Wes Craven, a Master of Slasher Horror Films, Dies at 76, read Marquel, TPVs NYTimes zombie section correspondent. He immediately got depressed and screamed.
Mr. Craven, a proponent of the slasher genre, was best known for creating Freddy Krueger of “A Nightmare on Elm Street” fame and the “Scream” franchise.
His last words were, “Be right back,” and with a twisted smile to those in attendance, he expired.
Suddenly it seemed as if he were still living but the doctor had pronounced him dead and permanently so. There was noise from his bed, and a scratching and moaning sounds. We all looked at each other with suspicion but also a kind of knowing look, “it is Wes Craven, after all.” But people were scared and moved away. Some left the room. Others started shrieking. The noise increased, and the braver ones approached the body for a closer look. Dead or not, was he trying to tell us something?
Somebody said, “It’s all right it was just the cat.” Wes had a cat.
Everybody was relieved.
- The parakeet in the cage started singing.
- Some left, some milled about, but everybody was glad to know that the natural world follows rules and we could breathe easy.
- Except that all of a sudden the parakeet exploded.
Everyone shrieked.
Wes’s coffin moved several inches from the shock wave. Most of the older people accused the younger ones of putting a cherry bomb up the parakeet’s ass. But everyone expressed disapproval, and fear, until it was just me and Wes’ best friend in the room. And Mufi.
The anteroom was filled with mourners afraid to approach the body but, apparently equally afraid of fleeing. I had to admit it was a bizarre death scene.
Mufi turned to Wes’ best friend, who was facing the window away from all the horror and said in a low voice, “should we call the hearse?”
“Oh my god Mufi, you scared me.”
I called the hearse and joined everyone else in the anteroom, most of whom were standing stock still, silent, and with pasty expressions. I knew if I sneezed they’d all fall down. They appeared terrified. It was just a funeral!
But one of the mourners was not so stilled. He gave us a natural explanation for everything and listed at least ten funerals in which the deceased suddenly stood up and left the funeral.
“But Wes is definitely dead. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve studied all this,” he said. We were all glad.
It was true.
At the funeral, Wes behaved himself.
Once the casket was lowered, we all tossed a shovel of dirt on the casket until it was covered. We walked away, talking about Wes and his movies. Before we could reach the cars, we were suddenly surrounded by thousands of little grey furry gremlins.
- Everybody shrieked except for the resident expert who explained they were just squirrels.
- Eventually they scampered up trees.
But not without repeating Wes’ last words, “be right back.”
Squirrels? I don’t know. But I’m not going to any other funerals except for my own.
Marquel, I cannot believe Wes is gone. The master is dead. I cannot say it
Yet, you kept repeating it. He’s dead. But maybe not. Marquel seems unsure he was inside that coffin.
Leave the man alone in his mourning.
Oh, la la…Defending your spouse?
That was very intrusive.
Bickering at a funeral, be it digital, is bickering. Conjugate it.
Well done, M. Pretty funny