On Friday April 1st in the year of our Lord 19-- Lureen Biggs had a grand mal seizure. The event had been significant enough to pop Mrs. Biggs out of her cherry tinted Barco-lounger and onto the floor with a presumed thud. When the inevitable twitching stopped, the lady of the house, all two hundred pounds of her, lay face down on the green plush carpet that had come with the doublewide when she had purchased it the year before.

Lureen’s third husband, Earl “Jeeter” Fairchild had been dead drunk for the occasion, his lanky frame sprawled across a busy colonial print couch not five feet from his comatose wife. He hadn’t heard a thing.

According to the Caldwell (population 11,365) city police report Jeeter had been nuzzled out of his stupor by the couple’s aged poodle, Baby Girl, and had tripped over Lureen’s body on his way to the bathroom. He then, allegedly, spent the next thirty-five minutes trying to revive her, this to no avail, at which point he’d called 911. Jeeter’s subsequent revelation that Lureen was diabetic had scurried the process along and she was soon resting in a hospital bed hooked up to a respirator, a dialysis machine and so many IVs that she looked as if she’d been kidnapped by aliens. Diagnosis: Diabetic shock brought on by the consumption of sugar (duration unknown) inducing subsequent coma.

It didn’t take long for Lureens’s estranged son Wayne Dudney (per “Slim” Dudney, Lureen’s enormous second husband) to learn of the situation. Acting in his own best interest Dudney quickly added himself to the equation, no doubt hoping that with her physician approved soon-to-be-deceased status he’d get his mother’s trailer out of the deal, at least. Having no other living siblings Wayne was counting on it. Wayne was wrong.