Russell James

“What is that monstrosity in the driveway?” I knew those would be my wife’s first words when she got home.  I went to kiss her hello.  Her eyes burned through me. I paused at a safe distance. “It’s a hearse,” I said.  My enthusiastic grin bounced off her like rain on granite. “I know it’s a hearse.  Why the hell is it here?” A hell-oriented pun of a reply died on my lips.  “We own it,” I said. “Oh no.  We don’t.  What were you thinking when you bought it? ‘I’ve always wanted a car that transported dead people.’?” “I…