Last night, it was reported that rotting bodies were found in a U-Haul truck outside a Brooklyn funeral home.
Good citizens of Gotham had been stuffed into unmarked plastic body-bags and piled one upon the other all
the way to the roof; the stench of putrefaction overcame a passing municipal employee on his way to fulfill an essential service.
Maybe some of them had funeral plans on file there, at the funeral home. Maybe one of them, after a sales-pitch about amenities of the powder blue sterling steel coffin with plush white satin interior,
had turn to his wife and said, “Just bury me in a pine box, dear, and put the money toward a big party.”