The Emancipating Death of a Boring Engineer

By Michel Bruneau

Winner, Best Second Novel, 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
Finalist, Literary Fiction, 2012 Book of the Year Award, Foreword Reviews

An unconventional journey, searching for significant numbers, good wines, the meaning of life, love, and whether it is ever too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9780982475270

Book preview

dead?

Zero

My casket shall be filled to the rim with 2005 Saint-Émilion, read the funeral director, poker face.

Carmina thought he was joking—maybe some grim deadpan humor that comes with the job. She couldn’t fathom how the dreary task of working with the living to serve the dead could be a dream job to anyone, so it had to be some clumsy attempt by a closet comedian to console his bereaved clients. If it was, it was in poor taste.

But he didn’t budge or blink. And bereaved she wasn’t.

What does that mean?

He didn’t know anymore than her, as he had opened the sealed envelope in her presence and was reading the document for the first time. Careful not to sound arrogant, he answered, I believe it means that the deceased wishes to have his casket filled with an excellent expensive vintage, refraining from interjecting, and what a waste that is.

This was impossible. Her ex-husband had never been one inclined towards such exuberance—he was a boring engineer for Christ’s sake, she thought.

Are you sure this is not a mistake? Are we are talking about Keene Mason here?

Indeed we are, he said, showing her the name on the file.

It was.

Somehow, her ex-husband had gone nuts, she thought. Whether he busted a screw loose just before dying, or slowly developed dementia over the years, nobody told her. She hadn’t heard from him for over a decade—since they separated—when the phone rang two days ago informing her that she had been named as next of kin to oversee execution of the funeral arrangements.

Shall I continue reading?

She nodded.

Assuming a standard casket 84 inches long, 28 inches wide, and 23 inches tall, conservatively neglecting the thickness of the walls and space taken by the bedding, and assuming the lid line to be 6 inches from the top, 22,115 ounces of wine would be needed to fill this volume of 39,984 cubic inches. However, per Archimedes’ principle, assuming my body-density to be equal to that of water—a reasonable premise as I just barely float in water—my corpse should occupy 4,272 of those cubic inches, leaving 19,789 ounces to fill. The 761 bottles of Saint-Émilion needed for this purpose are stored in my basement.

Bloody waste, at over $50 a bottle, the funeral director mumbled to himself. He certainly planned to generously pad the box with layers of cheap bedding, allowing to discretely swipe a couple of cases of the precious nectar—as a sort of amusement tax to compensate for the unorthodox follies of such insane clients.

Neglecting the fact that the formaldehyde, methanol, and ethanol used in embalming fluids are lighter than water, and using a specific gravity of .995 as a reasonable estimate—in absence of an hydrometer reading straight from the Saint-Émilion—the total weight of the wine and self should be 1435 pounds, to which should be added another 150 pounds for the casket. Unless the casket bearers come in weightlifter sizes, this requires special provisions.

Carmina recognized her former husband in those sentences. It was him after all. Obsessed as ever with planning, sizing, calculating the minutia. He had to engineer the details of his funeral! Couldn’t just die like everybody else, she thought, in disbelief for sure, but without animosity. True eccentrics would have left to others the aggravation of dealing with how to execute their Daliesque last wishes. But engineering and eccentricity aren’t even close to being synonyms.

The casket shall be filled with wine only after having been deposited on the pallet loader described in the attached documentation from the specialized rental agency—it’s just like the ones used to load the cargo bays of airplanes, and it’s fun to operate.

The otherwise impassive funeral director raised an eyebrow. He had no inclination to turn his establishment into an amusement park; he would operate the machinery with the requisite solemnity and dignity—as much as the noise from a hydraulic contraption would allow.

To compensate for buoyancy, I have provided a diver’s belt and a set of ankle and wrist weights to keep me sunk to the bottom of the coffin.

Carmina couldn’t reconcile the different signals. On one hand, the predictable fanaticism about numbers; on the other, all this nonsensical talk about turning caskets into giant cocktails. As if the Keene she knew had collided with another one of mysterious origins—so fierce an impact that their DNA entangled during the crash, spawning a weird mutant, familiar yet foreign.

