I used to write depressing poetry and lyrics while sitting in cemeteries getting high and drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Being alone in a cemetery never really bothered me much. I felt comfortable with death, comfortable being among the dead, and besides… I didn’t have any friends who were willing to hang out in a cemetery with me anyway. Jack was the only friend I needed.
It was a chilly night one early November when I sat on Michael Hellerson (1914 – 1976)’s grave. There were no fresh flowers, no fresh wreaths and the stone was sort of fading and sinking into the ground a little causing the tombstone to sit on a slant. Each time I visited, I would choose a different grave to sit on. Usually it was one that looked like nobody had visited in a while. Walking on the graves was always a little creepy, especially when the ground started sinking like quick sand. I always knew… If I went down, I was fucked! What would I do?! I’d be left to fend for myself in some 6 foot grave with nothing but a corpse and a box and some dirt to keep me company.
I had just started writing a piece about a Victorian Vampire who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, I wasn’t quite sure where I was going with it, but Jack was by my side ensuring that it was entertaining at the very least. I could hear noises in the cemetery, which was strange, usually the cemetery was eerily quiet. I put my book down and looked around. What the fuck was that noise?! It sounded like a grunting of sorts. No longer could I concentrate on my writing until I found out what this noise was, and where it was coming from. I stood up and opened my butterfly knife as I slowly surveyed the cemetery and my immediate surroundings.
To my horror, a few rows back and behind a tree there was a man jackin’ it hardcore on a grave stone. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” I thought to myself. Slowly and quietly I approached just as he (appeared to be) “finishing off”. He threw his head back and began thrusting his hips forward, he let out a sigh of relief as he stood there with his cock in his hand.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I shouted “Are you fucking sick buddy? Have some god damn respect!”
Judging by the look on his face, he had not been expecting anyone else to be in the cemetery. He casually answered “Is it any of your business little girl?! You know you shouldn’t be in a cemetery all by yourself at this hour.”
“WHY would you jack off on a grave?”
He sighed as he calmly zipped up his pants “If you must know… My coke-whore wife died of an overdose and left me in financial ruins. Bitch never used to let me come on her face. So this is how I seek my revenge! Fuckin’ whore took me for everything I had, and had an affair with my business partner too.”
“So you think that jacking off on her grave is some sort of pay back?!… Don’t you think that’s a little weird???”
“I don’t particularly care actually… It makes me feel good… I like it… So I do it!”
I couldn’t help but crack a smile as I said “maaan… you’re fucked buddy!”
“Yeah, well aren’t we all?! You will be too someday, if you’re not already!”
I was astounded at how genuinely awry this dude was… But damn, I admired his balls and his distorted resolve! I handed him my bottle of Jack and said “here, you look like you could use some after that rigerous performance.”
He smiled and said “thanks” as he grabbed the bottle from me. We swigged the rest of the bottle back and forth while standing there in front of his dead wife’s grave laughing uncontrollably.