Victor Michter was a very, very rich old man. And a very lucky old man. He’d already died before, at ages 55, 67, 69, 72, and at 79. His family was hoping, that maybe this time, at age 88, Victor was certifiably and finally dead.
Victor’s last death, his eighth, was the most promising yet. On Tuesday evening, three of his own daughters filled up the old bastard with martinis, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and as he “warmed-up” next to his fireplace …..Poof!
There was hardly anything left of Victor’s mid-section. The pyrotechnics erupting from the inside of his stomach left a gaping hole where Vic’s innards used to live.
An hour later, Victor’s wife, Beatrice, had discovered his blackened body in the smoke-filled living room, crackling amid the easy chair’s embers.
Before calling the ambulance, Beatrice offered her last respects, “Oh. Dead again.” Then she fetched a package of half-eaten Rolaids from the bathroom, and tossed the unraveling package into the sooty hole where Victor’s martini’s used to rub elbows.
But, Victor was a “tough old bird”with an amazing medical history.
After being pronounced “clinically dead” a number of times, he had made it back from the so-called “light at the end of the tunnel” to the amazement of his doctors, three of whom he’d already outlived.
His amazing “comebacks” were featured on CNN. He was a celebrity in his little town of Michterville, in Dungston County, Pennsylvania. He never cared for the publicity, but television exposure only helped business.
Victor was also the richest man in Dungston County. Victor employed the entire town of over 4000 people in Michterville. Everyone for miles around worked at Michter Motors. They made the electric motors that went inside of machines as big as motor scooters and as small as vibrators.
If you’ve ever had an airplane flight delayed at take-off because of a “suspicious buzzing” in the baggage hold, you can probably thank Michter Motors.
MM workers earned a miserable wage. But at least they had jobs when twenty percent of the country was unemployed .
Death number one was caused by his first wife’s numbskull “boy toy,” Tad, whom she had paid to run Victor’s car off of the road. As the old guy was driving home from his Monday night Neo-Nazi meeting, Victor’s originally-built-for-Hitler “Swabian Colossus” Mercedes was forced, by Tad, over a steep embankment. Though the car was heavily armored, Victor’s chest was crushed and he “died”at the scene.
Death number two was Vic’s own stupid fault, as he fell directly onto his head, and “died,” while fixing a video unit that he’d attached outside the guest bedroom window of his own house. The camera needed to be adjusted so that it could record video of his second wife’s best friend.
Death number three happened at his 69th birthday party, while beating his son-in-law with a lamp, the frayed electrical cord came in contact with the wet spot on Victor’s slacks where he’d either peed himself or spilled his twelfth drink. Victor was electrocuted until smoke came out of his ears. He “died” and miraculously “recovered” while still in the ambulance.
Number four was heart failure during an operation to remove a brass oil lamp from Victor’s butt. The ancient lamp had been jettisoned there, by another one of Vic’s “happy associates,” while he was on business in Morocco. A Moroccan nurse swore that she saw a genie pop it’s head out of Michter’s navel before she, herself had passed out.
Number five: His family hired a gunman who’d set up a murder that was supposed to look like a street mugging “gone bad.”
It went bad.
Victor came back to life at his own Michter Memorial Hospital, that night while his body was being zipped into a giant black bag.
During Vic’is sixth sojourn into the great hereafter, the ungrateful Dr. Ching, who kept Michter’s twin daughters Victoria and Vichyssoise as mistresses, told the medics: “If he’s toasted, then don’t waste my time with that prick. Victor Shmictor! Dead Shmed! I’m sick of our town’s mister-big-shot celebrity dying and never paying me because he owns the hospital. If they ask, tell his rotten family that I have a golf game in an hour at Michter View Estates.”
Death number seven, was caused “accidental” drowning in his backyard pool. This time, had awoken inside of a cold steel drawer at the Michter Morgue 0nly a few hours after delivery. Old Vic had proven himself to the frightened morgue employees: “I’m feeling f__king great! Get me the f__k out of here or you’re all fired – See? Look! I am feeling f__king great!”
This eighth time, when he’d combusted, Victor’s most recent wife, Beatrice, along with seven of his greedy daughters had ordered him cremated.
It would guarantee the end of Victor.
Thinking inside the box
Down at the Michter-Fallow Cemetery, Undertaker Sam Borthwick-Fallow, 64-years-old and addicted to crack, had opened the wrong drawer for his assistant and mistakenly ordered the incineration of 84-year-old Ben Rose, a victim of second-hand smoke. Sam needed another hit, and had left his assistant to handle the rest. It was now up to Greigor to fill the family-size Chinese take-out box of “cremains” and send them over to the Michter mansion.
“F__kin’ smaht asses.”said Victor’s ghost, as he looked down upon the morticians assistant Greigor, who had helped to cook Mr. Rose. The kid was about to pour the ashes into a carton that had previously contained a huge order of “Stir-fry Shrimp and Vegetable (Item #134) in a black bean sauce.”
