The Preparation

Ambrose, as his usual self, was once again preoccupied with the everyday menial task of dressing up his clients. The only difference was that, as an undertaker, his clients were dead. With a measuring tape draped across his shoulder, the mortician set about noting down sizes, selecting only the finest in textiles to don the passed.
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“…Damn.” he quipped, his finger pricked by a sly needle masquerading in the sheets.
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“Dead bodies all look the same when they die.” 
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Mordecai stood still, blank as ever, and looked at the undertaker as he prepared the corpses’ final sunday suits. Which was ironic, considering that the funeral was on Thursday. 
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“Not when I receive them. They show their true colors, only to me.”
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The director spoke quietly. He knew there was another in the room, staring at his work. He paid no heed, continuing with his task. Ambrose was intrigued by the dead man’s choice of clothes. Sewing them together silently, he parted his lips, a sullen, velvety voice materialising by itself.
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“You’re here for?”
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“Was here for Jason, but I come in replacement for Sheldon.”
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Mordecai hated making menial trips like this. Irritation would be more apt- he never regularly felt any strong emotion. He fiddled with the lapel of the silly coat that Hiccups had made him wear. 
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“But I guess insiders share information amongst themselves?”
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The eyes of the mortician shiftily gazed at the visitor’s appearance. His teeth gritted inaudibly, cringing at the degrading state of clothing donning the man. The tailor cum death dealer arose, placing his work aside, striding across to retrieve a paper. Sliding it to the other on the table, he quipped.
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“Miss Margherita asked me to pass a message to Sheldon. Seeing as you’re here….I’m sure you’ll pass it to him, along with the order you placed.”
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“What is it?” 
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Mordecai never liked social situations. Never.
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“Margherita has passed the fifth checkpoint.”
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“…Knowing her I thought she wouldn’t have made it.”
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Mordecai wondered how that girl ever got around when she was so whiny back home.
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“So where are the goods?” Francium would be delighted to see all the new playthings he’d ordered.
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“I need the receipt.”
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He reached into his back and pulled out a ziplock bag, receipt and some keys inside. The receipt was already crumpled, he’d always been a messy person after all. After slipping it out, he gingerly placed it on a jar of mysterious fluid. 
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“Thank you.”
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Ambrose examined the piece of crumpled trash, eyeing the official mark carefully before signing it himself, retrieving a book and the package. He inserted an entry, confirming it with an ink stamp and signature. Passing the package to the other, his eyes twinkled mischievously, grinning.
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“Have fun. It’s explosive stuff.”
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He secured it in the case that Francium had handed him.
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“And I assume Margie-pie’s gotten the weapons somewhere else, sir?’
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“What do you mean? We’re the only weapons advocate in the whole Continent. And no one actually knows about us.”
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“She’s paid, hasn’t she?”
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“Paid what?”
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“For the weapons.”
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“It says here that it was for brassiere straps. Unless…”
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He eyed the man quizzically. Turning back, he took off his coat and glasses, smoothening his hair. Facing the man once again, he bore a soft smile, his teeth able to be seen. Chuckling to himself, he presented a specially made glove with metals attached. 
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“You look quite a social introvert. Have this.”
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“…Do I take that?” 
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Mordecai raised an eyebrow. Oh no he wasn’t unsociable, he was the bubbliest thing in a fifty kilometre radius. Yeah right.
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“No, Mr Mordecai. I expect you to eat it.” he replied sarcastically.
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“This is interesting.” 
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Mordecai studied it from his place.
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“Tell me what it does, then I’ll take it.”
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“What do you think?”
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“…It mauls people?”
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“You’ll win a box of firecrackers and french fries if you can guess the other two uses.”
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“Protect from poison and to basically warm and protect your hand.” 
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Handing him the reward he promised, Ambrose stared at the gloves. He winked at the visitor, his eyes displaying a frisky mood as he disappeared behind the counter. The mortician returned to his cadaver, sewing the clothes once more from where he left off. The funeral was going to be on Thursday, as planned. And he was not one to miss plans.
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About haziqfoxayy

Full time student. Part time wandering fox and storyteller.
This entry was posted in Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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