Disgust, That was the first feeling Clive felt when he entered the parlor, It was jarring, a bone-deep sense of revulsion that reared up and wouldn't go back down. "these people" Clive couldn't help but mutter. as he passed by a calendar "Thursday, December 6th" it read.

His state of listlessness broke apart, it was like a stained glass mirror shattered by the stone thrown by some disgruntled believer. the disconnect was sudden, jarring even, a crisp break between one moment into the next. It was somehow refreshing and disgusting at the same time. Like starting a new day or entering another world, an incredibly unpleasant one. The smell of carrion, no perhaps the illusion of a smell punctuated it. Reality had been something Clive found to be very fleeting for the past week. It was like he had been only half-conscious till now, like walking through a haze. perhaps that state was what allowed clive allowed to see the true nature of things, unfettered by the unconscious sense of politeness that bordered on naivety most people possessed, all illusions about the nature of others were stripped away. One thing was clear however.

This was NOTHING like the typical funeral at his father's parlor. The atmosphere was like a bunch of scavengers circling a not yet cold corpse, salivating over the entrails eyes alight with that telltale eager glint. Distant family members crawling out of the woodwork, distant aunts and uncles, the nieces and nephews as well. The younger ones had no desire to be there, the older ones hoping for a piece of the pie. People Clive had never seen save for once or twice suddenly appearing the moment it was convenient. All these relatives were silently carving it up and divvying out the portions before a word on the matter was even spoken. They all sought one thing, Inheritance, be it in the form of money, status, or prestige their greed and avirice for such things seemed...

bottomless.

Of course they hid their intentions well, using innuendos and polite phrasing to maks their thinly veiled intentions. They each said something along the lines of “oh it must have been terrible” Or “my condolences” Time threatened to blur again as Clive had to maintain a forceful grip on his sense of consciousness. At first, he felt angry, but even that turned the numb giving way to a pervasive sense of coldness. The same few words, empty pleasantries, and apologies, spoken over and over again. The only thing changing was the person saying it rather than the contents. No matter how hard he looked there was not a shred of sincerity. No that was reserved for the quiet sort of hustle and bustle that happens at every funeral. That gleam in a person’s eye when they discuss the ‘tragedy’ that had occurred; the rising pitch in their voice when they mentioned “handling the estate” revealed their true motives and intentions.

“so who do you think will inherit the family business,” Said a prudish woman in gaudy clothes with the tags still on them. “I think he’s far too young to assume that responsibility.” Said another Atkins, a well-dressed man. “yes, its only reasonable we talk some sense into him he’s still in school, we can’t let him ruin his future.” That was what all of the ‘well meaning’ members of the family had to say in one form or another. And then there was the rumor mill....

“he was there when it happened wasn’t he,” said the prudish woman once again. “don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think-” the words were hushed and inaudible to Clive. And just when Clive just could not bear it anymore and turned to leave the parlor. He heard a soft voice, one carrying a tone of recoil and disdain but the word was spoken in an abrupt fashion almost like someone had coughed, it was easy to mistake what had been said

“Vultures.”

Clive turned around “what did you say” the man cleared his throat and spoke quietly passing by Clive “they're just a flock of vultures, it’s natural for them to gather around gravesites.” This funeral was no place for open honesty, it wasn't long before those considered uncouth. First came the glares, then the gossip, and finally the hushed accusations. this was the sort of honest man that was ill-liked at most “social gatherings” and apparently someone much of his family knew and loathed. “he’s with that sort of person, up to no good” some other prudish aunt spoke “probably going through a dark time” another one, the type that appears well-meaning when convenient. commented “Such a bad influence, he might lead the boy astray” some anxious and unreliable-looking uncle chattered.

“it looks like this old man has overstayed his welcome, I’ll just see myself out”. the man passed by Clive, Pressing something into his palm. Clive stepped out of the parlor for a moment after things died down to inspect the item it was a business card

it read as follows:

Camden Questiones

private investigator

xxx-xxx-xxxx

there was also a message written on the back

contact me if you need anything,

ps. Stay for the funeral, vultures love telling their secrets to corpses.

Clive who was about to leave, decided to stay, watch, and listen, to force himself to observe the goings-on and face the reality of the situation. They were indeed vultures, beings hell-bent on extracting any value they could from the deceased in a sort of twisted way the Akins there did follow the family creed, they honored the dead, or rather their possessions and wealth to the point of worship. indeed the family name meaning earth was appropriate, nothing else mattered once the dead were buried only their possessions did in the eyes of many.

