Napoleon's Goldfish (prose, part1)

Grandma Grey threw her glass eye at the wall and when it bounced back the third time the crowd concluded both that it must have been made of rubber, and that this was without doubt the most longest funeral they had ever been to. They had been waiting an hour and a half but still there was no sign of neither the corpse, his bride nor a priest that could put an end to this affair, that started with the popping of Jimmy Shoe on the corner of Orinocco Blues restaurant, and followed by a hasty closing down of their chip shop and the apperence of a scar across Mike the Moose's face from his eyebrow to his highest chin. Jimmy Shoe was the great great grand step and a hop nephew of the legendary Claudio McFlathery who was the illegimite child of Napoleon IV's goldfish and Irish mercenary who stopped by their annual St Patrick Day celebration in their country get-away in County Offaly for a drink and a bowl of mashed potatos a sunny day in November.
«I dunno about yous but I'm gettin a drink. Giveus a pint there, Larry» Grandma Grey said in a low voice, clearly strained by grief and a life long consumption of raw vegetables and tobacco. Larry the Leprechaun- for he was indeed short and red haired and had more than once showed up with pot and colourful towels, placed a glass of whiskey on the table in front of her. She had lost not only another grandchild to the potato industry, but also her favourite post man, and she didn't now how to get over this one just yet. Her daughter and Jimmy's aunt, Mary, had prepared some sandwiches cut in the shape of crosses for the occation, but no one touched them as the shock of the news of Jimmy's death after the day he had defied our Lord and sold his soul to the Devil for a good crop of taters and cursed the most devoted Catholic people on this planet. However, they didn't know that Jesus perferred Protestants.

A small village like this one could not support more than one chipper, and after the truckloads with Polish workers had stopped and settled outside the village, the Italians had seized the opportunity and opened a second chipper, and within a month, the competition had demanded three corpses, a bag of crisps and two curses.

The priest tore open the door and the rain outside came down as being poured from giant celestical buckets had soaked him way beyond wet and his black preist cloak stuck like a sticker to his skinny body, and his black socks made the wooden floor full of dark, wet stains. Maid of the house – Mary, looked at them at worried how on earth she would clean that up.
« He's ... gone» the priest said.

(to be continued....)