Padraic had emigrated from Ireland about seventy years ago. He had made an astronomical fortune in his new country. Now he was in his nineties and dying in a hospital bed. He had no direct descendants, but had nieces and nephews.
He was visited by a great niece, Peyton. She was in her thirties.
“Can he hear?” asked Peyton of the nurse.
“He can’t hear a thing,” said the nurse. “He’s not only unconscious; he’s as deaf as a post.”
“Let me say one thing,” said Peyton, speaking towards Padraic’s deaf ears. “You are a selfish shitbox. We can’t wait for you to die. We want the money. Ha! Ha! Ha! I’ve already put a deposit on a new house, so hurry up and kick the bucket, you fuckwitted-money-grabbing scumsucker.”
Just then the priest arrived.
“Can he hear?” asked the priest of Peyton.
“Not a damn thing,” said Peyton.
The priest gave Padraic a blessing. Padraic made the sign of the cross.
Padraic never fully recovered. Just enough to change his will.