My Burial Part 2
Writing by anarchistbanjo on Wednesday, 13 of August , 2008 at 6:23 pm
The pastor stared horrified into the grave.
“Is this a Christian burial?” He stammered.
“No,” I said. “This is a modern burial with Red Riders.”
I sat on my crate, jammed my eyepiece into my eye and glared at the people. I was in pajamas but had been afraid of getting too cold in the grave so I had brought my fur coat along as well. That made quite an impression on the gentlemen since it was the middle of summer. No one was paying attention to the funeral of the Privy Councillor, that was for certain.
“Get out of here, go away!” I started. “I paid for this grave and it belongs to me. I am legally dead and can have a little fun if I want! Go away! Here in this hole and in this crate I am Master of the house and I advise you not to trespass.
“This is a scandal,” said the gentleman with the medals. “This is a malicious scandal.”
Then the Public Prosecutor came.
“There must be an end to this foolish charade,” he hissed at me. “I arrest you in the name of the Law. I request the guards do their duty.”
The guards climbed into the hole and laid their wide paws on my shoulders, but I looked at them sharply and said.
“Have you lost all respect for the sanctity of the dead?”
“He is not dead! He is a fraud!” The very angry Public Prosecutor cried.
“Really?” I laughed. “Just a moment, I will offer the guards my death certificate. Here, satisfy yourselves. And by the way,” I went on. “If this slip from the county doctor is not enough, prove it yourself, you old ass!”
The gentleman with the medals stuck his nose in the air, sniffed, and moved back.
“The Devil!” He cried.
“Please keep the boundary of decency and good manners my friend,” I admonished. “Bear in mind where we are. It is a torrid red-hot July day and almost noon. I am a corpse. I have a right to stink!”
But the Public Prosecutor wouldn’t calm down.
“That means nothing to me,” he declared. “I see only that a rude public nuisance has begun and the public nuisance demands legal atonement. I request the guards lay the gentleman in his crate and bring him along. Everyone else, please follow me!”
The guards grabbed me. I attempted to offer resistance but they were much stronger than I and quickly stuck me into the crate and carried me out of the cemetery to the carriage. Everyone followed. The gentlemen climbed into their light carriages and the Red Riders sprang onto their bicycles. Even the gravedigger came with.
The only thing I was happy about was that the Privy Councillor whose old fashioned funeral I had so disturbed was now all alone and lying abandoned. The stupid fellow must really be annoyed.
My crate sat on a beam of wood and a fat policeman sat up on top. Thank God I could see a little through a knothole. We traveled back through the city at a sharp trot, and then we halted in front of the court building.
“Room 41,” cried the Public Prosecutor.
The guards carried my crate and me inside. Everyone else pushed hastily into the room. The District Court Judge sat above between his lay magistrates.
The Public Prosecutor stopped a long speech. He apologized for so suddenly interrupting the proceedings but some very urgent, pressing, really brooking no delay business needed to be dealt with. Then he told the entire course of events and what had happened.
“The fellow claims to be dead,” he closed, “and is in possession of an authentic legal death certificate.”
The District Court Judge let me get out of my crate.
“Is there a doctor in the audience?” He asked.
Three gentlemen came forward, an ordinary Doctor, a staff Doctor and a Psychiatrist, the Director of the State Lunatic Asylum. They examined me while holding handkerchiefs over their noses. They made it really short.
“He is most certainly a corpse!”
I had won.
“I would like to charge the Public Prosecutor with violation of a corpse,” I said.
“Let the accused stand here for the time being,” moved the Chairman.
“Not any longer dear Sir,” I replied. “I am in a condition of— “
“Observe the dignity of the court,” he interrupted me. “I would like you to be fined.”
“Permit you to— “
“Be quiet!” He yelled.
“No,” I said. “I will not be quiet. As a Prussian I have the right to freely express myself in word, writing or image.”
He laughed. “We are not in Prussia any more! And besides, you are not a Prussian, you are a corpse!”
“I’m not a Prussian any more?”
“No.”
“Then I am a dead Prussian.”
“And a dead Prussian,” he trumped me. “absolutely has no civil rights. Even you must understand that!”
I thought about it. He was right. I was vexed but quieted.
“You stand here,” he began again, “accused of gross misconduct, resisting arrest and contempt of court. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
“I am a corpse,” I whimpered downcast.
“That is no excuse,” asserted the Judge. “It would be nice if corpses and especially Prussian corpses could go unpunished for all misdemeanors. But that would be contrary to what is said about corpses, that they are quiet to the highest degree, well mannered and take great pains to be well behaved. You should, so to speak, be setting a shining example of virtue for all living citizens. As a former Prussian you should know that is the first duty! And that goes for all types of so-called corpses.
This case is entirely unheard of, that a deceased individual has become indignant and even more, openly stands in front of me. Nothing like this has ever happened in all my long years of practice. Have you ever been convicted?”
“Yes,” I stood straight. “Seventeen times. For contempt, for two fights, for spreading malicious pamphlets as well as for all the misdemeanors I stand here accused of!”
“You are back sliding,” he stressed. “It appears that you don’t want to remain quiet!”
“I was always innocent,” I stammered.
“Always innocent,” scorned the Judge. “I wonder, will you quit these misdemeanors? Will you learn from this?”
I sealed my fate.
“I don’t care about any of that at all. Leave me in peace! I am a corpse, and you are an idiot and all of you are idiots!”
The Chairman raised his hand, but before he could say a word the Public Prosecutor stood up.
“I propose the accused should be transferred to the Insane Asylum for six weeks and his state of mind observed.”
The Psychiatrist, the Director of the asylum, came forward quickly and declared.
“Under these circumstances the Insane Asylum must refuse to take the accused for six weeks. I can’t risk the danger of keeping him that long!”
There was a small pause; then one of the jurors asked.
“Yes, but what are we going to do with him?”
“We are going to give him a fine,” said the Judge.
“That won’t do you any good,” I remarked. “I am dead and don’t have any more money than when I was alive. I gave out my last coin for a proper burial! The Chief of the Red Riders made a contract with me.”
“Then he must certainly not go free under any circumstances,” said the Public Prosecutor.
“But the prison won’t take him any more than the insane asylum!” The Chairman objected.
He was very inconsolable. I believed I had won when suddenly the unctuous pastor came to their assistance.
“I think I can make a suitable proposal gentlemen!” He said. “I believe it would be best if the deceased, the accused, were given a Christian burial.”
“I don’t want a Christian burial!” I cried wildly.
But the pastor paid no attention to me. “A very Christian and very civilized burial.” He went on, “I believe in this case it would put things right for the charity and honor of the court and for all decent thinking people. It would also to a certain extent cause this confused spirit of the accused to be punished and regret his actions. This is dangerous but if I am permitted to inter the deceased in this way I believe he will remain quiet, unmoving and won’t cause any more problems in the future.”
“Very good! Very good!” The Chairman nodded, the Public Prosecutor nodded, both jurors nodded, everyone nodded.
I screamed furiously and turned in my despair to the Chief Red Rider.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I am very sorry,” he said. “We were only paid for two hours and they have run out. The Red Riders will do anything— That is our highest principle— But— only when we are paid!”
No one sympathized with me. I defended myself the best I could but was quickly overpowered. They stuck me in a black coffin and carried me out.
The pastor held a eulogy for me free, without pay. I don’t know what he said because I plugged my ears.
Brute force has conquered. What is the use of turning over three times whenever a Public Prosecutor or District Court Judge walks past my grave?
Category: Uncategorized
- Add this post to
- Del.icio.us -
- Meneame -
- Digg
No comments yet.