Using the U.S. Department of Energy rating of 11,585 British Thermal Units (BTU) per pound for ethanol, and a percentage of alcohol of 13.5% per the Saint-Émilion’s label, there will be 1.6×10⁶ BTUs of energy in the casket—enough for a formidable flambé. Since computer controls designed to keep a cremation chamber operating at less than 2000ºF can’t cool a runaway fire, the process should start by igniting the wine surface exposed after the casket cover has been removed, letting it burn as a pool fire until the fuel is expended before starting the gas burners and proceeding with the normal cremation process. This approach will be simpler than injecting massive volumes of cold water into the cremation chamber to control its temperature.

Why not all sing Kumbaya while roasting marshmallows over this ‘pool fire’ while we’re at it? wondered the funeral director, as he abhorred being told how to do his job by obnoxious amateurs. By now, he was determined to substitute cheap jug wine boiled and bottled in California’s Central Valley and hide the crates of Saint-Émilion in his own basement.

There were other precise instructions about hermetic seals (to prevent spilling of the wine) and locks to tie down the casket lid (to resist uplift pressures acting on it due to sloshing of the liquid during moving operations), recited without conviction by the bored funeral director, but Carmina wasn’t listening. Her frozen stare, as a polite mechanism to feign interest, had never fooled her ex-husband but worked just fine with the haughty director.

Lost in thought, she was confounded. She had been forced to reconnect with her former lover, against all her expectations and wishes, only to find a changed man—changed by death itself of course, as the ultimate personality alterer, but more importantly changed before death in unknown ways, with the nonsensical last wishes that masqueraded as funeral arrangements providing the only evidence of a shifted mindset. Was this entire circus just a veil of frivolity wrapped around a fundamentally unaltered and still flawed soul? Had the hardcore rational Cartesian man remained unchanged for decades just to fall into a momentary lapse of sanity? Had the boring engineer—the one who always tied his shoelaces in the same order—become an unbridled epicurean on the run? One thing for sure, he hadn’t been a fanatic oenophile before—in fact, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him holding a glass of wine, far less dunking in a coffin full of it. Yet, this seemed to be more than a superficial wine passion—a dilettante trying to nose-dive into a stem glass or drink straight from a decanter surely wouldn’t have called for Saint-Émilion.

She felt like a gawker arriving late at a crash scene, trying to reconstruct the events just from the oil, blood stains and skid marks on the asphalt, the wrecks having already been towed away. Albeit a justified curiosity, as the victim in this case was the man with whom she shared years of marital life. Part of her wanted to find the missing pieces of the puzzle, to know it all: what happened, where did that change come from, was it deep or superficial, can people really change, can stubborn people really change—how about obsessively stubborn people—and how fast? If a compulsive engineer could find space for other loves, maybe things weren’t as bleak as she thought—there might be hope after all. Yet, another side of her wanted to stay at arm’s-length, physically and emotionally, and didn’t care to solve all the freakish puzzles that assaulted her.

So how many?

Say that again, answered Carmina as she snapped out of her absentmindedness.

I said, by the way, how many people do you expect at the funeral? repeated the director, overacting with manifest exasperation.

None, she said without hesitation.

What do you mean, none?

None, like zero. Nobody.

How’s that? replied the director, offended that all his efforts would be for a bunch of no-shows.

If he had remarried, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?

The director bobbed his head, unsure if this was a convincing argument.

And if the new wife died leaving small children behind, you would hope that their godparents could see to this instead of pulling me from out-of-town.

No children, no living parents or grand-parents?

We didn’t have children and his parents died in a car accident when he was eighteen years old. His grand-parents also died young—before we started dating, so I’ve never met them. It crossed her mind to add that, at least, it saved them the lethal indignity of seeing their offspring marinate like a giant pickle—but she didn’t, feeling guilty to justify their death so crudely.

Friends and colleagues?

Nope. None.

That last response usually stunned whoever asked Carmina about her ex-husband. Not this time. The director just shook his head, feigning sympathy, but thought that it all made perfect sense: who would want to befriend such a weird control freak afflicted with a pathological fixation on numbers. He had met engineers before, and knew them to be fanatically meticulous, for example reading every line of contracts that others were just as pleased to dispatch—without reading—after having been shown where to sign, but this one was the worse of the bunch. In fact, he wondered how a charming lady such as Carmina could ever have fallen for an obsessed engineer who appeared to see the entire world though digital goggles. He rationalized that if such love once existed, then her former husband hadn’t always been deranged; the man she wed couldn’t have been the same jerk who wasted time computing the cubic inch capacity of a casket and the number of BTUs per bottle of wine. Might have been just a regular guy who had banged up his head pretty bad, long ago enough to have time to cook up his ludicrous funeral plan. But then, that wouldn’t explain the total absence of friends.

