The smell of new-mown grass flowed through the air, dancing in the spring sunshine. Birds sang, children laughed, young women dressed lightly and long-legged, and the fresh, welcome warmth washed the frowns from the faces of everyone around. All in all it was as good a day as any to dispose of the dead. The Swede arrived at the churchyard to find waiting, the Prince, made early by a serious plot defect. From his coat pocket the Swede took out a picture of his one true love, Princess Buffy. He gazed into the celluloid eyes of the beauty before him. "Will I ever cradle your firm, round breasts in my hands as you writhe sweet and sweaty upon my belly?" he whispered and the headmistress beside him shrugged, for though she would never cheat on her husband, he hadn't been looking well lately and if he should croak, she would be available for just such a gig.

Mustapha and Brother Arnold walked with them to the graveside and together the four friends gazed into the great hole dug square into which their great comrade Hague would soon be placed. Soze came with the Prince's newly wed sister on his arm and Strangler came with the Warrior's coffin under his and together they swapped tales of Hague's great courage and dear, dear friendship. "I'll swap you my tale of Hague at the Battle of Merfer", said Mustapha to the Prince, "for the tale of Hague at the Old Dance".

"No", said the Prince, "I've already got that one, but I'll swap you for the tale of Hague's escape from the Gonaddian Raiders". But Mustapha would swap that tale to no-one, for it was rare. Strangler, of course, merely listened, for though he thought with the generosity of the mountain air, he spoke like the arse of the duck upon God's lake. Silently, he knelt down, and with the coffin held firm in the murderous vice of a single hand, he gently lowered the coffin into the ground with a sociopathic serenity that impressed all. Strangler wiped a single fragile tear from his eye and looked to the Swede. Mustapha sighed and looked to the Swede. Brother Arnold whispered silently, "Sleep well my friend", and looked to the Swede. The Prince creased his devilishly handsome brow and looked to the Swede. Soze removed his tongue from the priest's daughter's ear and turned his attention to her breasts.

With the eyes of all but one upon him, and his great friend dead at his feet, the Swede knew the moment had come to prove his leadership with a few words of wisdom and spiritual guidance."We have come today to salute our late friend", he said.

"I wasn't late this time", said the Prince indignant.

"He means Hague", said Brother Arnold.

"Oh I see", said the Prince.

"O.I.C.?" asked the Mad Woman.

"Where?" asked Soze in fear, for the O.I.C. had long had a price on his head.

"Ribbet", said the strange diseased member.

"................ ", said Strangler.

"Continue with what you were saying", said Mustapha to the Swede.

But the Swede had lost the thread. "Anyone fancy a few jars?" he asked. The proposition put Strangler in an astonishly chatty mood and the usually silent psychopath said, "Hmm". The Prince, Mustapha and Brother Arnold all agreed that this was a fine idea indeed and Soze discarded the priest's daughter into the grave, for in these parts there were women around every corner, but the licensing hours were harsh. Only Hague was not filled with joy, for he was dead and being dead is a beastly dull business. Indeed, the priest's daughter landing on his coffin was just about the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day. Kicking open the coffin, he climbed from the grave and, after brushing the dirt from his clothes, he joined his friends, for he too liked the odd glass of ale.

The Mad Woman from the Land of Chaos, looked around at the remaining guests and saw that the headmistress's husband really did not look well at all and so they buried him instead. He was not personally keen on the idea, but it would have been a shame to waste such a fine funeral. Having filled the hole with earth, the Mad Woman set off in many directions to join the Swede, an act no-one need justify for she could speak for herself. She could speak too for Strangler, who thought Mayfair, but who spoke Old Kent Road. She could speak for everyone.

No-one was left at the graveside to read the headstone which strangely read : Mustapha is a writer killed in the snow