As did John's snoring, and the nightmares he's been having recently of the adamintium-laced skeleton super invincible Wolverine, boning a large tree panda...
With one final check to make sure that John was still snoring deeply, if a little uneasily, Jesse quietly let himself into the dark corridor beyond their room and quietly closed the door behind him.
Jesse knelt by the corpse, fondly ruffling its dry hair with one hand, and thinking: Ah, father, if only you'd have been as quiet and peaceful in life as you are in death.
She looked dead sexy in her green paramedic's outfit and, with the startling efficiency of the newly qualified, soon had his Dad alive and kicking again.
"Dagnabbit, why'd you bring me back?" cried the old curmudgeon in an affected hillbilly accent. "I was just sittin' down to dinner with our dear lord Jesus Christ, Albert Camus, Janis Joplin, and your own sainted mother!"
"I am no mere faggot," hissed an irritated John, "I'm a glorious polysexual in platforms and you better button your lip, recently dead Dad, or Janis Joplin will be bellowing drunkenly in your ear about wanting a Mercedes Benz again in a minute..."
"I wasn't talking to you," frowned the old man, as all three turned to face the just-entered-and-already-irritated John, "I was talking to this here jessie, your brother Jesse."
Double-taking for a second, their father then turned on John, "But, you're a glorious polysexual, are you...?", he stopped, wondering how all this lunacy had transpired, and seeing the burning eyes of his (incestuous?) sons.
"Mary Jane," began Jesse, frantically thinking of some way to get out of the trip to her uncle's log cabin she had made him promise to take with her the next morning.
"And.... and... I promised I'd take my niece to the carnival... and between getting my leg sawed off, and helping dad recover from being dead, and on top of that having to win stuffed animals and eat mounds and mounds of funnel cake, I don't see how I'm going to make it to the cabin this weekend... and... ummm.... oh, did I mention I'm running for Mayor?"
"It's not gangrene," said Mary-Jane, glancing at his leg, "and you're not running for Mayor - and if you don't want to come to Uncle Jonty's cabin, just say so."
"Well," said John finally, plucking a wriggling maggot from Dad's eye-socket and sniffing it appreciatively, "looks like it's just the three of us this weekend, then."
