Broken News: Villagers Celebrate Man's Death as Boon to Local Economy

ASHLAND, ME--As recently as yesterday, Ashland, a small village near The Bay of Fundy on Maine's northeast coast, had a population of 468. Today, Ashland can claim but 467 residents, as local man Michael Sherman, 86, died quietly in his home overnight of natural causes. Far from being racked with mourning, the town is focusing instead on the revenue Sherman's death is expected to bring to an otherwise dilapidated local economy.

“Think of what this’ll mean to the town,” gushed nosy old bitch Celia Packard. “There's a casket to make, flowers to order, a grave to dig and, of course, an extended family to exploit." Packard winked before pumping her fist and yelling, "Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching!"

Initial studies estimate that Sherman's funeral, which is expected to draw as many as 40 friends and relatives from throughout the country, could pump as much as $10 thousand into the formerly fishing-based Ashland economy. Village Alderman, Grayson Vildy, lamented the late Sherman's quiet, dignified death, explaining, "If the old bastard had gone crazy and taken a few kids, some property, or even maybe a nun with him, can you imagine how much media money we'd be swimming in right now? Food, hotels, area guides and such? Not to mention the residuals from summer packages offering tours of the murder scenes." A visibly angry Vildy raised his palms and mocked, "Irregular Heart Arrhythmia. Ooooh," before stomping off in disgust.

Sherman, who will be buried on Sunday following an Episcopalian service, was a Korean War veteran and one of seven children who went on to have five of his own while working as a pork inspector in Quincy, Iowa. He relocated to Ashland in the late 70's after his wife's untimely death in what his eldest son, Roger, claimed was a "search for peace" amidst the remote, wooded landscape. Roger Sherman was contacted the day after his father's death and informed that the body could not be transported out of the remote village due to impassable roads so late in the season.

Gaston Vega, the town's lone funeral director, was barely able to restrain his laughter while speaking with the younger Sherman. "Impassable? It's fucking August, man. What do they think this is, Greenland? I can't believe playing up the whole country bumpkin angle on the phone actually worked." Vega affected a slow, uneducated drawl and continued, "Oh we’re just a bunch of simple folk. We only got one of them telephones last year. What’s a UPS?"

Vega confessed that during his phone call with Sherman, "We asked this kid Joey to play some moose calls on his iBook and that pretty much put those fools [the Sherman family] in the palm of our hand. Can you believe they were going to bury him at Arlington National Cemetery? Bullshit! They’re gonna have to bury him at Ashland Regional Cemetery next to some dumb bastards from Marseille and a couple of Cherokee that froze to death in the French and Indian War. I guess that’s similar to Arlington. Whatever. I'll be sure to toast his passing in front of my new plasma television.”

Already the townsfolk are raising prices on the most basic sundries and mass-ordering kitschy "Indian" artifacts from a Guatemalan manufacturing plant, despite the fact that there have been no American Indian tribes in the area since townsfolk banded together in 1971 to send a smallpox-laden AMC Gremlin to a nearby reservation in an attempt to clear space for a frisbee golf course.

When asked how they aimed to maintain the "impassable roads" claim once the family drove into town, Town Council President, Tom "Dean" Stockwell laughed and said, "Those people aren't driving anywhere near Ashland. We're sending Ol' Curly down to Smuttynose Island with his boat, the Lady Stain, to pick 'em up. Only holds five or six at a time, too, which means multiple trips. Ya get me?"

Lady Stain, the town's lone sailing vessel, was constructed in 1937 and initially used to ferry Japanese citizens to island internment camps just south of New Brunswick, Canada. Local legend has it that Ol' Curly won the boat by besting twoMounties, a brown bear, and the fabled Bangor Yeti in a game of Sabacc.

Stockwell scoffed at the notion that, though lucrative, financial contributions from naive out-of-towners would be temporary, while Sherman's residence provided a consistent stream of revenue. "Are you kidding me? Ever since that prick got broadband he's been doing all of his shopping online. Apart from the odd trip to Hamilton's general store, he didn't contribute shit. Grew his own vegetables, hunted, walked pretty much wherever he went. The son of a bitch even built his own furniture. Hell, he's worth ten times as much dead as he ever was alive."

The shifty Council President then whispered, "Listen, I'm not supposed to say anything, but me and the Mayor have all kinds of ideas about who to off next. This is a growth industry. Everything from having the infirm draw lots so we can stone the loser to death in the town square to herding all females born in a randomly selected year into a large wicker contraption and setting it on fire. Oh, and don't be surprised if not all of the Sherman funeral party makes it up from Smuttynose on the Lady Stain. Wouldn't be the first time, is all I'm saying. Indeed, God has smiled on us."

Whether God smote Sherman remains unclear, as his Chief Communications Director has instituted a press blackout until the Holy Ghost's replacement is announced later this month. What is clear, however, is the ingenuity and industriousness of the people of Ashland, a post-industrial town left to rot that had found new life in the exploitation of death."

"We've got a plan now," continued Stockwell. "No more simple grifting or penny ante bullshit. And this is just the beginning of a country-wide push. Give me two years and I'll give these people the nicest goddamn rec-center and city hall in New England."