The night air is thick with fog again. Always the fog. It creeps through the headstones like it belongs here more than the dead do.

Francesco stands over an open grave, the shovel slung over his shoulder like a tired soldier’s rifle. The dirt at his feet is too freshly turned. Something’s coming.

Francesco: "Third time this week. Either someone upstairs has a terrible sense of humor, or the ground’s getting greedy again."

Gnaghi grunts behind him, holding a lantern that flickers like it’s scared. He’s already eaten two whole cans of beans and vomited one back up. Still, loyal as ever.

Francesco (sighing): "Don't give me that look, Gnaghi. I told you, they always come back if the family insists on a formal burial. We should’ve just cremated the bastard and mailed the ashes to his widow."

A rustling beneath the coffin lid makes the dirt shiver. Francesco pulls his revolver from inside his coat with the same lack of ceremony most men reserve for taking out the trash.

Francesco (to no one and everyone): "Seven days. That’s all they get. Then I shoot them again, and we start over."

A groan bubbles up from below. Gnaghi steps back. Francesco doesn’t. The revolver rises, steady, practiced.

Francesco: "Welcome back, Mr. Bellini. Let’s not drag this out, yeah?"

The coffin bursts open.

Bang.

Silence.

Francesco (casually reloading): "I need a cigarette."