"...And then I said to the guy, 'ooga booga go back to Africa,"' Kramer slammed his hands on the counter and let out a bellow of laughter.
Looking unamused, the black street vendor behind the counter replied, "Sir, all I asked is if you wanted a pickle with your hot dog, you didn't have to tell me your story about how you were racist to a cancer patient at the children's hospital."
"Don't worry boy, it's complimentary, I know your people love free handouts. But for your information, I'm no racist, I'm a race realist," retorted Kramer.
"...Right… Look man, do you want a pickle with your dog or not?"
Kramer coughed, "this look like Chicago to you boy? Why don't you add sesame seeds while you're at it!" He looked to the side and gave a quick chuckle with his throat, while the vendor stared at him blankly, "but yes, actually, I would like a pickle, thanks." He paid for the hot dog and carried it all the way to the church where the funeral was being held.
He hadn't taken a single bite; it was almost as if he had forgotten he had even purchased and was carrying the thing, until Jerry looked at him and asked, "You're not bringing that thing in are you?"
Kramer paused and looked at Jerry before plainly asking, "what thing?"
"The hot dog."
"Oh yeah, this thing." Save for some ketchup that smeared on the front of his white button-up shirt, Kramer managed to swallow the hot-dog whole, bun, topping, and all, casually dusting his hands off afterward. Everyone watching had a strong reaction to this sight, George seemed simply impressed, but most of the others were merely disgusted. Sonic trained his eyes on Kramer, staring at him longingly.
The gothic architecture of the church stuck out against the modern styling of the city around it, like a short old man at the bar amongst a sea of college kids, still flirting aggressively with passers-by, making everybody really uncomfortable, but none willing to confront him. Even before entering one could clearly see the interior was abound with wood, some smooth and well lacquered but still more rough and rotting, composing the stairs, the eaves, and the walls and floor of the upper story. The gang took their seats amongst the other mourners and prepared to hear words on behalf of the departed. George nudged Jerry with his elbow and pointed at the sign atop the closed-casket. "Jerry, am I going crazy, or does that sign say 'in memory of Lardon Johnson?'" Jerry focused on the sign to read for himself, and as soon as he did he tried to repress a laugh, muffling it into a sharp nasal snicker, after which he and George burst into fits trying to contain their laughter with as much dignity as possible, but mostly failing. The sign did indeed read 'Lardon,' instead of 'Landon.' George of course informed the whole crew, and none of them could keep from giggling either, not even Mussolini.
They were in fact, still cackling by the time the first of the bereaved got up to speak. "What can you say about Landon? He was Landon!" At this, the gang laughed more audibly, and the woman speaking ran off embarrassed. The next speaker stood up and declared, "Here lies Landon Johnson, the biggest ass who ever lived, what a douche!" The funeral was beginning to feel more and more like a comedy club by the minute, now the entire crowd was giddy from the abundant comedy and slow-roasting of the departed. The next woman who stood up spoke with a stutter, "did he not feel p-a-a-ain when he was h-u-u-u-rt? I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean did he not shit? Did he not dreersh? He was only human, but yes he was chicken and winnegans. Yeet."
A single person amongst the crowd stood up and began slowly clapping. Nobody joined him, and after about ten seconds of awkward, lone clapping, he sat back down. Tails leaned over to Jerry and asked quietly, "Is this a normal funeral? It seems very disrespectful to the dead."
"Don't worry," replied Jerry, "Landon was a nerd-ass bitch, and he's getting the respect he deserved, which is none."
Knuckles replied, "why are we here then? Why were you ever friends with him?"
"Well, we're here for two reasons, first because we were invited and if you start saying no to party invitations people will stop inviting you, and second because of free refreshments." Jerry gestured over to a table full of finger food and drinks, where Kramer was pouring a flask into a punch bowl. "We were friends with Landon because his dad works for Nintendo." Reggie from Nintendo could be seen a few rows in front of them with other people in expensive looking suits. The crowd dispersed from their seats.
"Jerry, Jerry!" Kramer hobbled over to Jerry at the buffet table and uncrumpled a piece of paper. "Jerry, someone handed me this note,"
"A note? What does it say?"
"It says, 'meat me upstairs, M-E-A-T, meat."
"That's a pretty weird sentence, why would the spell-out 'meat' and then repeat it?"
Kramer stared blankly at Jerry for a moment before replying, "No see, I added that part, it just says 'meat me upstairs, I was just pointing out they said 'meat' y'know, like the food."
"Ah yeah that is weird," Jerry played it off cool, but his scrotum shriveled as he suppressed tears, realizing how stupid he was for not realizing Kramer hadn't just read the note verbatim. Thoughts of suicide re-entered his mind. "What do you think it means?"
"Well I was thinking it could be a euphemism or something… are you crying?"
Jerry suppressed a sob and let out a high-pitched, "no." He swallowed heavily. "I think you should go check it out, this party is kind of a bummer, could use any kind of excitement, you know?"
"Yeah, I agree. Who would've thought a funeral could be such a downer?" Kramer made his way to the dilapidated looking staircase. Running his palm up the railing, it was immediately apparent it was the type prone to splinter, so he took care to be extra gentle. This sensation of the wood along with the dull creak of the stairs under his weight and his sudden distance from the clutter of the gathering fostered an atmosphere of contemplation for him, and his mind raced, at first about what awaited him at the top of the staircase but quickly beyond and about the decisions he had made in his life. He became pensive, and determined to better himself at his nearest convenience. He reached the top of the stairs, and there was a shift in the air, ever so slight but impossible to ignore. It was warmer, but there was an odor, where the staircase smelt dead and empty there was clearly a living beast with a beating heart nearby now, not stirring, but waiting patiently. Kramer was in a clearing with benches against the walls to either side of him and a doorway in-front. He stepped forward and casually pushed to door open.