It's been a good hustle for us, me and the Haitian woman. No embalming, no service. They just vanish into the hole, a few rocks and the woman does her thing. We plant the tree over it all and it feeds on the remains, becoming the wood of its soul.
The old clip-haired dykes in their Subarus are the best, all withered and wasted. They sign it all over: the bank, the car, all they've got. All for the chance to escape the ghouls at the funeral home and their despairing families. Their final act of rebellion. A boomer's fit end.
They grow quickly, these trees, and the lower 40 is almost blanketed with shoulder high cedars now. I sit out and drink whiskey by them, listen to them sing in the wind. They're mostly happy I'm pretty sure. They know they're useful, some for the first time ever.
The cars go to Belize, while the assets filter out into a black hole, trickling finally back to us along with the rest. Small lower limbs become flutes and wind chimes, icons for the spiritual world wide. We have contacts, and have started with cypress boats for dark journeys. As long as greed survives, so will we.
Even with the Haitian woman's spells we're getting on. No one lasts forever. I've decided to become a Hawthorn, while I think she's favoring being a Plum. Our children have been trained from birth and can be counted on. They carve the pumpkins.
The only thing we fear is the fire.
C Demon
Re blank 18
