One of my friends wrote an incredibly entertaining story, and I’ve gotten to read the first two parts of the three-part series (unless he combined the last two).
Here are a few excerpts:
Part 1:It’s nearly impossible to convey the sheer horror of waking up inside a sealed body bag. The first two or three times caught me completely by surprise … I felt dizzy and disoriented. The room I found myself in was nearly pitch black and smelled like formaldehyde, as I later discovered, every morgue does. I felt the steely cold of the table underneath me and managed to fall off one side, onto the linoleum floor. It hurt and that struck me as a good thing. I groped my way toward the only light I could discern, finding a door with a small window about head high … One moment, I remember looking up from the bottom of the tub, the view partially obstructed by my citrus-scented bubble bath. The next moment I’m a mummy wrapped in plastic, very much awake, very much panicking.Part 2:
I was just as shocked as you to find out I could murder somebody in their own bedroom. I’ve since come to see violence as a sometimes-necessary evil that can put wrong things right. After all, that seems to be the vocation I was cosmically chosen for … Have you ever wondered what it would be like to attend your own funeral? Of course, you have. We all have. It’s the most pure form of narcissism and the real reason we want there to be an afterlife. How will our friends remember us?
