It would not have been a success if it hadn't been for the media.
The 'zine, of course, was its own media outlet. It was well regarded (thanks to its talented writers) and widely distributed (thousands were printed thanks to Cactus' employee discounts at CopyCopy, amended by monetary donations from the staff; Cactus had encouraged them at the outset to think of the 'zine in religious terms, which obligated them to tithe).
Besides this, the Fox had connections at radio stations and Natasha had connections to local TV. The public invitation to a wake for someone not actually dead proved too compelling to resist when the city was thus over-informed about it.
Puncshal lay in state on tables pushed together in the center of the room. Anna had thoughtfully provided plastic orchids, which were splayed about the body alternating with stuffed animals and Polaroid memories of happier times.
Cactus tapped at the microphone, set up just beyond the pool table (the pool table! Why hadn't he thought of plunking Puncshal down on that?). "Yes. Gathered mourners, I want to take this opportunity to welcome you and to open the evening up to the tributes."
Shy, Retiring Sort stepped forward, grabbed the microphone from its stand and commenced pacing. "Without Puncshal there is, erm, hmm." She cocked her head and blinked at Cactus. "Can I make stuff up?"
"Of course." Cactus leaned into the mike. "Everyone, don't worry if you've never met the deceased but still want to say something. You're free to improvise."
Shy took quivery steps forward to the tables of mourning. "Goodbye, Puncshal. Sorry I never told you I was carrying your lovechild."
Blondie perked up. "I want it next." He was handed the microphone. "Goodbye, old friend. I'll never forget our drug-smuggling runs, our code names, the barren wastes and endless lost weekends."
By the end of the night, when the guest of honor finally rose, it was to complain about how dull his life suddenly seemed after hearing testimonial after testimonial of his grand adventures from complete strangers and those who may once have been friends.
Cactus saw no downside. "Social consciousness essay for the next issue--the ridiculous costs of funerals. Why are we conditioned to want such elaborate events for the dead? And the coffins--what about decorating them? I read once about this city where the coffins are done as sharks or classic cars or airplanes..."
Shy shushed him. "They'll hear you."
"Who?"
"Mortuary spies. Keep this up, you'll put them out of business."
"No, no, no! Funeral homes are cool! They can change with the times, rent out space for banquets or dance parties or such--why waste such great decor on somber gatherings?"
They spilled out into the night past where news crews were stacking equipment back into their trucks. Cactus, Puncshal, Shy, Anna, Natasha, the Fox (taking more Polaroids for later--little did he know he was scheduled to "die" next) and Blondie walked on, taking in the nightlife. A man on the doorstep of a tattoo shop played with a little punching nun puppet. Men with hiker's backpacks windowshopped at a large display of salt and pepper shakers.
"Dunno why the newspeople were so interested in us," Cactus said after a while. "Seems to be enough stuff to capture their attention. But I hope they'll stay interested. This could be just the start. A trend! We're gonna be the cutting edge! It's the Death Revolution!"
It might well have been, too, but just as next month's wake rolled around rumors started flying about some amphibious monster purportedly living in the city's Botanical Gardens, and all the news crews were despatched there.
"See," Shy said glumly as they toasted Fox in a nearly deserted Media Vita. "I think the morticians started the rumors. You just don't mess with the death industry."
"Still, novel idea, big party when you're still alive," Blondie said. "Maybe we should just look for small successes, make it an underground movement, instead of going the big quasi-corporate 'Wakes "R" Us' route."
"Good point." Cactus clinked Blondie's tea mug. "Wanna be dead next?"
"Sure."