Before the carton was sealed, Gregor “just had to hock a loogey” and dump his own cigarette butt into the box that would hold the remaining two pounds of Mr. Rose.
Afterward, while looking for his bottle, Greigor soon discovered the real Victor in the next drawer over. Realizing his gross mistake, Greigor moved Victor’s body into the drawer labeled Rose.
Victor’s body felt unusually warm to the morgue assistant.
”Alas! Well a day.” said the assistant as he stood upon a chair. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”The Greigor shed a tear, drank a swig, and promptly passed out on a steel lab table.
At 3 a.m., the next morning, Victor somehow ended up back inside of his own skin. Being a restless individual, he wasted little time in grabbing another corpse’s clothes and walking out of his own totally fucked up morgue at midnight.
Later that same day, only Twenty percent of Victors vast wealth was distributed to his family by lawyers. Eighty percent of the money remained in his bank account, just in case he needed to buy a new suit … or the city of Paris when he returned.
Victor’s son Hector found the infamous brass Moroccan oil lamp in the family library among the old man’s curio collection. The rest of the Michter clan agreed that the old lamp would be a nice receptacle for old Vic’s remains.
Cold embers, a cigarette butt, a green loogie and a few Chinese leftovers were dumped into the old lamp that the mourners, friends and family would be observing atop the fireplace at “Vic’s farewell party.”
Yes, the very same lamp that Victor had been assaulted with when he visited Morocco in the 1990‘s.
The old brass bottle sat quietly on the mantle of the living room fire place.
Naturally, there was a good portion of the town in attendance at the Michter estate for the free eats and to celebrate Victor’s death. The choice of food for the gathering was excellent, thanks to the “party sense” of Victor’s fourth wife, Beatrice.
Victor’s mistress, Mennah , who thanks to Victor, had been brought to America on a work visa, kept the guests entertained in the living room. She just couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of everyone elses “things.” One being the lamp.
Beatrice walked into the room carrying a tray of small doughy, fried snacks from Michterco. When she spotted mistress Mennah with her hand on the ancient lamp. Beatrice screamed, spat and threw a handful of doughy things at the Moroccan beauty. Mennah called Beatrice a “withered old mango” in Moroccan.
The two women traded insults as the Morrocan model absent-mindedly played with the spout of the old brass lamp.
Beatrice slammed the tray of doughy, fried things on a table and stomped off into the dining room.
As the Moroccan-raised Mennah toyed with the lamp, she’d started to read the lamp’s inscription.
“Be careful of what you wish for!”it said. And the center of a small yellow paper diamond sticker, it also said “Genie on board!”.
It would have been obvious to most people who could read Arabic that this might be the home of an actual genie. A genie who was getting all worked up because of Mennah’s skilled hand.
Still inside of the bottle, the newly awakened genie, named Mel (short for Ishmael) suddenly exclaimed: “Whoa!! What the?!”
Mel sneezed and found himself with a face covered in ashes. Ashes of an alien human had been dumped into his home and swirled throughout the brass bottle.
“Who dumped these remains in here? I’ll f__kin’ kill them! Cough! Cough!” Mel the Genie asked in over forty dialects.
“I was supposed to be buried in the Rose family crypt at Bayside.” said Ben Rose the third, who was trying to hide in a dark place beneath the lamp’s handle.
“Who are you? and…..Wait a second” said Mel.“Oooooooooh yeahhhhhh. There’s someone summoning me Ben, so we’ll have to talk about this later, …. It is Ben right? I’ll be right back, man.”
From the mantel of the fireplace a huge plume of blue smoke billowed out into the Michter’s living room.
“Goddammit! Who’s gonna clean this up!” said Victor’s wife Beatrice who had just caught the action as the blue dust landed.
“Whohoooo! That was fun! I could certainly use a cigarette!” said the released and relieved Mel, who magically appeared out of the plume of blue.
The gabby guests had become speechless, except for Victor’s twin girls Victoria and Vichyssoise, who never shut up. They were arguing over their inheritance.
Vicky: How come you got twenty-five million, and I only got twenty-six million?” (Both girls failed basic math.)
Vichyssoise: “Well, if daddy were here, he would tell you that he loved me the most! You pig!”
Vicky: “I’d kick daddy’s ass after I was done kicking your ass, of course!”
“Here then! Take the asshole back!” said Mel the genie. “Your wish has been granted! He raised his arms to the heavens and said, “Hoopah hoopah blah blah blah yak yak…”
“Hey! Hold on Mr. Baggy pants!“ interrupted Mennah. “I set you free, you ….“douche!” she said. Mennah only had an tenuous grasp of the English language (thanks to two weeks at Michter College) but she obviously spoke fluent French.
“Those two bimbo biotchies had nuttin’ to do wit’ it!”Mennah said, while pointing to the twins.
“Well, bonjour mon cherie!” Said Mel.
Then he greeted his audience with a formal bow, and said
“Call me Ishma…. Fuggedaboudit, just call me Mel.”
“Sir! An’ speakin’ of dat will, dat creep didn’t leave me a penny!”said Mennah.