Has your ex-husband always been so... shall I say, passionate about numbers?

I’m afraid he has always been a consummate engineer. Very passionate about it.

The benefit of the doubt he had previously afforded her just vanished. She had to be a fool. Besides, planning such an elaborate funeral had to have taken a long time, so it couldn’t just be the product of hallucinations from a recently banged head.

Absolutely no friends? How about engineer friends? He must have had some close colleagues who would likely wish to pay their respects?

No.

That’s unacceptable! What’s a funeral if not to bid a last farewell to your friends and those you love. A funeral is such a beautiful thing. It’s like your last show on earth, with a sold-out audience of your best fans who grieve knowing that they’ll nevermore enjoy the pleasure of your company. It’s a grand extravaganza in hues of solemnity and undertones of sadness. It’s the last step of a grand journey, our common final destination, the grand harbor between worlds, a majestic terminal for the goodbyes to travelers departing to the unknown, leaving behind all the loved ones bathing in the consoling requiems of an inspiring fanfare.

That’s one point of view, she said, unimpressed by the melodramatic tirade.

Then again, he thought, sorry that he got carried away, to plain folks, it’s just turning a 200-pound body into 5 pounds of ashes. Regaining his composure, and reminding himself that he should never cross that line with his clients—or expect them to share his vision—he resumed the business at hand, focusing on the platitudes of the process since that was what clients desired.

How old was the deceased, if I may ask?

He had just turned 40.

That’s too young to die, and certainly way too old to leave this earth unnoticed, as if traveling incognito. You’re positive that he had no friends?

Positive.

Feeling there was no point in beating a dead horse, he added, Will you be there?

I guess I will, she ventured after a pause that betrayed an unsure sense of duty.

So there will be an audience after all, thought the director, annoyed by the inconsistency of living people.

Even though her words hardly suggested a firm commitment, Carmina already wanted to take back her wimpy promise. She felt like a politician handicapped by an inability to comfortably lie. What else would that devil of her ex-husband make her do against her wishes?

Is there anything else on his list of wishes for the funeral? she inquired.

Uh, yes, here, one more paragraph, he said, resuming the narrative.

For my last days on this earth, to celebrate the delightful vintages of this world, to underscore the pleasure of amazing discoveries, to cleanse all remains of a conventional life, I wish to soak in the wine-filled casket for an entire week before being cremated.

A week?

It says a week.

Why so long?

Don’t know. The text ends there. There’s a stack of penciled notes stapled to the letter, he said, flipping slowly in search of recognizable substance, but it’s just a bunch of sketches and mathematics on a strange paper, holding out the green translucent pages as another incomprehensible gimmick.

No, sorry. I can’t wait that long. I’m from out-of-town. I’ve got work to do. I can’t come back here just for that.

That’s it! thought the director. To hell with that nonsense. Why even bother to fill the casket with a horrible grape juice from California’s desert—as a color-matched substitute for the Saint-Émilion—if nobody will be there? The fool will just get incinerated in a dry box, like all the others. He would keep him in the fridge for a week, just in case, and then bake him and be done with it.

I’m sorry that you will not be able to attend the final ceremony, but rest assured that we will honor, to the letter and in spirit, in its most intricate details, the wishes of your late husband for his departure to a better world. Years of training to hide emotions served him well, as he felt this was a thigh-slapper, pleased that there would be no witness to the cremation.

I’m sorry. It’s just that it would be quite a problem to come back—

What would you like us to do with the cremains?

The what?

The ashes.

She felt like answering, Hell if I care. Why should they come back to me? but believed a more politically correct response was in order.

What am I supposed to do with them?

Actually, that’s what I need to know from you. If you have not received instructions in that regard already, then it will be most likely addressed in the will, as part of the testator’s wishes for the disposition of his estate. There are so many options, we cannot just presume. Some people request the remains to be sprinkled in parks or at sea, others want them scattered from an airplane, some want them turned into synthetic diamonds to wear as jewelry, more eccentric individuals have mixed the ashes with paint for a portrait of the deceased or with powdered colors for use into blown glass art—

Noticing Carmina’s baffled look, he had to clarify that all his clients weren’t weirdos like Keene.

