Why Morticians Can't Have Pets: A Darkly Comedic Tale

In the quaint town of Gloomsville, where the sun rarely shone brighter than a mediocre day, and the streets had a constant aura of melancholy, stood a little mortuary called "Eternal Slumber." It was run by a quirky mortician named Morty, who wore a permanent smile that seemed almost sinister. Morty loved his job, often claiming that working with the dead was far more fulfilling than dealing with the living.

Morty had a peculiar way of looking at life—or rather, the absence of it. He found humor in the most morbid of situations. For him, every funeral was an opportunity to sprinkle a bit of levity among the sorrow. His favorite catchphrase was, "At least they're not paying rent anymore!" This earned him a mixed reputation in town; some found him endearing, while others thought he was simply unhinged.

One rainy Tuesday, as Morty was carrying a particularly heavy urn from the back room, he heard the familiar jingle of his doorbell. It was Mrs. Crumplehorn, the town's oldest resident, who seemed to have perfected the art of popping in without warning. She was known for her penchant for gossiping about the living and deceased alike.

"Morty, dear!" she croaked, her voice a mix of gravel and honey. "I heard about your new pet! Is it true you adopted a cat?"

Morty paused, the urn nearly slipping from his grasp. "A cat? No, no, Mrs. Crumplehorn, I would never—"

"Oh, but I heard it from Gladys at the bingo hall! She swears she saw you with a fluffy little thing!"

Morty sighed, placing the urn back on the shelf.

"Mrs. Crumplehorn, you’ve got to understand—having a pet when you work with the dead is like a chef keeping a live chicken in the kitchen. It’s just not practical!"

Mrs. Crumplehorn chuckled, her eyes shining with mischief. "But Morty, don’t you think a pet could help bring some life into this place?"

Morty couldn’t help but smirk at the irony. Life in a mortuary was a rare commodity; he preferred to keep it that way. However, the absurdity of the situation lingered in his mind.

Days turned into weeks, and Gloomsville continued to plod along like a sad little train on a dreary track. Morty found himself thinking more about Mrs. Crumplehorn's comments. Perhaps a pet wouldn’t be such a bad idea. After all, dead things made for great company, but there was something appealing about having a soft, living creature around for a change.

And so, the day finally arrived. Morty decided to adopt a cat—specifically, a black cat he named Edgar, after Poe, of course. The townsfolk were amused, and even Mrs. Crumplehorn was delighted.

"Edgar is quite the charmer, isn’t he?" she cackled, petting the cat while it lounged on Morty's desk, lazily swatting at a paperweight shaped like a skull.

Yet, as the weeks rolled by, Morty began to notice some strange occurrences. Edgar had a knack for finding the most peculiar places to sleep—on top of coffins, inside burial plots, and even in the back of the hearse. Morty chuckled at the thought. It was as if Edgar was embracing his new surroundings with gusto.

However, it soon became clear that Edgar was not just any ordinary cat. One evening, as Morty was preparing for a particularly intimate viewing, he heard a soft meowing coming from behind a casket. Morty turned to see Edgar crammed between the casket and the wall, pawing at a small, hidden door Morty had never noticed before. Curious, Morty approached, and as he bent down, Edgar abruptly pushed the door open with his head, revealing a secret room filled with oddities—dusty mementos, old funeral props, and most astonishingly, a collection of ancient-looking skulls.

"What on earth—" Morty murmured, bewildered.

Edgar darted inside, and Morty followed, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation. As he stepped through the threshold, an array of peculiar items greeted him. Among them was a vintage record player that still miraculously functioned. The moment Morty set it down and placed a record on, the room filled with a haunting yet strangely uplifting melody that made his heart flutter. Edgar danced about the room, chasing shadows and seemingly performing for an audience of one.

The days that followed were a whirlwind. Morty discovered that every time Edgar explored the secret room, he unearthed another hidden treasure—a collection of funeral pamphlets from the 1800s, odd trinkets that made no sense, and even a dusty old tuxedo that Morty decided to wear to the next funeral.

As Morty and Edgar turned the secret room into a makeshift performance stage, Morty began hosting quirky little shows for the deceased. Every Thursday night, he would set up the record player, don his makeshift tuxedo, and let Edgar take the spotlight. Morty would humorously narrate tales of the deceased's life while Edgar performed acrobatic stunts, making the once-gloomy atmosphere feel like a celebration of life, blurring the lines between the living and the dead.

Word spread quickly throughout Gloomsville of Morty’s bizarre but heartwarming performances—"The Eternal Show!" they called it. Townsfolk began to trickle in, drawn by laughter echoing from the mortuary. Morty’s shows became a spectacle, transforming the perception of death into something unorthodox yet delightful.

One fateful night, Morty noticed a peculiar man in the crowd—a tall, dark figure clad in a trench coat and fedora. He was unusually somber compared to the others, his eyes steely as he watched Edgar’s antics. As the performance wrapped up, the man stepped forward, cutting through the laughter like a knife through butter.

"Mr. Morty," he said, his voice as deep as the grave. "I must inform you that you’re crossing a line. Mortuaries aren’t meant for entertainment. They’re for solemnity!"

Unfazed, Morty replied with a grin, "Ah, but what is life without a bit of humor? Even the dead deserve a good laugh!"

The man glared at him, but Morty could see a glint of intrigue in his eyes. Edgar, sensing tension, jumped onto Morty’s shoulder, ready to confront this unexpected critic.

"I can’t stop what brings people joy, good sir. If you want solemnity, perhaps you should take a seat in the corner, far away from the laughter!" Morty declared with bravado.

The man stood there, contemplating before finally shaking his head. "You may think you’re amusing, but let’s see how long this charade lasts, Morty. You might just be inviting trouble."

As the man turned and left, the audience erupted in laughter, and Morty felt a swell of pride. Who knew that a mortuary could become a place of joy?

But as weeks passed, the atmosphere shifted. Edgar grew increasingly restless, often staring into the corners of the room, as if sensing something Morty could not. The audience dwindled, and whispers of scandal drifted through the town like fog rolling in off the sea.

One rainy evening, as Morty prepared for another show, he heard an unsettling thud coming from the secret room. Stepping inside, he found Edgar frozen, staring wide-eyed at a new addition to the room—a black, ornate coffin that hadn’t been there before. It was lavish in design, adorned with flowers and gilded edges.

Morty gulped. "What on earth?"

The coffin creaked open, and to Morty's horror, the body of the mysterious man in the trench coat lay inside, a grim smile plastered on his face. A note fluttered from the lid and landed at Morty’s feet. It read:

"Dear Morty,

You brought joy to the dead, but this is where the story ends. Welcome to MY eternal show.

Yours in solemnity,
The Shadow Man."

Morty staggered back, realizing that perhaps there were some jokes that were best left untold.

Edgar let out a low growl, and Morty couldn’t help but laugh—perhaps a bit hysterically. "Well, Edgar, it seems we’ve truly crossed over into the afterlife! Who knew a mortuary could be so lively?"

With a wicked grin, Morty and Edgar prepared for the most unexpected performance yet. After all, the show must go on, even if it meant performing for a rather unsettling audience.

And so, the peculiar duo continued their darkly comedic escapades, proving that laughter, even in the shadow of death, was the best remedy for Gloomsville—and perhaps even for the universally dead.