Hairline Fracture

Okay, I'm not really sure where this is going yet, but it should be good if I can get round to writing it.

It started with a funeral: this sort of story often does. The yard was almost empty, despite the glorious summer weather  - this was not the "It was a dark and rainy day, complete with thunderclouds and hurricane gales" sort of funeral, nor the "grieving widow at the graveside" type of funeral that frequents storybooks and movies - save for one person staring fixatedly as two others lowered the coffin down, down, deep into the earth. No tears flowed from their eyes: they had never had the fortune to meet the person in life, they were just paid to do their job and entomb the body for eternity. The third figure picked up a rusted spade from the graveside and began to shovel the dirt onto the wooden box, seemingly enjoying the excercise in the midday sun despite the fact that what he was burying was a body. A dead body. The remains of a human being, never again to move, live, love, hate or anything else. It wasn't that they were unaware of this, more that they were just like the others: they did what they were told.

You might wonder who gave them these orders. The person that lay six feet under the ground, in the coffin, Mark Vallence, their employer had apparently contacted them via fax machine with instructions earlier in the day. The gravediggers had no idea, of course, that their employer was dead and that the fax had been sent by someone else: they were just the standard mooks, easy to decieve and not important or dangerous enough for the murderer to arrange for them to disappear. The body had arrived already encased within the wooden box and the hired men had no interest in breaching the terms of their contract...

The End

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