Never Diddle the Dead - Part 1

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"Never Diddle the Dead" is a short story involving short vignettes. It has been written in the twisted comedic style that is typical of "Angry Bear Film Productions". Warning: Story involves graphic violence, sexual themes, gore, and a vomit inducing lack of good taste. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Don't say I didn't warn you.


Never disturb the dead. It's been a warning that has been carried over the ages, from civilization to civilization. Allow the dead their eternal slumber. Do not touch their corpses, leave them be. Do not desecrate their graves... and for the love of God, never diddle the dead.

Through the ages, ancient myth, and some might say prophesy, speaks of the dead rising from their graves. They will rejoin the living, and feast upon our flesh. Humanity cannibalized by its unearthed sins, no longer forgotten. Some horrors are better left buried... not dug up and vigorously fucked. Pull a dog's tale, and it will bite. Prod a corpse's rotten colon, and you tempt the devil's wrath.

The day came, when humanity went too far. Their pursuit for immortality took an unexpected turn for the worse. A virus was created that would rejuvenate the integrity of the body's cells, and reinitiate the processes of youth. The virus rejuvenated something alright, there just happened to be one unexpected requirement... death.

The rise of the undead was swift and vicious. The world's population was decimated, and was reduced to a fraction. A cure was found, but it was far too late for most. The undead didn't discriminate; neither good men or women were spared in the onslaught, nor were the wicked. Tales were spun of the brave souls who combated the hordes of hell; this story is not about them. This tale is about those degenerates, who when confronted with the orifice of the underworld, went ahead and fucked it... and in return, were fucked.

Simone Brossette, Mortuary Makeup Artist. The small town of Roussillon, in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur region in Southeastern France.

The setting sunlight spilled through high windows and down into the basement of the "Maison Funéraire De Destination Finale". Bathed in a narrow beam of light, and raised on a dais in the centre of the simple room, was a beautiful oak casket. The reddish ocher bricks in the four walls, lent a warmth to the space.

Within the open casket lay a man in his early 20's, Blaise. His fair skin shone with an eerie brilliance, despite his being dead for days. His state of being did little to diminish his musculature or his well endowed physical features. Blaise had been a man in his prime.

A freak lawnmower accident had been Blaise's undoing. A steep downhill freestyle lawnmower ride, at dusk, with his belly full of chardonnay and camembert, ended tragically. Youth, alcohol, and fine artisan cheeses make fools of us all.

Blaise's chum, Timothé, bet him he couldn't descend the full fifty eight meters in less than ten minutes. Blaise won that bet, with time to spare. He rolled past the finish line, and punctured a lung on a "No Downhill Cycling" sign. Although the fall killed him, the coroner couldn't explain the bite marks on Blaise's left ankle.

Good ol' Blaise laid peaceful in his coffin. A slight and dainty mademoiselle named Simone, leaned over Blaise's corpse. She gently applied blush to his chiselled cheeks. Simone ran the back of her boney hand tenderly along the length of his jaw line.

Simone, now in her fifties, had spent the better half of her life, bringing out the deceased's "better and beautiful selves". She loved how peaceful her "clients" were. They never complained, criticized, judged, and better yet, they never said "no".

She giggled to herself, as her hand slid down Blaise's neck, travelled across his broad chest, over his washboard abs, and down under his pants. Simone caught hold of the very thing she so desperately longed for. With a wicked grin, she exclaimed "Oh là là. Grand et robuste comme un cheval."

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