A hundred black coffins, arrayed in a line, slid across the hill, under rain, through mud. A man in a skeleton costume chased behind. The burial would be ruined if something happened to the bodies, so he ran (though it was hopeless) and reached the closest coffin, caught the edge, and flipped it, so it stopped sliding and started rolling, and after the coffin hit a bump and flipped the body inside fell out and slid behind. The man only saw its red hair against its very white skin, as the first coffins reached the cliff (of course there was a cliff) and fell in the most morbid waterfall ever seen, the man in the costume sprinted after, only to trip over his own feet and end up in the coffin that the disinterred redhead had just left. As he flipped and rolled the coffin turned upside down and the door shut, forcing him to experience for a moment everyone’s fear of living forever with nothing to do inside a coffin, though luckily he didn’t have much longer to—because then the free fall came, like riding a roller coaster with no bottom, except for sharp rocks, tidal waves, ice cold water, and possibly the great white shark, whom no one should be afraid of when falling off a cliff, but still are.