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.
The Funeral Faux Pas
It was an ordinary Thursday in Danny's apartment—the faint tang of burnt toast, a clutter of unpaid bills, and Ginny hunched over the laptop, gnawing a pencil stub like it owed her money. That is, until an email pinged into their inbox with the uncanny urgency of a tax audit:
Subject: Immediate Assistance Required For The Markham Memorial
Ginny squinted. “Markham... As in, ‘Markham Foundation’ Markham?”
Danny, still in pajama bottoms, fished the phone from the table. “Please, God, let it be the Markham whose charity gala once gave me food poisoning. That salmon would kill a horse.”
“You promised we’d class up our clientele, Danny. This is it. This is our break.”
It was, as the email explained (with unnecessary exclamation points), the funeral of Edith Markham—philanthropist, benefactress, and, as the attached press release dryly put it, ‘the beating heart of Marrowood’s social fabric’. Several city officials would be present, as would the regional press. There was concern that the Markham family’s notorious chilliness would leave the pews mood-light and the camera-frames gloomy. Their solution: “embellished grieving, imbued with joy remembered and loss sincerely mourned. Discretion paramount.”
The attached contract zeroed out Danny’s anxiety: One thousand pounds. Ginny made a noise she reserved for shoe sales and lottery wins.
Elite Mourners for Rent
They spent the night prepping. Ginny sourced a black pillbox hat (now nearly canon for her persona), a string of faux pearls, and a sensible, demure navy suit. Danny dug out his best tie, which might once have been purple before a tragic spaghetti incident. They drafted biographies worthy of a 90s miniseries: Ginny as Edith’s goddaughter once removed, Danny as a family friend from ‘up north’ (he’d never specified which direction—kept options open).
“How risky is this, exactly?” Danny muttered, wrestling a mothball from his lapel.
Ginny’s grin was carnivorous. “Think of the exposure! If we nail this... maybe even a magazine feature? Or a podcast. All the great scams get podcasts.”
He hesitated, eyeing the flawless arch of her eyeliner. “We definitely want to be remembered as grifters, right?”
Ginny waved a hand. “After this, we’ll be too legit to call grifters. Trust me.”
Arrival: The Circus of Grief
The Markham service had the trappings of a presidential inauguration—barricades, paparazzi, a family crest with enough lions to evoke an identity crisis. Security eyed every shoe. Camera crews clustered at the chapel entrance. Even the crows in the cemetery trees looked star-struck.
Ginny inhaled, then straightened. “Showtime, partner.”
They filed past blacked-out SUVs, brushing shoulders with the city’s sharpest suits and the whiff of generational wealth. Inside, the pews were packed. A cluster of Markhams—regal, funereal, and so pale they seemed to repel light—occupied the first three rows.
A sallow man in a blazer intercepted them. “You’re with Miss Beatrix’s contingent?”
Ginny, without missing a beat: “Couldn’t imagine missing it. We all adored Aunt Edith.”
He ticked a box on a clipboard. “You’ll sit with family.”
Danny gulped. “Family. Great.”
A photographer’s bulb flashed. Danny, dazed, did his best ‘distant cousin’ grimace and immediately sneezed twice into his tie. Ginny elbowed him. “Keep it together.”
The Spotlight Beckons
From the pulpit, a bishop with eyebrows like angry shrubbery began. The family blinked in synchronized solemnity. A reporter hissed to a cameraman: “Get that lady in pearls—we haven’t seen her at any galas.” Ginny pretended not to hear.
A spindly Markham—possibly an uncle, possibly a pallbearer, possibly both—glided over. “Which branch of the family did you say you were from?”
Ginny channelled her inner Jane Austen. “Beatrix. From the Montreal Markhams.”
“Oh! Say, aren’t you the one who led that literacy charity?”
Ginny beamed, nodding furiously. “Absolutely. That was mostly Edith’s inspiration. She always believed in... vowels.”
Meanwhile, a wiry woman with a press badge cornered Danny. “Graham Markham, right? The Australian nephew? You missed the gala last year!”
Danny nodded vaguely, his accent fluttering across two hemispheres. “Tasmania, yes. Long—er—flight. Koalas.”
