EXT. NIGHT. ROAD.
A MAN IS HITCHHIKING WHEN A HEARSE STOPS AND GIVES HIM A LIFT.
HITCHER:
Are you going down Miller's Road?
UNDERTAKER:
Yes, I'm heading in that direction, jump in.
HITCHER: (looking to coffin in back)
I see we've got company.
UNDERTAKER:
You won't get much chat out of her.
HITCHER:
I suppose you're busy?
UNDERTAKER:
Yeah, it's been fairly steady. The recession hasn't affected me at all. I'm hoping for a harsh Winter though, I'll be quids in.
HITCHER:
How long have you been an undertaker then?
UNDERTAKER:
Twenty years in the burial business. I mean, when I left school I started as a grave digger then I worked my way up.
HITCHER:
How much for a funeral these days?
UNDERTAKER:
About four grand. But you only die once so you might as well have a good send off. As I often say, dying is one of the most important things that happens to you.
HITCHER:
Four thousand? I couldn't afford to die.
UNDERTAKER:
You can apply for a bereavement grant from social security, obviously someone else would fill in the forms.
HITCHER:
It must be hard though, looking at those wrinkly corpses, day in, day out.
UNDERTAKER:
It depends, the odd day you'll get a young looker, perks of the job. The one in the back at the minute is only 25, blond, big tits.
HITCHER:
Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?
UNDERTAKER:
Not at all mate, fire away.
HITCHER:
Are you ever tempted to kiss one, you know, if she's young and pretty?
UNDERTAKER:
Kiss? No way. I don't believe in foreplay.
HITCHER: (glancing to coffin)
What did she die of?
UNDERTAKER:
Swine flu.
FX UNDERTAKER COUGHING.
