This may come as something of a surprise to new readers, but it's well known to "old hands" on Green Hell: I actually died back in 1989, and remained deader'n Elvis until November 30th, 2007.
Believe me, when I heard the news, I was every bit as surprised as you, gentle reader. And why, by the way, am I always the last one to be informed of developments of this sort? Doesn't it stand to reason that if such information is to be doled out on a "need-to-know" basis, I'd be at the top of the list, it bein' Yours Truly who allegedly snuffed it out an' all?
I'm making light of this now, but when first I made the discovery, I did quite the opposite. I actually sat down, dialed up a friend or two, and cried my eyes out.
It hurt. It really hurt. Well and rightly pissed me off, too.
Moving down the body's ventral surface, a good bit below the tear ducts we find a distinctive feature of the male anatomy. In Scots slang, the aforementioned feature is referred to (for what I suspect are obvious reasons) as the "baw'bag" or "ba'bag". This choice bit of verbiage is also employed as a term of opprobrium, just as are "scrote" and "nutsack" in American English. Bear this in mind.
Predictably enough, like 3/4 or so of the pain in my life, my death also relates to Moose. The day before St. Paddy's, 1989, I made a gallant, foolish and none too realistic attempt to win her back. In the course of said attempt, I rented a car and drove 300 or so miles from Atlanta to Greensboro, North Carolina in order to declare my undying love for her face-to-face, and to give her a hand-written letter, eight or so pages in length, in which I attempted to tell her how much she meant to me, and to apologize for having been such a prize fucktard when we were together.
Unfortunately for me, she was shacked up with some other gobshite at the time, and rebuffed me. She also tore me a new asshole in the process, taking advantage of the fact that I'd lowered every one of my defenses and opened myself completely.
By way of a response, I probably should have: 1.) stuck around for a while and worked her "boner donor" over with a tire iron and then; 2) driven back to Georgia, gotten good and drunk, and forgotten the matter entirely, but hindsight is 20/20, after all.
Well, I did drive back to Georgia and get good and drunk for a week straight, so I suppose it wasn't a total failure.
At any rate, seventeen years later, I tracked her down and gave her a phone call. During the course of our conversation, she revealed to me that she'd thought I was dead. It seems that not long afterward, her folks (to whom I've ever since referred as "the baw'bags") told her I'd gone and greased myself. Ain't that sweet?
That way, even if she broke up with the fuckwit she was seeing (and apparently, she eventually did just that), she'd never even think of getting back together with me. I'm not saying she would have done so anyway (as one of my friends wryly pointed out, she never even so much as sent flowers for my "grave" or a condolence card to my Ma), but it would have been nice to have had another chance to attempt a reconciliation.
"But Bean," says the gentle reader, "isn't it true that your brother dropped the hammer on himself? Could this not, therefore, have been an honest mistake?"
That's what I thought at first, me bucko, but read on. Chris's death simply provided them with a convenient cover story ("Oops! Sorry! We fucked up! Case of mistaken identity, dontcha know?"), should I pop up unexpectedly. I know this because a dozen or so years ago, I found her mother's AOL address and sent her a short email. I didn't ask for contact information, or anything of the sort. I simply wanted to know that ol' Moose was alive, well and happy, wherever she was, and wanted to apologize for my unpleasant behavior when we were together.
The baw'bags never answered, never forwarded it, and they never told her I was still alive.
Now you know why I'm none to kindly disposed toward 'em, and why I fervently hope Santa Claus leaves a turd in each of their stockings every Christmas until the end of the world.