|The bloke leaves a nice little legacy behind. What a fun story.|
The funeral was a dour affair, as most funerals are. This was an even more solemn and pathetic affair though, with but three attendees: the vicar; the deceased's only son; an old betting pal who left half way through to stick his wages on the twelve-forty at Plumpton. The ex-wife hadn't felt like missing bingo.
A few generic passages about God or Jesus were read, and then a song played out on an organ that was so out of tune it sounded oriental. The boy hadn't known what songs his old man liked, so he chose a Coldplay song: Yellow. He thought he remembered yellow being his pa's favourite colour. That or green, anyway.
What a day for a funeral: the poor lad had just turned eighteen and had been hoping to splash a large percentage of his birthday money on a wild night with his college pals. That had all gone on the coffin though, and because of his old man's habit, he had the square root of bugger all in return in inheritance. Cheers, pa.
Trudging aimlessly along the very same motorway that had been the scene of his father's accident, the lad realised he was nearing the town centre. It wasn't much of a town: there were about ten shops of note, a pub, and a bookies. He rummaged around in his pocket. He had a tenner left from the money his mum and other relatives had lavished on him. "Go and buy yourself something nice, kid," they'd said. After the binge he had been planning to put a deposit down on an electric guitar.
He flicked open his out of date phone to check if there were any NFL Online Bets that took his fancy. Nothing doing. The bookies in town was independent, and through his dad he knew the fellow who ran it well enough to get bespoke odds for American sports that the big chains wouldn't offer. He'd made a fair buck last year with some lucky super bowl online betting, but he guessed he'd have to mimic his father today. Football and horses it was.
Five hours later, he felt like he'd been on the Big Dipper. Two hundred up, after the three o'clock kick-offs, he'd blown half of it on the Midlands Derby at five-twenty. He never even watched Championship football. The rest had been whittled away on horses and greyhounds. "Those little four-legged beauties always get me out of a pickle," he heard his dad saying somewhere in the back of his mind.
Sure they did pa, sure they did.
He set off home. Looked like he'd be walking.
Two links for you today, folks. Aren't you lucky!