I'd call that being responsible, just in case you're in the mood to judge.

No one ever sees us, tiny tits said sadly, They just walk through us as if we aren't even here.

Well, I'm sorry for your troubles, but I'm going to chalk this one up to severe alcohol poisoning and a near death experience. In a few hours I'll remember you as nothing more than a vivid hallucination, and I'll be able to lay here in my bed and feel sorry for myself; at least until I have to call my roommate, who will undoubtedly be saddened by my survival. Then I plan to blackmail him into bringing me a clean pair of underwear and some pants.

You should remember to ask him for a shirt, she said, trying to be helpful.

Nope, they always dig one out of lost and found for me. Sometimes they're not bad at all. I said optimistically.

You're not drunk, you're special. Tiny Tits was trying to get on my good side. Ha! The fucking idiot. I didn't have a good side. That didn't seem to faze her though.

Special is just a term used for gimps that want to feel like they belong. I snapped back at her. Look, I've already admitted to being a mouthy prick. At least I try to moderate it these days; kind of.

No, you are special, Tiny Tits said sternly. You're probably the biggest asshole I've ever met, but you are special.

Ok, look. Shouldn't you be haunting a library or an abandoned asylum or something? I asked. Well, sure, I said that to her. Doesn't that make a lot more sense than packing up a private hospital room like the girls bathroom at a rave?

I'm here because I died here, you fucking jerk! She snapped.

Well fuck, how long are you going to mope around here before you move on? I asked. Don't go thinking I'm insensitive; it was an honest question. Yes, you're right, I am insensitive, but it really was an honest question.

I don't know, She replied. I don't know if I can move on.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You can't move on. Really? You're stuck here, plugging up this room forever? She started to cry and it was weird, let me tell you. The tears rolled slowly down her face and disappeared the moment they fell from her chin. When did you die?

Yesterday, I think. No, that can't be, you were brought in before that.

Ok, what is the last date you can remember? I asked, hoping that if I helped her a bit she would shut up and leave me alone. She thought for a moment, then said something about dinner and a movie. No, calendar date you twit.

Oh, July 11th.

That hasn't happened yet, perky. It's still June. As you can expect, she looked shocked.

What year? She asked. Well, I told her and she went all squiggly for a few seconds. Turns out that ghosts actually look like what we feel like when they have a fit. You know, when you feel like you've been punched in the chest when your girlfriend tells you she's switched to women, or your best friend tells you he's been having sex with your mom, who had you when she was sixteen and is still pretty hot, oh and gee, thanks for the image. Oh, but really great in the sack? Thanks for sharing. Well ghosts actually display those feelings and it looks weird as fuck.

Oh my god, it's been almost three years.

That's long past visiting hours, Nipples. You really should move on. I was just trying to be helpful.

Has anyone ever told you that if your personality had a name, it would probably be Chlamydia?

Yeah, her name's Mom. What's your point?

I think you were sent here to help us.

I think whatever it was that killed you had something to do with a head injury.

My god, you really are the biggest asshole I have ever met, Tiny Tits said with open disdain.

Ok look, there has to be a reason why you're still here. Think: what was the last thing you were thinking?

It's hard to breathe, she replied. Peanut allergy, she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders.

You're kidding; that's just sad.

I know, right? Tiny Tits said with exasperation.

Ok, was there anything else - like you forgot to tell Gramps that Timmy was trapped in a well or, you know, something left undone? I was grasping at straws, and I honestly hated all the sappy fucking medium or angel shows, so I was forced to resort to anything I could remember. Oh, and that fucking Patrick Swayze show that every chick you ever date forces you to sit through. Fuck me! It finally came in useful for something other than a cuddle night cock-block.

Oh my god, Tiny Tits said with quiet shock.

Seriously, somebody was trapped? I hate to break this to you, but they are totally fucked by now.

No, you idiot, I was trying to hold on until Danny got here.

Danny? Is that your son or something?

No, he was my fiancé. He must be so worried.

Worried? Honey, your funeral was over two years ago. He's onto banging his third girlfriend by now.

Oh, my, god. There are no words to describe what a foul person you are.

Yeah, but I grow on ya, I offered.

Like genital warts, I assume?

Ok, maybe Danny has been having a tougher time finding someone else than I thought.

Oh, for the love of god!

Maybe that's it.

What?

Maybe the guy upstairs did you and Danny a favour. I can't think it would be easy to watch someone you love die gasping. Her eyes went wide, and she looked at me with a mixture of shock and wonder. Well, that and a bit of loathing. Like I said, I grow on people.

Try not to be such an asshole for the rest of your life. And that was the last thing Tiny Tits said before she faded. What a fucking rip off! All those times I had to smile and watch Ghost, get mascara and snot on my shirt from some chick that I was just trying to bang a few more times before she got to know me and dumped my ass, and no fucking bright light? What the fuck!

My wife doesn't know where my Last Will and Testament is hidden. Some nerdy guy was standing in front of me where Tiny Tits had been, wringing his spectral hands.

Slow down there four eyes; I don't remember saying 'Next'. Back up!

You have to help me, I have kids.

Hey, fuck-face, I probably have all kinds of kids; you don't see me wringing my hands like a fat chick at a school dance.

Please, I heard what you did for Angela. You have to help me.

Oh, fuck me. Nurse! I called, frowning at four-eyes until the fugly nurse came back and gave me the heebie jeebies again.

What seems to be the problem? The hideous walking ghoul in scrubs asked.

Can you please get me a note pad and a pen? I have a few apology letters I have to write after my last bender, and I thought I should probably get a jump on that ASAP.

Sure, you can start with me; I had to hose the shit off your balls, the nurse said brightly. I bit back my comment about her forgotten duty to write me a thank you letter for letting her anywhere near my shit covered balls and smiled until she left.

Ok, here's the deal. I'll help you sorry fuckers until the last one of you freeloaders is cleared out of my room, but no theatrics or I close up shop. All the spooks were nodding vigorously by the time I finished speaking. Frodo came back with a note pad and pen moments later.

When you write mine, you can address it to 'Grace'. She said smugly.

You're fucking kidding me? I blurted. The nurse just frowned at me and left. That was pretty much how my life was turned into bullshit. I had a list of people to contact, and I fully expected half of them to call the cops on me. But it was either keep the spooks happy so they would leave me alone, or be haunted for the rest of my life.

I worked my way through all the ghosts in my room, one by one, with an eye on the door in case my nurse came in and caught me talking to myself. Of course, just after two of the sappy spectres had faded into nothing, nurse Frodo came waltzing into my room with a food tray.

Talking to yourself isn't a good sign Mr. Godfrey. Nurse Frodo commented snidely.

Just practicing a few apology speeches. I said brightly.

Try starting with something other than, Ok, listen fuck-face. I'm just saying, people are more susceptible to bullshit when you butter them up a bit.

Really? I asked. The straight shooter thing doesn't actually work?

Not your version.

I'll keep that in mind. I said as my Hobbit of a nurse pulled the