Broiler: Danny Nutter! Why you do not move? Where is the life in you? When I lift the tankard to your lips, you will not drink. You are even pastier than when normal. It can only be that you are—DEAD!

I will edit a poem I found on an Internet in your honor.

No one understands the darkness I feel,

The ignorance of the others closes in around me,

I will not shed tears, except in the silence of my room,

Where their jeers and laughter cannot reach Nutter.

Now to chew half a pack of Juicy Fruit and do the moonwalk. Well, how is that for funeral! Now we must get you buried at a gravesite where I can drink tankards at and also to bring the girls and make with the fake tears and then get the kisses.

At the Mortuary

Broiler: One buried in the ground friend please!

Mortician: Sir, you must make previous arrangements. Cost of funeral and burying is approximately $5,000, and I can’t even—

Broiler: One burned up friend with no funeral please!

Mortician: There is also a substantial fee associated with cremation. If you’d like to see some of the options—

Broiler: Call me a monorail to the match and gasoline store please!

One Homemade Cremation Later

Broiler: Ho ho, Nutter! You would laugh to see all the sprinkler systems your smoking body has set off! Who would’ve thought the cleansing tongue of fire could make you smell even worse than when you could drink tankards without strings tied to your arms. So many ashes. But where to cast them? Dumpster behind my apartment where you liked to sleep? No wait, that was me. Oh, I know! I will put your ashes into an empty tankard and hire a replacement for you and your replacement and I will find a Secret Seattle Spot to scatter your ashes and I may even sing your favorite song from The Lion King, “Freakazoid Robots Please Report to the Dance Floor.”

At Von’s

Broiler: OK you are now to interview for the part of the Dead Nutter. First buy us drinks.

Donny Natter: Bartender? I’ll have an original Martini and I suppose my friend here will have a tankard. Ha ha.

Broiler: It is clear that I love tankards at Von’s, but what is this clear triangle you are drinking? Why is there in it an eyeball as green as Danny Nutter’s dead eye and also a red pupil as red as Danny Nutter’s dead red pupil? Who are you with your dumb and wrong ways with your mouth that accepts no tankards?

Natter: Heh heh. First of all, let me just say I am a big fan of yours.

Broiler: You may blow large air at me, but you drink drinks like a dumb lady. What do you know about Seattle and its Secret Spots?

Natter: Well, I’ve been in the Puget Sound area for 17 years. I find Seattle to be a vibrant, exciting place to live. Like any metropolitan area, Seattle has its share of great eating, movers, and shakers, and as a longtime scenester on the power-martini jet set, I know where the elite meet to—

Broiler: You wear shrimp diapers like a vacationing Austrian! Your airplane talk does not impress me and neither does your fancy shoes wearing also! You cannot replace what’s-his-name. No one can ever replace that one guy! Out, out, out!

Natter: But what about my drink? You can’t just kick me out of Von’s!

Broiler: There! Your drink is empty into my head and then this now empty tankard waved above my head like a shovel of malice says that I can kick you out of Von’s! In fact, everyone! Out of Von’s now! Oh Danny! Your death has caused me to turn others away from that best of tankard stores, Von’s. I will drink yet another tankard in your honor and try to think about you at least once while enjoying the yummy drunk making sauce. Think, Broiler, think. Where can we dump you, Danny? Oh! I know! Tankards away!

At the Monorail

Broiler: Hi. How much for to dump the ashes of my friend, that one guy, on the Monorail for forever to ride between the Mall of Westlake and to the Seattle Space Needle Center?

Cashier: What?

Broiler: Funeral on the Monorail. One ticket for me and one ticket for a funeral on the Monorail.

Cashier: What funeral? The Monorail is not for funerals.

Broiler: Sadly you are right. In all my grief I forgot that the Monorail has the sole job of efficiently moving people from the Robot World Series to the Hair Part. There is no room for funerals, weddings, or chicken wing eating contests on the Monorail. I would, however, like to take my tankard of ashes for one last ride. One child ticket please.

Cashier: You’re not a child.

Broiler: But it’s the child in me that you must learn to pamper. Dumbass.

At the Seattle Pike Place Public Sanitary Market

Broiler: Perhaps put inside a slippery fish, the men in the overalls can throw Nutter into heaven.

Nutter’s Ashes: But their arms are too short to place me in heaven. If they cannot snatch KOMO 1000 traffic helicopters or Boing 787s from the sky, then how can they possibly put me in heaven? Think, Broiler, think!

Broiler: Shut up, you! Wait! Hair Planes! I will take you to the airport and you can soar to heaven aboard a metal flying dinosaur! If not heaven then Kirk Land. You ashes shall forever rest at the big feet of almighty Mr. Bee Jesus. But if I remember right, the airport is pretty far away. Too far for you and too bad for you stupid, cumbersome Nutter ashes! Ruin my Sunday. I’ll show you!

At Von’s

Broiler: Nutter. I’m sorry when I got mad at the burned you and dumped you in The Stranger Newspaper Box and also part of you in the ashtray outside the Camlin Hotel. I know you hated the Camlin Hotel Bar because in the upstairs there are many dolphins in dumb hats and not enough tankards. And it has become your final resting place, except for these ashes all over my poncho. I hope you can forgive me. I also hope there is something good on TV tonight, because I know what’s for dinner. Potatoes!