She grinned, satisfied, and scurried away. A nearby lawyer jotted “Aussie cousin: present” and asked for an interview later.
Ginny, seeing Danny’s horror, tried to signal him with a firm jaw and a fierce eyebrow.
Comedic Complications
The bishop droned. Ginny, relaxed by the apparent success of their roles, let her guard slip at the refreshments table. As she pocketed mini-quiches, she accidentally knocked a silver tray into the lap of a local councilman. “Oh, crumbs!” Ginny gasped, collecting asparagus rolls from his pants leg.
“Can I help you, miss…?” he asked.
“Cousin. From Montreal. Family tragedy. Don’t get up.”
He did, brushing crumbs, then flagged over a staffer: “Escort this cousin to the front, please. She’s family.”
Danny rejoined Ginny, breathless. “I just agreed to do an accent for Channel 4. How many continents can one family have?”
“More than one, apparently. Also, we might have to eulogize.
The Markham matriarch, grandly veiled, turned. “Would the Montreal cousins care to say a few words?”
Ginny, swallowing panic, approached the lectern. Beside her, Danny stammered. Ginny cleared her throat. “Edith was... the kind of woman you read about in—uh—library pamphlets.” She tried to catch the matriarch’s eye for guidance. “She loved words. Sometimes she’d... just say a vowel for the joy of it.”
—
Wheels Come Off
A low buzz of confusion swept the pews. The family lawyer’s jaw tensed. A tabloid photographer flashed another shot as Ginny, in her nervousness, dropped a canape—onto her own foot. Danny attempted to look supportive, instead nudging the flower display, which crashed spectacularly onto the bishop.
Worst of all, a familiar, hawk-eyed presence lurked near the exit: Reverend Sykes. His gaze narrowed.
From the back, the press badge woman called, “Mr. Markham—from Tasmania! When did you last see Edith?”
Danny, lacking good choices, gambled on bravado. “Last summer. We bonded... throwing boomerangs.”
The lawyer frowned. “But Edith was in hospital last summer.”
A collective intake of breath reverberated. Security shifted. Sykes strode forward, finger pointed.
“I recognize these two. St. Augustine’s. Thornwood. St. Bartholomew’s. They’re no family! They’re professional mourners—frauds!”
Spectacle and Scandal Unleashed
Tabloid and local TV cameras snapped from every direction. Reporters surged, questions flying faster than Ginny could invent answers. Danny looked for exits. Ginny, in desperation, blurted, “We were just trying to help—!”
A microphone materialized. “You’re not Montreal Markhams?”
Ginny’s canape-stuffed purse popped open, mortifyingly revealing two mini-quiches and a single, pilfered rose. A photojournalist captured the expression—juice-stained, eyeliner running, halfway to tears and halfway to laughter.
Within seconds, the family lawyer ordered security to ‘escort’ the duo out. The bishop’s sermon, already teetering, dissolved into chaos. Sykes announced, “The shame! The exploitation! The—unmitigated gall!”
As they were hustled through the paparazzi, a Channel 4 anchor cried, “Markham Fraudsters Crash Funeral—Grief for Hire Gone Wild!”
Someone threw a sausage roll. Ginny caught it on reflex; Danny nearly wept.
Aftermath: The Crash Heard Round the Intranet
They stumbled out into daylight, red-faced, mascara streaming, flower petals stuck to Ginny’s lapel. Twitter (and, ominously, the Marrowood Gazette homepage) blazed with their mugshots. “Funeral Fakers Exposed! Mourners for Money Humiliate City’s Elite!”
Danny, still clutching the limp flower, blinked at Ginny. “On the bright side, I’m pretty sure we’re trending.”
She kicked a pebble. “We’re finished. No more gigs. We’ll have to move. Or fake our own deaths.”
Danny managed a weak smile. “Or we finally get that podcast?”
She elbowed him, both of them wincing. Across the street, a TV in a shop window replayed their disastrous exit. Ginny grimaced, then laughed—a raw, surrendering sound. “If this is rock bottom, at least it’s got catering.”
They watched the replay in silence as the city’s streets bustled on, their brief infamy sealed. The world would keep spinning, but ‘Funeral Crashers’ was, without doubt, dead and buried.