Word: casketful
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...entered the public domain on the loading dock of Parkland Hospital. "I can't stand it," muttered one of the journalists watching. "Like dirty laundry out the back door." Jackie carried what dignity was left. Face stained, clothes marked with dried blood, eyes straight ahead, hand on the bronze casket as it was wheeled down the ramp. Several aides walked beside Jackie. The whole bright prospect of their new world shaped by their friend and leader had been vaporized in an instant by Oswald...
...After faltering in recent years, Westlake recoups in perhaps the most beguiling beheading of journalists since Evelyn Waugh's Scoop. The targets are the tabloid weeklies that feature UFO sightings, no-dieting diets and a "body in a box," that is, surreptitious photos of a dead celebrity in his casket. Rather than mock the already preposterous, Westlake explores the mentality that capable, rational people would need in order to crank out such stuff. In a particularly wry inversion of the norms of detective fiction, a young woman reporter bursts into the newsroom on her first day to tell her bosses...
After a nun discovered Celestine's glass casket was empty, authorities began tailing a couple of strangers who had driven through town. Within two days police followed the pair to the remains, stashed some 40 miles away. The figure of Celestine, still wearing miter and robes, was found lying on its red velvet cushion but concealed in a plywood box crammed into a burial niche in a local cemetery. The miscreants escaped. Back in L'Aquila, the bells rang again, this time in celebration...
When the personable director of the Shady Hawkins Funeral Home, Barry-Joe Luvdwuns (Andrew Gardner), asks if anyone would like a beer-or maybe a "stiff" drink-he sets up a word-play that mentions the "grave" situation, points out that whether Denuar will be displayed in an open casket "remains to be seen," and argues for cremation as an eternal-maintenance option "with no bones about...
James Warren Jones, by contrast, was something of a weirdo. As a boy in the casket-making town of Lynn, Ind., he used to conduct elaborate funeral services for dead pets. Later, as a struggling preacher, he went from door to door, in bow tie and tweed jacket, selling imported monkeys. After briefly fleeing to South America (a shelter, he believed, from an imminent nuclear holocaust), the man who regarded himself as a reincarnation of Lenin settled in Northern California and opened some convalescent homes. Then, one humid day in the jungles of Guyana, he ordered his followers to drink...