“I guess that’s how much my husband thought that you were worth.”said Beatrice.
“Shut up you greedy Biotech!”
“Make me, you ….”
Mennah turned to the Genie. “Mel, If he had a chance to write a will! I wish that he ….”
“Hoopah hoopah maka waka waka blah blah blah… Oh fuck it! Your wish is granted! You! You can come out of the lamp now!”
Complete with ash glasses, the cold embers flew from the spout and formed a full size silhouette which was only the approximate size and shape of Mr. Rose. Empty air filled in the voids as the ash swirled like a mini-tornado. There wasn’t enough left of the Ben Rose ash pile to fill a complete human form.
“Get that f__king thing offa’ my new white rug! I told you not to track dirt in here!” screamed Beatrice.
“Who is this lady?!” the confused Genie asked the confused Mr. Rose.
“Hell if I know! I’ve never seen her before in my death.” said old and dusty Mr. Rose, while dragging soot all over the Michters expensive rug.
“Well! Mr. smarty-pants Genie, THAT is NOT my husband!” said Beatrice.
“F–k, f–k and double-f–k! You don’t understand ma’am. I can’t put Ben back! Damn! Hmmmmm …Well, Mr. Rose, I guess that you are free to leave.”
“ Oh great! What am I supposed to do now, Mr. Big-shot?”
“Go home to your wife Mr. Rose and give her a big kiss.”
“But …she killed me already with her second hand smoke. Kissing the woman is like kissing an ash tray.”
“Then you’ll be a perfect match — pardon the pun. Here’s a bag of gold. Goodbye Mr. Rose. Go!”
The dearly departing Ben Rose had just opened the front door, when Victor appeared on the front steps of the mansion ready to ring the doorbell.
Ignoring Vic, Mr. Rose blew down the front walk and onto the sidewalk, where the wind carried him down the sunny tree-lined street toward his own modest home and his non-waiting wife.
“Oh. him again.” said Victor’s wife, who was not at all surprised to see her ex, at the doorway, alive.
“Victor. Look what that ash-hole Mr. Rose did to my new rug!”
“Who’s rug?! Whooooo’s rug?! Who’s Mr. Rose? Well it’s nice to see you too!” said the Cajun blackened version of the vindictive Victor’s visage.
Victor’s entire body was as crispy, oozing and as scarred as a fourth degree burn victim could possibly be. Something thick and green was dripping onto the rug from the huge hole in Victor’s stomach cavity.
Mel the genie had meanwhile turned his attention toward Mennah, the first woman he’d “had” in over thirteen centuries.
It was love.
Beatrice was yelling at Vic: “Oh! Great! WELL DONE Vic!”
“Yes. I suppose that I am!” said Victor, to his horrified and sickened guests.“Hello friends and family! Where can I find a drink? I feel parched!”
“Welcome back Mr. Michter! Where’d ya get that crappy suit? By the way sir, you’re oozing.”said Victor’s greasy, wobbly plant manager Mr. Ryan McMurdock.
“I’d better get cleaned up. I’ll be right back. C’mon Mel! Hey you damned genie! Let’s go!”
Mel the magic genie wiped everybody’s memories clean of his grand appearance and then sadly slipped back into Victor’s vintage vessel.
Magically, everyone, except for Victor and the love-struck Mennah, had forgotten that they had just met a real Genie named Mel.
“Hold my drink Ryan, and save me some cake” said Victor, as the leaking octogenarian grabbed his bottled genie off of the mantel and went bounding up the curved staircase.
“Our deal is off Victor.” said a voice at the top of the staircase.
“What the hell?!”
“Our deal is off.”
Victor looked up and there stood the escaped genie, above him, at the top of the landing. Victor took a double-take at the lamp, then back to the genie. “How did you get up …How did you do that?”
“I’ve found a new master, Mr. Michter. That also means that your wish of eternal life is over, kaput, fini, fenire, pau, terminar, sluttede, termino’, kumalizika.
“You’re my genie Mel! Mine! You can’t just pick a new master!” said Vic.
“Sorry Vic, but I’m now under Mennah’s spell. So I guess that I’ve taken your mistress as well. I….I….I love her Victor. This is real. She’s “the one.”Love conquers all. So this is Goodbye Vic!” said Mel, who backed his last statement up with a mighty kick that sent Victor Michter plummeting backwards down the staircase.
The Michter Messenger’s entertainment columnist wrote of the incident: Mr. Victor Michter performed a stupendous summersault at the close of his own memorial party Tuesday. It all ended spectacularly when Vic hit the bottom of his spacious home’s bannister, audibly snapping his “old turkey neck.”
All in all, it was a breathtaking finale, a perfect culmination to a bunch of long and colorful live(s).
The disposal of the body will be supervised today, by the Michter family and their attorneys. The cremation will likely be “carried out,” in the big oven at Victorio Michterino’s Red Brick Pizza. Smoking is not allowed.
There will be no memorial service held for Mr. Michter.
He’s had enough of those.
Plus, I think that we’ve all had enough of him.”