He dreamed he walked the aisle to see Hank Williams lie in repose. A Cadillacwide pearlwhite casket with a black lead sheet inlay along the length denoting the melody of “Ramblin’ Man.” Inside, the man himself. Pale. His dermis thin like phyllo dough. Somehow a smirk cobbled on his lips. The points of his white lapels sharp as rapiers. Fingertips crannied on the brim of the matching hat.
The son was there. Drunk in his leather. His eyes barely seen behind aviators as he stood at his father’s feet with Ghostface Killah. The palm of his bloated hand slapping the casketlid with a muffled thump.
“Daddy’s not wearin pants.”
“No shit. Last request.” With this he gripped the crook of his elbow, made a fist, and raised his flexed arm to eye level. “Nahmean, Tony?”