—but frequently, the ashes are just kept in an urn. He refrained from adding and, just for you, that urn could be an empty bottle of Saint-Émilion. He continued, The attorney will provide you with this information, and then just let us know.

Isn’t the meeting with the attorney usually taking place after the cremation? I can’t wait a week—

I am sure that he will be accommodating and pleased to meet you at the earliest convenience, understanding that you are very busy—the special circumstances and all, he concluded, as he ripped the typewritten pages apart from the handwritten notes, handing her the weird appendix of scribbling and doodles with the same contemptuous nonchalance as if she was a recycling bin.

She grabbed the manuscript and stormed out, hoping that the attorney would turn out to be a human being for a change.

One more satisfied customer, snickered the director, obviously referring to the deceased.

LLP

Alone in the attorney’s waiting room, she wondered if the firm was running a tight ship—respectful of not packing clients like cattle in noisy rooms—or just starving for business. At least, the peace and quiet was conducive to reflection.

The few hours spent perusing the pages of sketches and calculations by her former husband had left her even more perplexed. The green engineering paper provided reassuring familiarity. Its faintly visible grid lines printed on the back to guide free-hand sketches at scale while remaining invisible to photocopy machines and scanners, its vertical right margin for annotations and cited references, its Cartesian layout of guiding lines to help align diagrams and support the clean layout of block letters, all designed to facilitate the uncluttered layout required for clear thinking, shouted out loud that Keene very much remained an engineer up until his last breath. Pages after pages of carefully drafted line drawings, charts, pasted bits of data photocopied from books or printed from the internet—all meticulously and logically organized in support of a final design.

Yet, beyond all the equations and figures stretched over the used and abused pages—some curled and wrinkled by vigorous erasing—the nonsensical content of it all was unsettling.

Engineered nonsense.

The silliness and insolence of engineering one’s funeral—as far as a weird technological hubris of gross mortuary humor with bacchanal overtones could count as one.

She wondered what mad mind-altering disease could strike one into undertaking such idiotic planning, into pursuing such ludicrous goals. What virus or pathogen could derail a clockwork mind, desynchronize it, break it, jam it, tilt it into madness, transform it into a deranged mind fixed on the utter pursuit of a final insane design.

It then struck her.

Just a subtle detail. One that could have been forever missed, just as easily as it had been for hours already. A little detail hidden in plain view in the information block of the engineering paper: that top part of each page reserved for project identification. Even though it was formal and not intended to be discrete, she had overlooked that section of the calculation sheets that seemed to be an inconsequential running header disconnected from the technical narrative that flowed from page to page—just like the header on each page of a novel, albeit a boring novel full of equations and sketches. Beyond containing the name of the designer, the date, and a brief title to identify the calculations on the page, the rightmost entry of the information block was reserved for page numbering. However, here, the pre-printed label Page was crossed-out and replaced by the handwritten Day. Flipping through the pages, Carmina realized that the numbers decreased. At first, she thought that maybe he had stacked his calculation pages face up, piling each new page on top of the previous one, but she easily verified that this was not the case where long explanations ran across pages; without necessarily understanding the technical jargon, the logic of sentence structure alone provided sufficient proof to invalidate her original hypothesis. Therefore, either Keene re-arranged his pages in reversed chronology at completion of the design project, which would be hard to justify and thus unlikely, or this reversed numbering scheme was in fact a sort of countdown.

He knew exactly when he was going to die! flashed into her mind.

She checked. The first three pages were labeled Day 20, others followed in similar clusters of two to five pages per day, down to Day 10 on the last page. It all ended with a technical footnote jotted in smaller font that she had missed before; it stated: These calculations are not covered by my liability insurance as they fall outside of my usual practice. However, sue me all you want, I’m dead.

The legal disclaimer only seemed to reinforce the legitimacy of her Eureka moment. Keene had a death clock running, counting the days before his final breath, and his work plan was set to meet that last deadline, with a typical project management rigor. However, her desire to celebrate the discovery of this piece of the puzzle was killed by the frightening conclusion that imposed itself: her ex-husband had committed suicide. It was the only way to know with certainty the day of an appointment with death.

