Snap Shot #51: Deadly

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It’s a no brainer – as I live just around the corner from Glebe Morgue, I’m the logical choice to return the gurney our short film production borrowed for the day. The task also provides me with a legitimate reason for having a film school van signed out in my name. Not that I especially care whether or not I have a legitimate reason. But it might come in handy if anyone ever bothers to check the log books and discovers that I’ve had a van for several months running. One of the fringe benefits of attending such a generously funded institution. It’s dark by the time I get to the morgue and access to the underground parking area is shuttered. There’s an intercom so I press the button. “Helloooo?” The woman’s voice sounds kind of creepy. “Uh – yeah – I’m returning a gurney from a film school shoot.” “Ah – yes – drive in and I’ll meet you in the car park.” I drive in, park and pull the gurney out of the back of the van. I turn around and see an odd looking woman – short with frizzy hair, Marty Feldman googily-eyes and an unsettling smile. “Follow me.” She turns and walks through an entrance. I follow her down a hallway and through a pair of thick plastic doors. The temperature drops. She asks, “So, you’re making a film about death, are you?” I’m about to explain that it’s a short film about a woman who finds out that her fighter pilot husband has been shot down when I suddenly realise that I’m surrounded by dead bodies. I literally see dead people. Old ones, young ones, each as naked as the day they took their first breath. Ok. I get it. Creepy Marty Feldman’s sister is trying to freak me out. Nope. Not going to let that happen. So I casually tell her about the film. Meanwhile, my heart’s racing and my eyes are darting around. There’s a little boy about seven. Sad. There’s a dude with an erection. Gross. Once we reach the other end of the room, the weird one turns and smiles. “This  belongs in the deep freeze.” Ok then. We go through another pair of plastic doors and this time the temperature dives. As the freak takes the gurney from me, I spot the strangest thing yet. There in a plastic bag is what looks like a frozen furry giant. It’s much bigger than a normal person. What the hell is it? Before I come to any conclusions, I follow Marty’s sister back out into the main room. I continue to tell her about “Telegram for Mrs. Edwards” but as I do, I notice that I’m now much calmer as I drift through the dead. I look at them with a strange curiousity. So this is death. This is what it looks like. It is what it is – a bunch of empty vessels. I’m escorted back to my van and freaky Feldman wishes me luck with the film. I drive the short distance back to my share house. I’m buzzing. And hungry. I cook myself a steak, fascinated as I watch the blood congeal and sizzle. Meat. In the end, we’re all just pieces of meat.

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