They had been keeping their eye on that mystery science man who claimed to be that unknown man's brother. A little bit of digging and he found out Stanford Pines was some scientist with numerous accolades to his name. The sheriff told them that the guy was now suspected of grave robbing.
"What, Ed Gein style or summ'at?" They said.
"Naw, just messing around really. He ain't took nothing, matter 'a fact he leave the grave better than he found it."
So they resolved to drag their aching bones to the cemetery tonight.
You've got one weird brother there son. Though they chided themselves, after all this time they had a name to attached to that young boy that they just mentally dubbed 'son' and they should use it.
They didn't know why Stanford had bothered pestering all the graves of the unknown folk. Where was he when the sheriff was looking for that boy's family? Where was he when they took clothes outta their own closet so that poor boy had something nicer to wear before he was closed up in a casket? Where was this brother when the only person standing over a fresh grave was some old stranger and the town pastor?
They grumbled and cursed everything they could think of as they walked down to the cemetery (he planned to send a letter to the city about moving the parking closer because this was ridiculous).
"You keep this up an' they gonna send you to lock up," they said to Stanford Pines, who was chest deep in the grave of John Doe ?- 21 September 1984 Though Unknown We Hope You Rest Well and Have Found Peace.
Stanford screamed and whirled, wielding his shovel like a weapon.
"Real threatening there son, yer four foot deep in a six foot hole tryin' t' threaten a 79 year old," they said with an eye roll.
"You-!" Stanford growled but was easily pushed back by the cane pressing on his shoulder.
"I'm here t' tell you to quit it with this shit. Not a single one a' these unknown souls is yer brother."
"You could be lying. I don't have a single reason to trust you," he growled.
"Yeah? Me neither," they spat. The two stared at each other, a real standoff. It was actually kinda funny. Here was a young man, half in a grave, and some old fucker standing over him.
"Tell me about him," they said breaking the silence.
Stanford's face contorted in a vicious snarl, "You don't deserve to know anything about him."
They laughed, "yeah? Something tells me that I know more than you, and that you don't know shit." and they could see the words cut. They dug into their pocket and threw a tiny bundle that bounced off Stanfords chest and he scrambled for it.
"I bought it at the police auction, been keepin' it locked up. Once you understand you come back and apologize and maybe I'll be generous enough t' tell you where his grave is."
Stanford Pines was never going to find that grave. One of the things about coming from a generation of farmers, lots of them got their own private family cemeteries.
They had spent much of their life tying toe tags on boys in 'Nam. Going through piles of paperwork to make sure each and every body they could retrieve got the chance to go home. And when no one came for that boy they couldn't help but think of all those bodies they couldn't bring home. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, brothers, and sisters who wailed for somebody, anybody please could they just bring their baby home? It was the final crack in their old soul, and they promised that cold body, if ain't nobody gonna bring you home, then sonny boy you've got one in me.
Maybe Stanford would understand what they did when they read that sad note. Maybe Stanford would understand why the journey of his life took his brother. That beat up red car told the story of a man unwritten. Told everything but his name sadly. It had been stripped of its plates but not the wear and tear. Hopefully Stanford would understand before they died and occupied the last empty plot on his family's cemetery.
I hope yer brother ain't as stubborn as you son.
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