Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen. Alan Moore does.
Classic: Toasting These Comedians
It had taken a day and a half to find them. They used to be everywhere on billboards and advertisements but progress must be made and so they tinkled into the past. But for every force there is an opposing force. Physics, huh?
The walk to the cemetery was kind of long but I didn't really mind. It was a nice day. I had declined a bag because I didn't want to deal with the plastic all crinkly and obtrusive into what I considered a special day. The receipt rustled in my coat pocket in rebellion. You can't win 'em all. You can't get them all.
I stopped at the entrance to the grounds and surveyed the beds of resting corpses. They were six feet underneath the surface of the earth. There was something profoundly sad in that especially because of who I had come to see. They were dead and would never see the sun or feel the warmth on their face like I did now.
I came across the first man and held the bottle in my hand.
I twisted it this way and that watching the light shine through the sloshing liquid frothing about. It was turbulent. It was fitting.
I popped the cap off and looked down at the grave sitting staunchly at my feet. I took a sip only to have it foam up and spill down the bottle. I laughed. There wasn't anything else to do. I watched it drip down my fingers to the ground. The ground seeped it up until there was only a few drops left on the grass, a mockery of the dew drops tht had touched upon the grass blades this morning. I licked the stickiness off and sipped the drink, savoring the old taste.
Edward Morgan Blake.
I had read Under the Hood but I still felt a need to show a little respect to a man who'd worked for a nation. The Comedian.
I wonder at what point he stopped laughing or if he's still guffawing down in his grave. I leave the bottle leaning against his grave. It rolls a little cheekily and the sunlight glints off it like a wink.