Flowerday Papyrus

Most of the grave markers were old. Old for around there at least. Here and there were some new ones, shiny black stone polished smooth and laser etched with almost photographic quality portraits. All those ones were Russian immigrants.
“Hey, look they misspelled this one. Happily m-e-r-r-i-e-d for forty seven years. Doesn’t sound very merry to me.” Jimbo and Meridith were still getting to know each other. Jimbo always liked walking through graveyards. “You know, one time when I was a kid like 16, I was tripping on acid and I went walking through the Evergreen Washelli cemetary over on Aurora. I sat in the grass and smoked cigarettes and now and then I’d put my ear up against a tombstone to see if I could hear any voices from beyond.” Merideth thought about that for a second, then asked, “So did you hear anything?”
“Yeah. Sounded like when you put your ear against a wall and hear people talking in the other room, real muffled like. I was also high as a kite.”
Merideth was pretty with makeup on, but too fat and not enough tit. Jimbo got lost for a second thinking about Doctor Frankenstein, and how he was rarely happy with any of his women. How he wished he could take the face from one, put it on the body of another, tits from this one, personality of that one. Jimbo knew he wasn’t perfect himself. His main weapon was humor. He wasn’t really very handsome or charming, but he did have an intelligent type of weirdness that baffled them and they’d usually stick around for awhile before they either got bored, or he chased them off.

Out of nowhere, Jimbo tells her, “Heavy metal album covers are the true artistic expression of our culture. The Greeks had their vases and sculptures, the Egyptians had their bas reliefs, the yer-oh-pee-awns had their masters of the brush and canvas. We have Megadeth album covers.”
“Megadeth. Ha. That’s almost like my name.” So much for conversation.

Jimbo spotted a work truck under a tree with a big pile of dirt next to it, and a contented looking Mexican sitting on the tailgate staring at his phone. He liked most Mexicans. They tended not to be sticklers for the white man’s rule of law, happy to overlook minor crimes that didn’t affect them personally. They knew how to mind their own business, an admirable trait in his estimation.
He hadn’t fucked Merideth yet, and thought about maybe trying it here. Should have brought a jacket, he thought to himself. She may not want her bare ass on the ground…
As he was formulating a game plan, Merideth interrupted him and said, “I think I’m gonna steal this gravestone.”
It was small, one of the smallest ones here, not much larger than a standard brick. “It would look cool in my livingroom.” And with that, she bent over and pulled it from the ground, then put it in her purse. You never know what a woman may have in her purse, he mused.

“There’s probably a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t do that.”, Jimbo told her. The grave marker said IRWIN FLOWERDAY, 1822-APRIL 27 1906.

Jimbo fucked Merideth indoors that night. Her ass looked like mashed potatoes, and her inner thighs were discolored a slight brown, but she had a nice plump clitoris, and there was a certain amount of chemistry between them. After the sex Jimbo licked her pussy, and she followed him around like a dog for two weeks after. All good things must end, and this one did like all the rest. He always reminded himself when he met a woman that every relationship they’d both had up to that point had failed.

About a month later, Jimbo was reading a history book about ancient Egypt, and came upon a reference to a 3,600 year old papyrus. It was a sort of anatomy textbook, a forty yard long scroll. It was called the Flowerday Papyrus. Named after Irwin Flowerday.  Small world indeed, Jimbo thought to himself.  He checked the birth and death dates of Flowerday and they matched up alright.  This Flowerday chap made his bones robbing graves for trinkets, and trying to outswindle the local swindlers. He was a two bit hustler, and as far as egyptologists go, he was a bargain basement one.  Now, a hundred and some years later the tables got turned and his headstone is sitting in a fat women’s apartment next to her cat’s scratching post.

Sometimes, Jimbo thought, if you pay close enough attention, you get to laugh along at the universe’s jokes. The only kind of justice any of us can ever hope for is the poetic kind.

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