Just For Good Measure. by John Patrick Robbins

            

They all gathered some out of respect and others I believe just to make sure he was truly dead.

The old bastard had been a mean hearted person most his life .
He hated people but he lived with ten cats .

Each one of them more fat and spoiled than the next .
He drank in excess and cursed everyday he awoke to see another sunrise .

His cats were always thrilled to see him up cause it meant breakfast time.

They all had silly names .
On his walls were pictures of his past felines .

He had a whole play room for them they tore curtain's and shredded everything in sight .

He didn't give a damn as long as they were happy.

He had litter boxes everywhere .
The cats lounged about the house as he watched TV drank cocktails and sent out rejections .

As he got deeper into the drinks the more nasty he got.

He wasn't respected he was feared .

He made writers with his approval slammed others and buried his competition.

He only left the house to restock the bar and to buy his furry friends food .

They didn't give a damn about him as he could give a damn about anyone else .

One night as he was really on a roll at his kitchen table halfway through he suffered a heart attack and keeled over .

Most were surprised to learn he had a heart at all.

He left everything to his cats .

They never seemed to notice he was gone .

Those who showed up mainly went to see him chucked into the cold ground.

Afterwards I met his daughter she was distant and cold .

I told her I was very sorry for her loss.

She told me she was never close to her father .

We shared a few drinks she had eyes like a cat .
I wondered did she purr just the same .

Me and the old bastard had one thing in common .
We both loved pussy .

I just prefered mine standing upon two legs rather than four.

I went by his grave it was lonely as the bitter old shit himself once was in life .

I poured him one last drink .

Course it was through my kidneys I probably should have brought a flask .

He never liked me much told me I was a shit writer .

I may have been shit but least I was alive .

It's far better to be pissed off than pissed upon .

                 The End

John Patrick Robbins 

Holds a black belt in drinking and is the editor and chief of The Rye Whiskey Review and also this fine magazine .

When not spending his days drinking his liver silly he can often be found passed out behind the bar .

Or hosting a podcast or working on his never ending book .

Cheers and stay crazy .