X'd Out

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"Wait, what?" Ryan broke in, his voice sharp enough that Cliff stopped to favor him with a raised eyebrow before answering.

"That's what it says, anyway." Cliff refolded the newspaper so that the obits were on top. "'Mr. Burnapple is survived by his sister, Flora Burnapple, 58, currently residing in Omaha, Nebraska. Services were held at -- '"

Ryan let out a loud whoop, again startling Cliff into silence and a hoist of the eyebrow. "Where's the fucker buried?"

"At, uh. Valhalla Gardens." Sudden understanding flooded Cliff's face, followed by a species of surprise tempered by the knowledge that worse would probably be forthcoming. "Please tell me you're not planning what I think you are."

"Oh hell yes," Ryan replied, pulling his wallet from his pocket. Carefully he extracted a much-worn slip of paper, smoothing it out on the table before grabbing Cliff's crossword-working pen. "Principal Burnapple rode both our asses all through high school -- and, if you'll remember, tried three separate times to get a shrink to certify me as crazy so he could have me expelled and locked up. And you know what I've wanted to do ever since."

Cliff groaned. "I'd kind of hoped you'd forgotten by now."

"Never," Ryan answered cheerfully. Carefully he X'd out one of the names listed on the ragged slip of paper. "And now I'm finally gonna get to dance on his grave."



"Burnapple"?