To them, the Atkins creed devolved to another rationalization. It was a strange feeling, a deep sense of disillusionment, you might even say he lost a little faith in humanity or in his own family at the least. To put it simply his day was ruined, his disappointment immeasurable. However, he still needed to make the most of it. Indeed, those who do not honor the dead should be treated as if they are among them. Still, having convictions and following them are worlds apart, in a sense Clive really wasn’t that much better than them.

The turn of events was far from strange, people sought wealth, it was their nature. most would consider his father the strange one. He was someone who seemed outside of time, displaced due to a different set of values in an increasingly pragmatic society. He was a man who stood for the old world, one of stiff values and principles often rigid and unbending in upholding them. Clive’s father was a recluse taking the family motto to an extreme, but because of that, he became a wealthy one.

You could say that He took his creed and turned it into a business with a great reputation. he benefited from the dead yes, but he placed an emphasis on giving rather than taking, and because he operated on a principle of equal exchange, the more he gave, the more he received if not wealth then respect and repute.

In time that behavior paid off in spades. The Atkins parlor was widely recognized in the area and was anyone's first choice, especially among wealthier clients for the most part it was an invitation-only business, if you were buried in the Atkins funeral parlor it was because you had earned the right to be there. In some circles it was a kind of badge of honor to have a member of your family buried there being wealthy and influential alone was not enough to have a member of your family buried there.

It was a strange business model (and quite frankly one that should not have worked) that relied on patronage and goodwill instead of simple profits and losses. It was enough to buy a nice house and start putting Clive through school, leaving a not insignificant nest egg behind. Clive quickly came to understand these matters better as the funeral progressed. It was all due to that wealth that everyone came scrambling. Everyone wanted something from him, when they could not get what they wanted it didn’t take them long to resort to insults and accusations.

Harsh words were exchanged frequently well into the afternoon. Clive was one of the last to leave and when he did there was the man from before waiting for him. “so how was it” He spoke with composure, and a hint of amusement. “disgusting” Clive practically spit the word out like he wanted to be rid of it. “I feel like I lost something important” Clive continued while kneading his head. “It’s called growing up, the cruel process of trading innocence for wisdom” the man who gave Clive the card sighed as if to punctuate his sentance. "you sound awfully bitter about it, why would you wish that on me,” Clive remarked almost offhandedly feigning mock surprise. “I’m told misery loves company, so it’s probably that” the man spoke seriously but his face gave a very different impression as he grinned somewhat playfully before speaking again. “Besides you seem to be in a dark place, dark humor is the best thing for that, this is the first time I’ve seen you smile since the funeral started” the man chuckled

Clive realized that the man was right, he was smiling, how the hell had that happened. he had spent the past week feeling nothing but numbness, shock, and bitterness. Clive couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the realization. It was a sight to behold a young man with a dark face just laughing like a madman in the rain right outside the funeral parlor. There were plenty of people still around, but Clive didn’t care, what did it matter anyhow. Decorum, respectfulness, it was just thinly veiled hypocrisy in the end. He really didn’t know to laugh or cry with how utterly absurd it all felt. It took several minutes before Clive stopped “do you have a cigarette by any chance”

Camden handed a cigarette to him and lit it “you smoke” it was something between a statement and a question. Clive shook his head “not at all, it just seems… appropriate” With that Clive went to find derrick and left the funeral, he had quite a bit to think about, but for now, he felt tired, he just wanted to sleep, for now, maybe have a few drinks not to escape, but rather to better savor this bitter feeling that would not go down.

Death emboldened people; made them prideful and conceited. The people at the funeral would have acted in an entirely different manner if someone else with money in the family had died, and while his father did have a fearful temperament it didn’t take people long to walk all over those convictions, they seemed so fearful of before. A stern stoic man, frighteningly calm in everything he did, that was the kind of man his father was. It wouldn’t be wrong to describe him as a ‘severe’ sort of person.

it wasn’t long before his family managed to finagle around with lawyers and ensure that Clive would be unable to claim ownership of the parlor. His family even attempted to have him run the parlor, an offer which Clive refused, there was simply no merit in it he would just be a dog kept under his family’s thumb if he did.

it did not even take them a week to do all this. all Clive could do was laugh bitterly and waste away with what was left to him, even fighting with the lawyers and hiring his own there was only enough to ensure his sister's care, Clive, on the other hand, was left with nothing other than his own despair and cynicism.