Have you ever noticed that as soon as someone dies, they're suddenly a saint? Funeral processions are full of people that want to talk about what a good person they were, or how much they gave back to their community. People resurface from high school twenty years ago to wax poetic about the one fucking date they went on, or how they had so much fun on the football team together. You can't speak ill of the dead, they say.
A week ago, my Dad was no one. He had a few good friends from around the city. He was widely assumed to be a degenerate, an outlaw. A man with a mean streak a mile wide who owned a motorcycle and wore leather. He scared the locals and chased skirt at the local bar.