Dr. Lawson is ready to see you, Ms. Jewell said the perky receptionist. This way please.

The bland standard greeting, in spite of its cheerful delivery, reminded Carmina of the dull business at hand. Forced to shelve her inquisitive thoughts for the time being, she sprang into the attorney’s office, determined to wrap things up in the time needed for a few signatures, minimizing the vapid conversations and other bits of unavoidable civilities.

Past the door’s threshold, the pretentiousness of the office killed her momentum. The room reeked of what might be termed ostentatious law firm decor, with the obligatory walls of mahogany bookcases filled with dusty reference documents intended to intimidate rather than to be read, fancy wainscoting panels and hardwood floors to add an authoritative echo to all legal pronouncements, kitsch bibelots, gold-plated frames, and silver statues to display a wealth presumed synonymous with success.

"Why don’t lawyers park their BMWs in their offices while they’re at it," she thought.

Behind the monstrous modern ebony executive desk that clashed with the decor, Justin Lawson seemed out-of-place. Last in a long lineage of lawyers going as far back as the nation’s birth—a proud tradition that included judges, prosecutors, defense attorneys, and a handful of crooks who more or less successfully evaded serving time—the diminutive lawyer didn’t have any burning passion for a profession he would have gladly avoided if not for parental pressure. Dealing with testaments full time was his surefire strategy to escape litigation cases, and thus to keep away from lowlife criminals, cheating spouses, grating partners, aggravating neighbors, mentally disturbed offenders, and other quarreling parties fallen prey to the vicious sides of human nature. Not that he didn’t have to do business with conspicuous members of that cast on a regular basis—everybody dies at some point after all—but at least, in executing wills, the defendant is absent and oblivious to the infighting left behind; or, at worst, is a trickster delighted to have written a will that threw oil on the fire of hostilities, or sowed discord amongst all of the inheritors. When the heirs wished to empower their fighting with lawsuits, he always gladly referred that business to his brothers, satisfied to remain a somewhat independent party. Justin recognized that the bigger financial rewards were in the bigger fights, but found the remuneration for his professional services quite adequate—certainly more than satisfactory given his frugal lifestyle as a single man.

Justin pretended to be busy writing when Carmina entered, as he always did with all his clients, to fake importance, but threw the pen down and jumped up to welcome her upon eye contact. Justin had no interest in the plastic bombshells and artificial beauties coveted by fashion magazines that his brothers liked to parade as glorified cufflinks for a while and eventually dump for the next year’s model. He preferred women who radiated a mature confidence and an aura of peacefulness—in spite of the fact that these gems always ignored him—and he saw that Carmina’s eyes emanated those qualities in a powerful way.

Afraid to have somewhat overreacted, Justin stuck to formal greetings, a firm hand shake, and polite business-like formulas, then sat back down and pulled the folder with Keene’s will from a neat pile on the side desk—although he would have rather put on sweet music, popped open a bottle of champagne, and offered her a dozen red roses. Yet, the canons of professional ethics—damn canons, he thought—prevented him from courting his client. To clear his mind, he repeated to himself a few times, a lawyer should decline employment if the intensity of his personal feelings, as distinguished from a community attitude, may impair his effective representation of a prospective client.

With a presumably cleared mind, he proceeded with the task at hand.

Ms. Jewell. I have in hand the last will of the deceased, which I have been instructed to read in your presence. Is this something for which you are disposed today?

Carmina, with emotions and thoughts still in turmoil from having potentially unlocked the mystery of Keene’s death, had entered the room in a bit of a daze, in spite of her determination to expedite the process—she didn’t notice Justin’s surprise and efforts to hide his infatuation.

Yes, absolutely. That’s what I’m here for. As I had mentioned to your secretary when setting up this appointment, I need to do this today. I must return to work tomorrow, and I live quite far from here.

Sorry to hear of this additional strain on your life. May I ask what you do? Justin slipped, thinking Damn fool! Remember the canons. That has nothing to do with the job.

Uh, yes. I am the Director of Placements at a group home for children with special needs.

Special needs?

In this case, it means children with a generally troubled background, who sometimes require special medical, mental, or psychological assistance. My organization cares for children with problems that run the gamut of what’s known to exist—you can imagine how hard we work to find loving homes for these orphans, so if you know of parents who would be willing to adopt, we can always use referrals.

