“I’ll be back,” he whines before taking off again.
“Okay, Arnold,” I mutter under my breath as he sprays gravel everywhere.
Chapter sixteen
Ember
“JUSTICE FOR THE DED!”
“LET THE DECEESED REST!”
“END POST-MORTIM CAPITOLISM!”
The protesters stand across the street from the funeral home, holding misspelled signs and yelling at anyone who walks or drives by. They all have a grayish tint to their skin and are damp, showing early signs of decomposition.
Chad, the fucking idiot, raised the dead to help his cause.
The dumbass himself stands in front of them with a tiny karaoke machine microphone, his posture screaming faux-confidence.
My phoenix squawks, upset with the idea of anyone taking advantage of our omega’s kindness. Not wanting to upset Sunshine, I force the phoenix back, inhaling slowly. Bursting into flames would help no one right now.
Sunshine steps up beside me on the front porch, holding a coffee mug that saysfuneraldirectorfuel.
“So, this is happening?” he grumbles faintly, rubbing the morning grime out of his bleary eyes.
“I guess so.”
One of the bodies drops its sign, and it hits the pavement with a wet slap. He stares down at it like it betrayed him on some deep level until Chad picks it up, shoves it back in his hand, and forces him to continue.
Sunshine makes a sound that could only be described as existential despair.
“How did he get the undead to participate in a freaking picket line?” he asks, frustration clear in his rough voice. My omega is getting more upset by the minute, and that is not. Fucking. Okay.
“Well, if I’m reading the signs correctly, which I might not be considering the spelling on some of them, it seems like he told them that you are exploiting the dead for profit.”
“I run a fucking funeral home. I profit off of the living’s grief, not the dead’s forced labor.”
“I know, Habibi.”
“That’s not exploitation of the dead! If anything, it’s exploitation of the living!”
“I know, Habibi.”
Chad lifts his little speaker and speaks into the microphone in his hand.
“THIS ESTABLISHMENT PROFITS OFF THE DEAD!”
“Profits… Off… The… Bread?” one of the corpses echoes weakly after a long pause, while another one claps off rhythm.
One corpse has wandered away from the line of protesters and is sitting on a park bench, actively trying not to die. Again. Chad has to physically pick it up off the bench and put him back where he is apparently supposed to go, looking like a disgruntled pageant mom.
“This isn’t right. His magic isn’t strong enough to keep them in this form for too long. They’re decomposing far too fast. This,” Sunshine sighs, dragging a hand down his face, anger and sadness fighting for dominance over his expression, “is so fucking unethical. I’m going to lose everything.”
“No, you won’t. I won’t let that happen,” I reassure him. I don’t know if I can keep my word, but I’ll try my fucking hardest.
“There are dead bodies protesting in front of my funeral home! My life is a bad joke! Or one of your stupid pun mugs,” he cries, one hand still holding one of the aforementioned mugs and the other tugging at his chocolate brown hair.
“At least they’re poorly organized.”
