Cyanide and Happiness

Posted: October 6, 2012 in MiB Hates Us All

[Decades of scientific research and large quantities of blood, sweat and other bodily fluids have conclusively proved that writers write. Some write poetry and some write prose and some write novels and some tweet, which doesn’t count. Some write well. Others write Twilight. As a self-proclaimed writer and aficionado of words, I too have dabbled in more than simply bleeding out my own views onto the blank page – I write short stories, one-act plays and the occasional haiku. And so, since the wounds have not yet healed from the latest bashing I’ve received for my opinion, I give you instead a literary piece from the dark and dirty recesses of my mind: Cyanide and Happiness.] 

Cyanide and Happiness

It was a cold sprightly morning in the middle of May and I had just settled down with a glass of cheap Scotch and the bottle of cyanide when they arrived and told me that my brother was dead and the first thing I muttered was “Well-played, you sonuvabitch.” The second thing I said was: “How?” “Auto-erotic asphyxiation,” said they. “Damn,” said I, “That’s better than what I was going to do. He did always have to beat me at everything.”

It is at this point that I feel I must take you back to a conversation that happened between my brother and me several days before this hilariously harrowing news, whilst we were sitting in a Jacuzzi drinking expensive Scotch on my brother’s expansive estate.

“Brother,” said I, “you are insufferable and I would like to inform you that I hate you completely.”

This did not seem to faze him in the slightest.

“Brother,” said he, “you are a failure. Grow up, and simply accept that I have won.”

“I have,” I said. “I’ve accepted it completely. Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, God has decided to favour you whilst He laughs continuously at my failure.”

I paused here to drink some Scotch – it was very good Scotch.

“I wrote novels,” I continued, “and so you wrote masterpieces. I married a beautiful young woman; you married two beautiful young women and stole my wife to spare. And so, here you are with a Jacuzzi and nubile nymphs and good-tasting whisky whilst I must live in a shack and try to drown my sorrows in used motor oil. It’s just not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“Clichéd, but I must concur. Life is not fair – which is why I have decided to take my own, in true misunderstood-genius style.”

It was here that I saw a glint in my brother’s eye, but I disregarded it as the Scotch.

“This seems rather interesting, for a change, ” he said. “How and when do you plan to do it?”

“Cyanide,” said I. “Cyanide and happiness on next Tuesday –  our birthday. I thought it might seem more dramatic. Also, I’m bequeathing everything I own to my goldfish, Gary.”

“Very good,” said he. I felt somewhat uneasy, and I could see the stirring of a malicious idea behind his amber eyes, but I thought it was the Scotch once more.

It really was very good Scotch.

– -xxx–

Now, in light of my brother’s recent passing, I realised what those malevolent glints meant and cursed myself for not thinking that he would have to best me at dying, too. His funeral would be held tomorrow; they had told me that it was the literary scandal of the century.

“This,” I ruminated to Gary, “blows.”

Then, whilst I was watching Gary circle his glass bowl and occasionally knock into it, it hit me: a brilliant, masterful epiphany of Machiavellian magnitudes. I knew how I was going to finally best my brother – I was going to commit a spectacular suicide at his funeral tomorrow, and with the press and the media and my ex-wife there to witness it, it was sure to be a riot. It was going to be brilliant. It was going to be splendiferous. It was going to be worth dying for.


The funeral was a glamorous affair, with chanting choirs and pitiful music and white roses hanging in every alcove of my brother’s magnificent mansion. I tongued the tiny cyanide pill in my mouth, mentally rehearsing my moment of glory. I had decided that the deed  must be done after the priest had sung my brother’s praises in a pretentious eulogy – that seemed fitting as the perfect moment to steal his thunder. I could imagine the instant now, and tongued the pill ever the more frantically.

The instant came soon enough. The priest stood next to my brother’s cherry-oak coffin, and the congregation stifled their shallow sobs momentarily. The priest began, and I stared into the coffin at my mirror image, smug even in death. It was as if he was still mocking me – well, I thought, we’ll soon see who has the last laugh.

And then the priest said something unusual. “It is unusual”, he began, “but the deceased has asked that his will be read out here and now before he is buried. It is short, consisting of only one line, and is highly curious, but a testament to his love and brotherhood.”

Typical, thought I, looking once more at myself in the coffin. This moron has found a way to delay my death, even as he lies rotting. I was frenetic now, verging on hysterical; mere milliseconds away from my moment of glory.

“The deceased,” said the padre, “has asked that all of his possessions – including his houses, villas, Ferraris, jets, wives, mistresses and first edition signed copy of Venus in Furs – immediately, upon his death, be transferred into his twin brother’s possession without any discrepancies whatsoever.”

He turned to me and smiled.

In my shock, I swallowed.

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved

  1. Steve (UV) says:

    MiB, there are no words for how awesome this is!!

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