The Funeral Crashers
When two out-of-luck misfits become professional funeral crashers, their desperate bid for cash turns into a riotous string of disasters. As they stumble through grieving families, fake eulogies, and public scandal, Danny and Ginny must learn to laugh in the face of failure—and maybe find meaning in the madness. A dark comedy about death, friendship, and the business of mourning.
First ‘Client’, First Disaster
Rain slipped like old oil down the windows of Danny’s apartment as Ginny stared at her phone, forehead creased.
“Subject: URGENT – For Clive’s Send-off,” she read, chin jutting in disbelief. “Is this real? Is anything real?”
Danny, who had only just bitten into a cold funeral sandwich, mumbled, “Lemme see,” and grabbed her phone. There it was—an email adorned with too many exclamation points to be sane, from a ‘Mrs. Dalloway (née Butterfield)’.
‘I require a moving, memorable presence for the funeral of my husband, Clive Dalloway. Attendance will be sparse; his Rotary friends are mostly dead. I am prepared to pay handsomely for visible grief. Weeping and handkerchiefs are encouraged. Please bring gravitas (and your own tissues).’
“Oh hell yes,” Ginny crowed, eyes shining. “She wants drama. She wants snot. She wants us!”
Danny glanced at the bills on the table and shrugged. “How bad could this go?”
1. Preparation Is the Enemy of Subtlety
They took to the task like method actors auditioning for a tragic soap opera nobody would ever air. Ginny staged wailing contests in the living room. Danny practiced his ‘stoic, haunted widower’ across the hall mirror. They built backstories: Ginny was Clive’s orphan goddaughter from Liverpool; Danny, an old bridge partner wracked by old secrets.
Wardrobe was a military operation. Ginny donned a pillbox hat that, in profile, made her resemble a weeping cupcake. Danny’s suit was rescued from an era when his waist had fewer opinions and his shoulders less slouch. They rehearsed their lines: “So sudden,” “Never missed his dominoes night,” “An angel on Earth, truly.”
“Let’s not overdo it,” Danny warned, as Ginny applied eyeliner—liberally, for maximum running effect. “It’s a funeral, not ‘Les Mis’.”
She brandished her tissue box like a badge. “The Oscar goes to: us.”
2. Enter Mrs. Dalloway
They arrived at Thornwood Chapel by bus, dodging a hearse that parked like it held a grudge. The chapel was as chilly inside as out, bedecked with sad lilies and half-hearted hymnals. Clive Dalloway’s casket sat up front, surrounded by a dozen yawning pews and fewer mourners.
Mrs. Dalloway herself swept toward them, a trembling belfry of feathers and perfume.
“You must be the...extra grief,” she purred, eyes rimmed in expectation.
“Deeply honored,” Ginny said, bowing as if about to faint. Danny offered a silent, waterlogged nod—his mournful laryngitis kicking in stronger than intended.
Mrs. Dalloway beamed, glancing over the empty pews. “Clive was very...private. Make it unforgettable.”
To Danny’s horror, Ginny winked.
“On my honor, madam.”
3. Scene-Stealing Sorrow
The service began with Reverend Sykes proclaiming, “We are gathered here, few though we may be, to celebrate the life of Clive Dalloway.”
Ginny ramped up instantly. She sobbed in shuddering waves, pressing tissues to her eyes and clutching at Danny’s arm. Danny blinked furiously, summoning whatever ghosts would carry him through. An older woman in a mauve suit side-eyed them, whispering behind her order of service.
Sykes’s gaze flitted over the pair, narrowing. Ginny gasped, “Not Clive! Oh, Clive, the world is dimmed!” and dissolved noisily into Danny’s sleeve. Danny offered a low, strangled whimper, bordering on livestock.
An uncomfortable quiet spread through the pews—except for Ginny, now dabbing her nose with the dignity of a toddler. Sykes frowned, adjusting his glasses.
“I wasn’t aware Clive had so many—devoted—friends,” he said, pointedly.
“Old domino league,” Ginny declared, voice wobbling. “Manchester finals, 2003. Never forget.”
Mrs. Dalloway beamed approval. The congregation’s confusion fermented.
4. Shattered Composure
The eulogy was mid-sentence (“Clive was a man of quiet passions—”) when Ginny, swept by her own performance, let loose a sob so apocalyptic it echoed off the stained glass.
Danny leapt from the pew, awkwardly shuffling Ginny toward the aisle—their ‘exit’ as practiced. But Ginny lost the tissue mid-pew, lunging after it, shrilling, “His favorite!” and scattering hymnals in her wake.
A lumpy vase toppled with a crash. All heads swiveled.
Sykes stalked over. “Excuse me, who are—”
Ginny gasped. “His spiritual niece! Emotional support!”
Danny adopted a look of mute devastation, clutching his throat like Hamlet. Sykes wasn’t buying.
Mrs. Dalloway, delighted, called from the front, “Don’t mind them, they’re with me.”
At that, a man in a funeral director’s suit hissed to Sykes, “Saw them at Saint Augustine’s last week—never seen them with the families. They’re plants!”
Sykes moved like a bloodhound. Danny and Ginny exchanged a single, wide-eyed glance: Run.
5. Exit, Stage Left (with Mild Violence to Dignity)
They bolted, Ginny careening past a stack of programs, Danny tripping over his own funereal loafers. Sykes bellowed, “Stop! Impostors! Show some respect!”
They swerved through the kitchen (upending a tray of finger sandwiches), out a side door, straight into the parking lot, funeral staff in hot, outraged pursuit.
Ginny lost her hat to the wind; Danny nearly lost his dignity to a flowerbed. They didn’t stop until they were two blocks away, breathless, huddled by a dentist’s office that promised ‘gentle sedation’—exactly what their pride required.
6. Debrief: Failure, Minus Arrest
They slumped onto a bench, rain dribbling down their cheeks—real tears, for once, sliding alongside streaks of eyeliner.
Ginny peered at Danny, smirking through her shivers. “Better than temping at CVS?”
He considered. “More exercise. About the same amount of judgment.”
She cackled, then coughed. “Think we’ll get paid?”
A text pinged. From Mrs. Dalloway: ‘Marvelous wailing. Bank transfer sent. Worth every penny!’
Danny blinked. “We’re in business. Sort of.”
Ginny shrugged. “We still on for that wake next week?”
He grinned, cheeks flush. “Let’s just… dial it down next time.”
Ginny saluted, rain-soaked and invincible. “Subtlety. Sure. Got it.”
A passing bus splashed them both.
Danny groaned. “Next time, we Uber.”