"Wha?"
"Mr. Betzendorf, you are the last survivor, and Mr. Bone's estate is rightfully yours".
"Izzat right...?" The filthy, lice-ridden ghoul crept out of his burrow.
"Come with me, please." Mr. Blackstone strode toward his 1940 Cadillac.
Billy Betzendorf, orphan boy of Stapleton and alleged offspring of John Bone stumbled towards the sedan. His filthy hair hung to his waist. He wore no clothes.
Meanwhile, vultures returned to the site and dined on the penultimate survivor.
Billy stared at Blackstone's car as if it were an alien space capsule. Mr. Blackstone pointed to a nearby truck, and Billy scrambled in back with a pair of hogs (who kept their distance). With the Cadillac in the lead, the caravan left Ticklish Rock.
They stopped at a nearby pig farm, where a kindly farmer hosed Billy off, then fumigated him with a disinfectant. Sal the barber from Stapleton, who had driven out to the site with Mr. Blackstone, cut his hair, and Mario the tailor fitted him to an off-the-rack suit.
Washed, cleanly shaven and sporting a new suit, Billy still looked like some guy who had lived in a stinking, fetid cave for thirty-eight years. He smelled a little less foul, though.
Mr. Blackstone drove Billy to Stapleton and checked him in to the Grand Hotel across the street from the station. "I shall call for you here on Tuesday, Mr. Betzendorf, so we can settle your -- ahem -- father's estate." Mr. Blackstone said the word father in such a manner that it was clear that he didn't believe the ruse for a minute. Nevertheless, his legal duty was clear.
On the way back to his office, Mr. Blackstone stopped at the Post Office and sent a Special Delivery letter to Lake City:
Mr. Booth Kibble, Sr., Partner
Kibble, Kibble and Fish
Lake City
Re: Liquidation of John Bone Trust
Dear Mr. Kibble:
The John Bone Trust is to be settled next Tuesday morning at ten in my office in Stapleton. Kindly liquidate all assets of the trust and plan to attend the settlement meeting with all required accounting and documentation.
Your travel and fees will be reimbursed from proceeds of the settlement.
Kind regards,
Henry Blackstone, Jr., Esquire
P.S. -- Do say hello to Pickles for me.
Meanwhile, back at the Grand Hotel, Billy stretched out in a real bed for the first time in thirty-eight years, and thought about what he would do with his immense wealth.
