The Fishwhacker Swindle?

Just finished a weekend shift at work, which for us corpse mechanics means long stretches of mind-fucking boredom punctuated by crises. I was sitting reading a copy of Viz when a suicide came in. They take a while to reach us because there always has to be a coroner’s investigation first, so by the time we get them they’re fairly rancid as a rule.

This one wasn’t too messy, a self-poisoning, but I hate those types because they piss me off so much. Someone reads on the label that more than eight paracetamol per day can be harmful, so they take triple that to be on the safe side, thinking they’ll slide into a nice dreamy coma and wake up getting a blow job from an angel. Instead they endure days or weeks of agonising liver-rot before liquefying into a jaundiced pool of pus. Every sentient being must know by now that pills are the least effective way to off yourself quickly, so why oh why oh why do the sad dumb fucks keep at it?

Anyway, people who commit suicide are on the whole selfish cunts. The only time suicide can possibly be worth it is if you’re utterly alone in the world, with no-one who gives a fuck for you, and I don’t care what people say, there are very, very few people in that position. Even then it’s very rarely a clever thing to do. But if there’s a single person, or even animal, who feels at least affection for you, then you’re an utter bastard to kill yourself. It’s one of the most cruelly aggressive acts you can undertake. The exception is of course the scum of the earth, like rapists and child molesters – they should be actively encouraged to delete themselves.

I worked on the stiff with Lorraine, my colleague, and at one point (might have been when I was fixing the eyes shut) she asked if I’d like to go to a post-Christmas work do. What she really meant was, “Sorry about turning you down two years ago and I want your body”. I’d taken her out back then for coffee but it had gone no further, even though I’d offered to let her come up and see my collection of Stanley knives, something I reserve for special people. I can’t go out with her now as my heart belongs to another, so I said, “Sorry, Lorraine, but I’m busy.” It made my day.