TESTAMENT
(LUCIUS PEMBROKE, an
elderly man of some considerable wealth,
sits at a table, writing.
He holds up pages and reads from them)
LUCIUS
(reads aloud)
I, Lucius Pembroke, being
of sound mind and body, do hereby set forth my Last Will and Testament, which
of necessity voids all previous wills. I do this of my own consent and volition, and without
the benefit of legal counsel. I’ve
been dealing with lawyers my whole life, and over the years those leeches have
sucked me drier than my first wife’s hoo-ha. As far as I’m concerned they can all go screw themselves for
a change.
The practical disposition
of my estate is a subject that has long consumed me. I have truly lived the American dream – I’ve worked
hard and sacrificed much to preserve the fortune that my parents left me - and
I feel it incumbent upon me to assure that this great legacy does not, upon my
demise, fall into the waiting hands of lazy unproductive moochers.
To wit, my various ex-wives
– Sheila, Madeleine, Bambi, and Juanita - who have already benefited from my
largesse far beyond their combined worth. These indolent cows have been grazing on the pastures
of my alimony payments long enough, and by this point they could live quite
comfortably off the fat of their grass-fed asses. Accordingly, I leave them nothing but the fruits of my
decomposing corpse; accustomed as they are to feeding off my flesh, they are
welcome to any and all of the maggots that my cadaver may spontaneously
generate. Bon appetit.
To my son, Fielding, who
has proven to be a monumental disappointment in every respect, from his
muddle-headed embrace of socialist politics to his execrable taste in
unattractive patchouli-smelling women – to Fielding, I leave the key to my safe-deposit box, which he will find
as empty as the cavernous gap between his ears.
To my daughter Wendy, who
through some weird process of surgical alchemy is now my son Wendell, I leave
my first edition of “Finnegan’s
Wake”, so that she/he may be as thoroughly confused in mind as in body;
To my cat Muffin, who taught me so much about myself -
primarily, that I hate cats; it’s a miracle I haven’t strangled that
son-of-a-bitch already – to Muffin, I leave a year’s supply of Meow Mix,
liberally laced with rat poison.
See if you can hack that up
into a hairball, you little fucker.
And now, to my nurse Inga…
Inga, young and fresh-faced, full of high
spirits and the promise of springtime–
Inga, barely twenty-three
but wise beyond her years, her bright green eyes and winsome smile evoking the
very essence of Scandinavian innocence -
Inga, with her soft
yielding mouth and darting tongue; her long silken hair cascading over lush
ripe breasts; her waist trim and supple; her round firm buttocks, plump and
juicy…
(goes
into a happy reverie, then snaps out of it)
What was I talking
about? Oh -
Inga, who turned my musty bedroom into a
playground of sensual delights…Not just for me, mind you, but for my chauffeur,
my personal trainer, my sous chef, and most disturbingly, my accountant – Inga,
who slept with everyone on the property but the garden gnome…
Fuck you, Inga.
Having suffered dispiriting
failure on every front past and present, I now turn my hopeful gaze to the
future. And the future, my
friends, is Space. In that
grand exploratory spirit, I hereby
bequeath the entirety of my remaining estate - my properties, my off-shore accounts, my stocks and
holdings - all to my good friend
Zarkon, the Imperial Leader of the planet Moktu.
It was while summering in Fiji
that I was first visited by Zarkon and his hearty crew of extraterrestrials,
and spirited aboard their spaceship.
There, as is customary in
all alien encounters, I was anally probed, gently but with great
thoroughness. A long cylindrical
tube was introduced into my rectum, and methodically snaked through the winding
catacombs of my gastro-intestinal complex.
While thus impaled, I
received an intense genital massage from a handsome Moktu woman who had fifteen
fingers on each hand, but nevertheless used her feet. Afterwards, my cranium was removed with a laser beam, and I
was allowed the privilege of holding my own brain in my lap. It was an experience I will never
forget, even though I don’t quite remember it.
I spent a week on planet
Moktu, and found the Moktuvian people congenial and without pretense. They have no word for “hate”. They have no word for many
things. They’re a very primitive
race. They can build spaceships, that’s about it.
But they’re a great bunch
of guys, and I want to help them out, any way I can. Hopefully my small contribution will help the
Moktuvians establish a colony here on Earth, a base of operations from which
they may create a New World Order, one based on peace and kindness and mutual
respect. If we could achieve that
kind of cosmic love, if we could reach a defining moment of pure universal
bliss – and wipe out a bunch of worthless assholes in the process - then my
money and my dreams will not have been spent in vain.
Such are my wishes in
these, my final moments. The
next pill I take will transport my soul through the galaxy vector and back to
Moktu, where eternal life awaits me.
(Lucius pops the
pill)
Some will probably
challenge the wisdom of my directives here; some in desperation may even question my sanity. But anyone who tries to contest this
will on those grounds, just be
forewarned: Zarkon is watching, and he’s got an anal probe with your name on
it.
(Lucius keels over
gently onto the will)
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