"We gather here today, not to weep over the lost memories and forgotten possibilities, but to celebrate the exquisite exposition of a man lost too soon. We must not wallow in the woes of misfortune nor plague ourselves with unkept promises. The past is the past, and no amount of thinking can change that. He was a good man, a great man, and though too few treated them has such, he was a respectable man, and deserves better than a pitiful tear. Those who are here only by obligation, let no dishonest maleficence come forth. Honesty was his last wish, and it shall surely be granted. Those who are here only to see him off, so see him, and then take your leave. The man before me is most certainly deceased, and no amount of medical miracles can change that. This is not to discourage the work many of you come here to do, but simply to state the facts of life. He was a good man, and he deserves better than your greedy, slimy hands. He doesn't deserve a lot, but he does deserve respect, at least in the after life."

The small crowd lulled with the aching words of the trite ceremony, and pitied the woeful words of the long troubled boy. Very few people enjoyed the company of the dead man sleeping, but all enjoyed the wisdom of the boy. That's why they were really here. The crowd, that is. Not for this forsaken father or his too few accomplishments or his one reigning legacy. No, the crowd, in most part, was here for the boy, and only the boy.

The few who weren't here for the boy, a shady couple of men pacing in the far right corner of the chapel, were "friends of friends" if you will. They did not know the man, nor the boy, but were simply there for work. What this work was, few could've guessed. And even fewer wished to assume. But those who did assume assumed quite rightly, for they, the few who assumed, knew more about the dead man sleeping than most, and thus had such a right to assume such a dastardly proposition.

The proposition itself was nothing of high concern, just a couple of goons attending to their work, but what this implied, was terrifying. Did the man work for the mafia? Did the man owe some money? How much money? Why didn't he come to me? I would've lent him money. I mean, if I really knew how much he needed it. Why didn't he ask his son? His wife? Why not go to the bank? Why did he need the money? Did he have a gambling problem? No. Was he an alcoholic? No. Druggie? I don't think so. So what was the money for?

Maybe we're looking at it the wrong way. Maybe he didn't owe them anything. Maybe it was the other way around. But how could anyone owe this man money? Loan shark? Probably? Drug dealer? Not likely. Bank thief? Impossible. Then why were the goons here?

Maybe the man worked for the mafia. Maybe that's why he's dead. Maybe he was killed by those goons right over there! It's certainly possibly. People die of "natural causes" all the time. That certainly explains the lack of police presence. The mafia's got a real hold of the police around here. From chief to sergeant to detective. Death threats, bribery, blackmail, the whole nine yards. In fact, if your a police officer, and not affiliated with the mob, your not taken seriously. What can a police officer do without the mob? Nothing.

But if these goons killed him, or any goons killed him, why are they here. Good men don't leave the scene with a wink of skepticism, not when you own the force preventing your prosecution. If they killed him, they'd have no use being here. So why are they here?

Maybe no one killed nothing, and he really did die of that heart attack everyone keeps talking about. Maybe their here to assess the situation, make sure the dad man didn't escape or anything. I doubt it. It's hard to go much of anywhere when your asleep, especially when your dead. But I guess they gotta check. Just to make sure. Good thing it's open casket.

Why is it an open casket? Does anybody really want to see that!p? I mean, seriously, don't we see enough dead people already, walking around like they own the place or something? Don't we have enough of that? What am I saying? What am I thinking? And in a place of God, too! I should be ashamed of myself! What would mother think? What would father say! What would my sister do?

The goons paced slowed to a meager waltz as the priest bean to speak, blubbering on about the blood of Christ or some shit like that. The goons seem to respect this moment of holy indignation, and bow their heads, as if prayer will somehow bless their sins. The crowd follows suit, mumbling the death of a man in a language long dead. I wonder if go spoke Latin.

The goons continue their pace, this time in a frenzy. Women begin to mingle as men begin to mumble, enjoying theirselves as best they can at such a holy event. Wine is served and small crackers are offered, but I deny both, for I don't drink wine and I can't eat crackers, so that goes straight to shit.

The goons oblige, however, to the courageous offer of the priest, and begin to move their arms in a cross like pattern, as if to say, I may be a murderer, but at least I drink whine. What a scam.

I guess I shouldn't think like that in a place like this. Might get smite or some shit like that. Then again, if God were really into that whole smiting thing, I would've been dead a shit long time ago. Plus, I'm pretty sure these goons wouldn't be smiling and laughing and having a shit good time. What's up with that, anyways? Is nana talking to them.

In a place of God, no less! She should be ashamed of herself! And uncle Henry, too! How dare they even be seen together! They haven't been married for twenty years, a sin in itself. And their kid, their kid! Well he's a little bastard! Probably doesn't even believe in God! And now this! Now fucking this! What would God think?

The goons smiled politely and shook hands with many, smoothing triteful tales in a world gone mad. I try to bring up my own line of inquiries, but grandma Jackie won't have a bit of it. That bitch. For all I know, these guys could be here to kill us all, and not a damn soul would know. But I know. I've always know. These faithful bastards are here to see my dad off, and now it's time I show them just how it's supposed to be.

"Hey you." I inquire reproachfully, referring to the tall black gentleman to the right, "How do you know my father."

The goon smirks indignantly, "He was a friend."

No shit. "And you?" I add, pointing to the short blonde fellow.

"A friend of a friend."

"May I be perfectly blunt for a moment?"

The black man smiles, clearly content with the suggestion. The blonde man gives no say.

"Why the fuck," I whisper, hoarsely, "are you too goons here?"

The black man smiles. "Like I said, we're his friends." The blond man nods in agreement.

After this, I didn't get much of a chance to talk to them again, seeing that nephew Stephen had this new toy that everyone just had to see right then and there. I'll admit, it was some pretty cool shit. But not that cool.

The goons departed soon after this incident, and within the hour everyone but the priest, the dead man, and I, had escaped the pitiful circumstances. Burdened by the great despair that was my guilt, I called to the priest, "Father, what did I do wrong?"

"All that is done is by the will of God. You have sinned in no way that was not planned, my son."

"So there's nothing I could've done differently."

"No, most likely not."

"So there's no free will? No choice? No nothing? We're just predestined to go about our ways until we die."

"No. We have free will. But how we choose to wield it is not ours to consider."

"But if we can't wield our own will, how is it free."

"We are free to think, and that, more than anything else, is the greatest power of man."

"But what's the point of thinking if you can't do anything with it?"

"Oh but you can. How you most certainly can. But you won't."

"If everyone can think, and everyone can choose, then why don't they?"

"They do, you don't."

"Forgive me father, I don't understand."

"You had your chance to save him, to resurrect him from that god awful sin, but you instead chose to let fate decide you destiny, and in that you lost everything, your father, your son, and the Holy Ghost."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You are lost, my son, and you will never be found."