The Origin Story

Barbara Farnsworth gingerly pulled the hospital room door shut behind her as she joined her family on the bench outside Grandfather Milton’s room. The adults gathered into a ghoulish huddle.

“Good news, he’s doing terribly,” Barbara whispered from behind her tastefully manicured hand. “All of his vitals are crashing. The doctor thinks he’s going into full-blown organ failure. It won’t be much longer.”

“I’m getting the Bentley, I don’t care what the will says,” Lenore hissed.

“I’ll let you have that if you give up your stock shares, sister dear,” growled Alfie as he pulled his ascot, a nervous tick of his since their ascot-filled childhood.

“Oh for all we know he left the whole kit and kaboodle to his Afghan hounds,” spat Alfie’s wife Beatrice.

Just then tender little Alfie Junior wandered back from the gift shop. Lenore caught a glimpse of this very card sticking out of little Alfie’s fancy tweed overalls. “No! Not the card! Stop him!” But it was too late. Little Alfie laid the card on Grampy’s wizened chest. “Don’t fucking die, Grampy, get well soon!” he whimpered, a single tear coursing down his tender young cheek.

Grandfather Milton’s eyes fluttered open. He sat up abruptly and tore off his oxygen mask, the miraculous healing powers of the card having completely restored his health.

“Thank you, little Alfie, that’s just what I needed!” the old bastard crowed, ripping out the rest of the tubes and springing from the bed to do a creepy little jig. “Take that, my horrid heirs! This is how I’ll dance on all your graves!”

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