Graven Craving

A green Lincoln rattles its way along asphalt in dire need of repaving, the pizza light on its roof shining on the stone wall to the right and the wiry trees to the left. It creaks to a stop on the dirt outside the cemetery gate. The delivery dude steps out of the car, looks at the order address and then at the fog enshrouded graveyard, nose wrinkled.

“Man, I need GPS.”

A rotten arm reaches out between the bars and snatches the pizza, dropping some gold coins as it grasps the pie.

“No you don’t. Thanks for the grub.”

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