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Dead Yuppie
For the sake of this story, let's call him Michael. He's not really a yuppie; he owns a leather jacket with "Bob"'s face on the back, his hair is just that little bit too long and he smokes more weed than is fashionable for people in that stratum. But he does own a mobile phone. We used to give him a lot of shit about that. Anyway. He died. Or at least, we thought he'd died. We were at this goth cemetery-party way out in the country; we all got drunk, he slipped off a tombstone and hit his head. He looked dead; he didn't appear to be breathing. The drunk country doctor who examined him thought he was dead. So, we all looked shocked for a few minutes, then we arranged to have him buried. Six hours later he was in the ground, in the suit he'd been wearing. We were hanging around the town pub later the next day when we remembered the mobile phone - he'd been buried with it. Snickering, I went to the public phone and called it. It answered. He'd woken up inside the coffin just as we'd started shoveling the dirt in on him. A toe-wide crack near his feet leading to an old fence-pipe carried air down to him and his phone signals up to us. He screamed at us to come and dig him up; everyone else he'd been able to call thought he was joking. The country doctor who'd helped us bury him had gone back to Melbourne and none of us could remember exactly where the grave was, so we borrowed a mobile phone from the senior sergeant at the police station to keep in touch with him while we searched... It's been two days; I'm sure we're getting close. If any of you want to hear a badly-frightened and thirsty proto-yuppie screaming in terror, call (in Australia) 0416081472 and run his batteries down some more. Heh. |
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All work on this site is © Nikolai Kingsley unless otherwise stated. |