Chapter Twenty Eight

There is a remedy for everything but death, which will be sure to lay us out flat sometime or other. - Cervantes




Chapter Twenty Eight

“I’m telling you, it’s all the fault of those fucking priests,” the man in the soothing grey suit said. His hair was tidy, and his suit was sober and starting to get a little frayed around the cuffs. His eyes, however, were full of fire. “They got their fucking wish, and now we’re all out of business.”

“I sincerely doubt the priests actually wanted everyone to stop dying. They’re businessmen too, you know,” said a blond man with wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a charcoal suit with pinstripes, and a silver tie.

“Yeah, businessmen, maybe, but crazy ones. The money is all well and good, but you know they’d all give it up to meet Santa Claus. Meanwhile, those of us who are more pragmatic about these things are starving.”

“You’re hardly starving, Vincent.”

“Yeah, because I’m out on the streets hustling. What kind of a life is this? I used to do five or six funerals a week, and I didn’t even have to try to find new clients. People would just show up!”

“Well, what do you suggest we do about it?” the blond man asked. “It’s not like we can just insist that people start dying again. I’m pretty sure there are no government bail-outs for morticians when people just stop dying.”

“I don’t know, man, but I say we should go beat up some priests on general principle.”