Wow. That is quite something, said Justin, thinking, I do not have to decline employment because the intensity of my personal feelings, as distinguished from a community attitude, absolutely does not impair my effective representation of this prospective client.

After what he considered to be a touching testimony from Carmina, Justin stalled, not knowing how to return to the business at hand without sounding discourteous, and let silence fill the void.

Sensing the uncomfortable situation, Carmina suggested, I would be most pleased to describe the particulars of our organization at some point, but I would like to first dispatch the matters that required my presence here at this time.

Sure! Sure, snapped back Justin.

Shuffling a few documents, regaining composure, he proceeded with the perfunctory legalese required in his duty.

I, Keene Mason, of no earthly residential attachment, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.

What does that mean?

A Codicil is a supplement or appendix.

No, I mean, the ‘of no earthly residential attachment’ part.

Oh that. That’s at the deceased’s request. He was adamant that he considered himself ‘a citizen of the earth and of no other artificial geopolitical boundary,’ to use his exact words. Who knows, in that mind set, he might have also stopped paying his income taxes... if he had lived longer that is, he added, trying to be funny, but failing miserably.

An ominous start. She wondered if her ex-husband, in extremis, had adhered to some sort of hippiedom, living the idealistic credo of Imagine, or if he was just being facetious.

We have taken the necessary provisions to register the will with the appropriate local and state government to ensure—

He would make John Lennon proud.

Who?

She couldn’t believe he had said that. That was impossible. He appeared to be about her age. Maybe, she had just mumbled the name—made it unintelligible. Had to be it. In any event, she was in no mood to expand on that silly thought. The circumstances didn’t call for such frivolities.

Never mind. Sorry for interrupting. Please proceed.

No problem at all. It’s my duty to answer all of your questions. Please feel free to interrupt me at will—no pun intended.

The humor fell flat, and unsure of whether he should be embarrassed for not knowing who that John guy was, he returned to the more gratifying legal jargon to break the awkward silence.

I direct that all of my legally enforceable debts, funeral expenses and estate administration expenses be paid as soon after my death as may be practicable, except that any debt or expense secured by a mortgage, pledge or similar encumbrance on property owned by me at my death need not be paid by my estate, but such property may pass subject to such mortgage, pledge...

She couldn’t latch onto any of the staccato prose, purposely convoluted to keep the uninitiated at bay. Adrift in hazy thoughts emanating from conflicting feelings that she couldn’t quite identify—curiosity, discomfort, maybe charity, definitely not compassion—she debated whether she should just stand up and leave him mid-sentence, as rude as it might have been. In truth, she couldn’t care less about the ashes. They might as well mix them into concrete and cast the whole thing into a park bench, a curb, or a sewer pipe—after all, wouldn’t it become a grand ending for all engineers if it was discovered that human ashes enhanced the longevity of concrete?

...hereby appoint Mr. Justin Lawson, of Lawson, Lawson, Lawson, Lawson, LLP, to be the Executor of this my last Will and Testament. In the event he resigns, is removed from office or for any reason ceases to act as the Executor, I hereby appoint Mr. Damien Lawson as Executor of...

She cursed the polite upbringing that kept her prisoner in the tastelessly decorated den. Without specific thoughts, she stared at the single-page will on legal-size paper, flat on the wide desk that served as a buffer to ensure deferential distance between the law and commoners. Unable to read the upside-down text, she just counted the lines that remained on the page below the blue transparent plastic ruler that Justin shifted down one line at the time to keep focused on the mundane task at hand. And then, at last, the ruler reached the signatures—apparently, all the witnesses named were hired staff from the law firm.

So in layman’s terms, what does all this mean? she asked, waking up from the haze.

These eyes! Back from the black-and-white world of the written law, her stunning gray irises with their peppering of yellow and brown struck him like a refreshing spring breeze that again challenged the canons. Oh, he really yearned for cannons instead of canons now—big ones that could sink the outdated and contrarian slavers of the professional ethics guard.

Regaining his footing, he answered, "Frankly, it hasn’t really said much up to here. Mostly boilerplate statements, referring to the Codicils for more specific details on how the deceased wishes to dispose of his tangible property and