The Death Penalty

First Person

The Death Penalty

M

y phone rings at 4 am on July 26. My groggy, “What’s up?” meets with a wail that would put a banshee to shame. Amid the sobs, I make out the two words, “dad” and “dead”.

Taking a second to process the information, I gather that Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniel’s have finally had enough of the abuse my Uncle Eustace had subjected them to, and had decided to fight back. Wasting no time, I get dressed hastily, and because my cousin, Uncle Eustace’s elder son, works on an oil rig off the coast of South Africa, the job of putting together the funeral is passed on to me.

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