Sam's Funeral

The priest took a huge swig from the hip flask he kept with him at all times and stumbled to the pulpit.

Caroline crossed her fingers and hoped it wouldn't be too bad. She'd only been able to afford the cheapest celebrant - a Father Jack Hackett - after Sam's doddering old fuckwit of a Dad had insisted he had no money.

"Put it all into War Bonds. War Bonds! Never for get the Lusitania! Defend Tasmania!" he'd ranted

Caroline looked around the empty room. It was just her and Grandpa Simpson. Outside, a seagul on the next rooftop sqwuaked out into the empty air.

The celebrant steadied himself at the pulpit with another swig of Auld Begrudgers Six Month Old.

"Well fuck me sideways and call me Peter fucken Filandia, there's no cunt here is there?"

Caroline closed her eyes. It was going to be worse than she'd feared.

"I've been in the hatching, matching and dispatching game for forty fucken years and I tell you what, you can tell what kind of person the trick was by how many cunts turn up for the funeral. And fuck me, I've done some bad ones but this is the worst, by the length of the Flemington fucken straight.

"I done Ronald Ryan and he got shitloads more than this. Even that paedo cunt who killed his Mum with the chainsaw cracked double figures," he slurred.

Caro wanted to say something but just couldn't. She glanced over at Sam's Dad, who had fallen asleep, a long tendril of drool hanging between his gaping mouth and reaching down to connect with his ill fitting brown polyster suit.

"They reckon that if you've got nothing good to say about somebody, you shouldn't say anything at all, but youse have paid for half an hour and since the charges I can't do my blue material any more, so stuff it.

"Sam then. I had a bit of a flick through some of her stuff this morning while enjoying the morning constitutional and fuck me, what a load of frogshit she came out with. I'm a Catholic priest with a fondness for fanny and a dislike of pretty much everyone in the world who isn't a miserable ageing white alcoholic Richmond supporter like me, so I'm pretty well versed in sickening, stomach churning hypocrisy but I even I can't hold a candle to this one."

Caro looked again at Sam's Dad. He hadn't moved. She hoped to Christ he wasn't dead too. She couldn't handle two funerals like this.

"As I said, I'm a Richmond supporter and the shit that bitch wrote about Kevin bloody Sheedy trying to root a dingo was plain disgraceful. I am going to say nine novenas tonight petitioning a vengeful Lord to condemn her unto eternal damnation on the strength of that alone.

"But it gets worse. Despite all that shit, where the fucking cretin pretended to be outraged on behalf of all womanhood on the basis of something that never even happened anyway - and really, I've heard more compelling feminist arguments from strip club owners - then lo and behold, what do I see on the goggle box the other night, but this dumb moll flirting with that boofhead Fevola at the Brownlow and egging him on and generally contributing to his sense of being able to do whatever he wants.

"Then what happens a few hours later? The big dickhead goes and actually sexually intimidates a woman in a toilet. And have we heard anything from Sam, the loyal Carlton supporter, or her fuhrer" - and here he fixed Caro with a gimlet eye - "about this? Do we fuck."

The thirsty cleric paused to take breath and enjoy a generous swig from his flask.

"So, as many good judges predicted at the time, by pumping up that Dingogate non-story into an entirely unprofessional and vindictive confection of smears and half-truths, the imbecelic fraud has left herself and her shitful excuse for a paper entirely unable to comment on a genuinely horrifying alleged sexual crime by a footballer with anything approaching credibility.

"What qualifications has she got anyway? Looks to me like she only got her job because this dribbling old fuckwit in the front row once, amazingly, managed to get lucky with a sheila."

Again the dipsomaniac prelate paused but this time, thankfully for Caro's sake, he lost his balance as he drained the final drops of his flask and and collapsed backwards, striking his head savagely on the marble step behind him.

An hour later, having hired some removalists to carry Sam's coffin out of the church in the absence of anyone - anyone at all - willing to act as a pallbearer, Caro and the hearse arrived at the dusty, windswept cemetary where the witch was to be interred forever more.

Caro's heart leapt as she noticed a large crowd had gathered around Sam's plot. At she got closer, she saw something was amiss. The group was moving strangely, jerkily. She drew closer and saw a familiar face leading the group, which numbered at least 50 or more.

"Adam, what'th going on here?" she asked.

The man turned around, looking slightly sheepish.

"Oh, hi, Caro, we were practising," he replied.

"Pwactithing fo what?" she demanded.

"The disco tonight," he stammered, "Yeah, just practicing our dancing for the disco tonight."

Caro didn't need to hear it. It was obvious they had all gathered to dance on Sam's grave. At the car park, vehicles were arrving every second and disgorging occupants with the same intention.

But they were to be denied that pleasure. As the workman unloaded Sam's coffin, the temperature dropped suddenly and dark clouds gathered on the horizon. A peal of thunder shook the very heavens themselves and an enormous crow swooped to land on Sam's putative headstone, emitting a great caw that came from the bowels of Hell itself.

"Look," said Adam, pointing with genuine fear at Sam's coffin which had begun to shake ominously. "LOOK!" he cried.

Slowly but undeniably, the lid of the coffin began to rattle and shake until it lifted and a thin scaly claw emerged. The coffin lid hit the mud softly.

Then, with the assembled crowd of grave-dancers quickly heading back and away from the hideous spectacle, Sam rose from the coffin, the marks on her face and body where the Dewosaurus had torn at her healing before their very eyes.

"A dark magic is at work here," howled Daniel Pratt, "Let us flee for the sanctuary of the Lord's house. Or the pub, whichever's closer!"

As the crowd fled in terror, only one figure remained. Caro.

"Oh Thammy!" she squealed, "Thammy you're back!"

Thammy was indeed back. And she wasn't very fucking happy at all.