Gustave decided that, since his brain had suggested it first,
he was going to brave the heat and look in the oven. The ageless door slowly yielded to Gustave's advances, and
the furnace within lept at the uncontrolled surge of oxygen. The flames took over his body; tongues lashed greedily
at his unprotected mouth. He laughed riotously as the fire took over.
He had beaten death once already. Bring it on, Lucy. You and your
Lawrence Welk.
The funeral director, Dan Howell, slipped into the garage, and
immediately sensed that something was wrong. He walked briskly over to the cremation oven, and shut the heat off.
Ten minutes later he pulled the door open.
Ugh, he thought to himself, this one had gone badly. He stared
past the crimson blood that had begun to burn off of the walls to the half consumed body that laid within. He stared
at the grotesque form of a ten-year-old boy who had been brought in last week, the mouth horribly, but conspicuously
forming a gurgling laughter.
