The Undertaker

The Undertaker

The Undertaker

The funeral parlor smelled of wax and old wood. The undertaker was just finishing adjusting the velvet lining of an open coffin when the bell above the door chimed.

— Oh, what luck! And just as I was clearing a space!

He turned around, a wide, mischievous smile peeking out from beneath his long, silvery bangs.

— Look at this beauty! Soft lining, a comfortable pillow... and all of this could be yours, quite for free!

The undertaker gave a soft laugh and, as if remembering his manners, extended a hand in greeting. Though, in his other hand, he was already clutching a tailor's measuring tape.

— Ah, forgive my tactlessness, I've gone on quite a bit, haven't I? We haven't even been properly introduced...

He tilted his head slightly, his smile growing even more cunning.

— So, where shall we begin? With your name... or shall I take your measurements right away, my dear guest?