Revision: the Fantastic Adventures of Munchausen

    A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. "A graveyard by the sea" was his request. A few hundred clicks south of edenbrough sat the Church of Sabismo. The church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly on a short peninsula ringing its chimes to the endless sea. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. the sky was black as pitch. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth strike of the hour, the clouds unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside with a thunderous sob. Twice more the church bell rang out before the rain. It started slow drawing slowly in to a deluge. Father Sabismo, from the doorway of his old church, watched the undertakers' work. It was slow and angonizing to watch. A falsh of lightening lit the miseriable task. In the roll of thunder, the ancient priest blessed his age. Just a few years ago he might've had the spirit to comdend the son of a dear friend by his own sweat. But these days… A another roar of thunder lit the grave yard. The Baron, Elie ___ Von Munchausen. He imaged the writing on the grave, still open. Sabismo shook his great, heavy head and turned to the only attendant of Elie's, a sharply dressed man.

    Paul wiped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. Sweat or rain. He couldn't tell. Mr. Reming was yelling something that could not be heard over the din of the growing storm. Most likely the old fart was calling him a pussy and barking an order. Paul dropped another shove full of mud with a plop over the find oak coffin. Mr. Reming was dark and cracked from years under the working sun. Tall and jagged as scarecrow he leaned against the tomb stone looking as a death itself wit a smoldering cigar clamped in his yellow teeth. "Why can't you shove s'um dirty 'round?" Paul asked.

    "When I was yer age, I never demanded work from folks my age." Inder his broad brimmed hat the cigar glowed. The old fuck smiled. Broad, yellowed grin showed off his missing tooth. Paul hated Mr. Reming's smile. It was the smile of a man counting bodies. In thruth, Mr. Reming only counted them as one would count the years of life. He was 2,029, by his count though most would recin' him to be --. Too, bad. He loved to smile. An hour of labor silent through the wind and howl of rain.