The Dying Man in Bed

“Goddamn. I do really wish I wrote that book,” the withering old man muttered, lying on his death bed.
“And that I believed in God. Christ. HA.”
He laughed with a low bitter roughness, before breaking into a coughing fit, the wrinkles on his face cringing, creases closing.
The boy stared by the bed. A young blonde boy. One who began to question life and its perplexities, death being one of them.
“Where you gonna’ go?” the boy asked the old man.
“Well hopefully in the ground. Maybe in a wall, I wouldn’t mind that. The fuckers better not burn my corpse, fucking Nazi corporate Americans, just to leave more room in their cemeteries. I guess they’re gonna’ need it.”
The boy stared, light eyes in awe. A frightened awe.
“Oh,” he barely whispered.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Jonathan… Frankel.”
“Frankel, eh? I knew a couple of them.”
“Really? What were their names…”
“All fucking faggots! Faggots and politicians, and either way, they’re going to fuck you in the ass. Am I right, kid?”
The boy truly had no idea what to think. He stood there quietly, trying to understand the meanings to these words, these sayings. By contrast to the dying old man, the boy looked angelic; soft glowing light skin, smooth and bright blonde, blue deep eyes. The old man was brooding, dark features sinking within his pores, wrinkles and grey dying hair.
“Why are you dying?” the boy asked him, on a whim.
At this question, the dying man became hesitant.
“Because everybody dies, kid.”
“But why are you dying?”
He hesitated once again.
“… Because I wasn’t a good man.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hubert.”
“Well I think you’ll be just fine Hubert.”
The old man smiled a rare glow, one hidden for decades on end prior to this one fleeting second.
“Thanks kid, appreciate it.”
At that point, a platinum blonde mother ran into the room, a look of absolute fear on her face, and a tidal wave of relief as she saw the boy. She grabbed him in her arms.
“Johnny, how could you run away like that? You almost gave me a stroke!”
“Yeah… almost gave me one too,” the old man echoed toward them, as the mother ignored him. She got off her knees, grasped her kid by the hand and walked toward the exit of the room.
“Hey toots, if you’re lonely, you know where you can find me. Won’t be here for long though, I’m one of those limited time specials like they have at Pizza Hut. Might have to take a pretty deep subway if you wanna’ meet me later… HA!”
He old man broke into that harsh coughing fit again.
Out in the hallway, the mother and her kid walked past bald people in robes and chubby women in blue.
“Why would you go into that room, John,” she asked her son. “What a dirty old man he was.”
The boy hesitated, and thought up of an excuse which he had heard constantly by vicious kidnapper alerts in between episodes of The Simpsons and Dragonball.
“He told me he had candy.”