R.I.P

EPIC

This article is one of Illogicopedia's EPICs.

TEN!!!!

"It was a good life" mused Hastely, pouring some more embalming lotion over his cornflakes. Hastely lived, alone, underneath a graveyard. He'd fallen into a grave during his grandpa's funeral and had stayed there ever since. It was quite enjoyable really. The dead never questioned or judged his actions as many had done during his tenure in the outside world. Like the time he had made love to a postbox for 5 weeks straight, soddening the principle's phone bill. He'd been suspended for that one. Down here trivialities like that simply didn't matter. There was no one to care what you did and all the maggots in the world you could possibly want to make friends with. Hastely had cut himself a huge underground network, spanning the whole of the graveyard. It had taken him 5 years, and worn his digging spoon to a nub, but it had been worth it; he never had to surface to reach other parts of the graveyard, and all the lovable dead people were within 5 minutes walk. There was room to swing a (dead) cat down there, (obviously). life was good.

One day, as Hastely was removing the snails from ol' Mr.Shaffley's shin (cirq.1884) something strange happened. There was something on his back, a warmth he hadn't felt for years. Hastely spun round to see what it was, nearly blinding himself. The glorious rays of the midmorning sun were smashing their way into the tunnel, burning a hole in his retina. Mr.Shaffley melted instantly.

"What, wh-what's going on down here?" asked Hastely, waving his arm in front of his face blindly. His vision was consumed by the girating red circle. After a full three minutes he finally recovered, his pupils now small enough to fit onto his head and face the light. The roof of the tunnel was gone. He was in open air once again. Utterly exhausted, he pulled himself out of the now rather shallow pit. There were men in hard hats driving JCBs everywhere, rapidly digging up the graves and tossing any bodies they found into a skip. Mrs.Sheridon (cirq.1972) had been given a hard hat and propped up against the control tower. Funny. Hastely had seen enough.

NEIN!!!

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!?" Hastely bellowed into the ear of nearest construction worker. The man recoiled, clutching his ear in pain. After rolling around on the floor for a bit he dusted himself down, and returned to Hastely, eager to answer his question.

"Kiddo, you musta known. The building of the...

Nike Tombstoner Stadium^TM

..has been scheduled for months. We taped the planning notice to Berry Dalive's penis (cirq.2030). Everyone knew about it. Even this rock." The rock nodded curtly.

Hastely was confused. "You're knocking down a graveyard, a place where bereaved families lay their loved ones to rest, for a football stadium?"

The builder tipped his hat. "That's the idea anyway. Though whether we get it done in time or not depends on how much leyway the Zombie Trade Unions give us." the worker replied, "Bastards."

"But you can't do that. It's unethical, and, and, uh, please don't take away my home sir. It's all I've got." said Hastely, on the verge of tears.

"Sorry no can do kid. Have a "Go Reds" foam glove, it's on the house."

Hastely made to protest but was clipped on the side of his head by a JCB. Out stone cold he pitched backwards, falling spread eagled into the newly cemented foundations.

'AITE!!

When he finally came to, Hastely was in the locker room. Pulling a jockstrap off of his face he rubbed his head. It was throbbing painfully.

He gasped in horror. They'd done it. They'd really actually done it. The graveyard was gone, the tunnels replaced with an underground sports bar complex. No more rotting decomposing corpses, just obese Americans, slurping their squishies as their brains were slowly reduced to mush by 20 minute ad breaks. This was too much, Hastely needed revenge. But first how did he get out of this place? Maybe the hot dog vendor nearest to him could be of some assistance. Brushing the queue aside Hastely walked up to the guy, leaning on the counter casually.

"Excuse me kind sir, but I was hoping you'd be able to direct me the nearest exit. I intend to leave this place immediately, then return as soon as possible in order to bomb it."

"Hey buddy will ya move it? I've got 5 zillion customers waiting and I've ran out of hot sauce."

Hastely was taken aback, no one had ever told him to move it before. He missed his corpsies. "Sir if you'll just help me out here. It'll only take a minute" he reasoned. Someone pushed him to the floor.

"That's for holding up the queue you bastard" yelled the unidentified overweight object standing over him. Hastely was completely consumed by it's vast shadow.

"Yeah! Quit doing that, if I don't eat every 20 minutes I get a rash. You want me to get a rash?" piped in another fatty, advancing on him menacingly, before stopping to rest. A barrage of hotdogs flew over their shoulder, briefly blotting out the sun before coming down to land on Hastely's face.

This was no use, he'd have to find his own way out. Hastely had the creeping feeling at the back of his mind that this wouldn't end well. The last time he'd had to find his way out of somewhere, during an incident at scout camp, he'd ended up suspended in the fifth dimension. Admittedly there was a glitch in the reality software at the time, but Hastely didn't like running that risk. The fourth dimension had robbed him of his nipples.

Taking note of his surroundings, he noticed a sign directly above his head that read "THIS WAY TO PITCH". Not thinking he followed it. Still lightheaded from where the hotdog had struck him.

Bewildered, Hastely zig zagged his way onto the turf. The bright colours dazzled him and the screaming fans were giving him an intense headache. He could feel the light burning his skin, before long his whole body was red, and parched. (Underground people care not for clothes). Someone sprinkled barbeque sauce on him. This was his moment."People! People! My good people listen! I have news of a grave trajedy that has occured here!" he yelled out to the crowd, a few turning round from their corn dogs to stare at him.

One fan nudged his buddy and pointed at Hastely. "Hey get this guy. They're putting out some unusual mascots these days, first the Redsock Rapist and now this?" His friend chuckled. "Hey Phil, i bet you cant hit him with my can o' beer."

"Oh yeah?"

SEVAN!

Things weren't going at all well for Hastely, people were too busy watching the game and having multiple heart attacks to notice him. And the beer can had landed on his chest, the ring pull slicing into his cooked flesh. That had hurt, that had really really hurt quite a lot. He barely had time to dwell on these failings before something large and funnily shaped slammed into his stomach. Knocking him back about 20 yards. Suddenly he was surrounded, being hugged from every angle by giant men, being lifted up onto their shoulders as the crowd went ballistic. Over the screams of the crowd Hastely could barely make out the voice of the announcer. "Ladies and gentlemen he's scored! And not a moment too soon, Redsocks take the Superbowl, 23 to 22! This has been simply fantastic, true history in the making. Commercial!"

Hastely became an overnight sensation, the litle boy from the graveyard who'd made it big in the NFL. Bank notes and sponsorship deals were thrown at him, his skin turning green for being in contact with so much money. He had a regular saturday night spot on the Tonight Show and a devoted army of fans. Everything had worked out just great. Hastely slaughtered his willing fans and used his untold billions to build a new graveyard, twice the size of the last one. He sighed, pouring more of chanél's most expensive embalming lotion over his cornflakes, swamping them. It was a good life.

THE END^TM