With only women and fantasies of illicit sex on his mind, the mercenary Undertaker, Horace Hobson, knows what he wants -- but did he ever consider the consequences of getting it?

The second in a series of very strange stories by Camlo de Ville

With its picturesque thatched cottages, sixteenth-century inn, historic Saxon church, and sweeping stretch of sandy beach, Croxley might well have been the most unspoiled village on the South Coast of England.

And being off the beaten track, where tourists rarely ventured, it was likely to remain that way, thus allowing the villagers to enjoy a tranquil life.

Most of them worked for old Farmer Brown, who owned some 4000 acres of fertile land.

But one day he was run over by a tractor and died.

Horace Hobson welcomed the death -- he was the Undertaker. However, for the rest of the community it was a tragic loss.

Especially when Farmer Brown's only son and benefactor, who had not shown his face in Croxley for the past thirty-five years, sold the land to a Property Developer specializing in homes for the wealthy retired.

Word of this got out through the local press. Outraged, the villagers signed petitions, marched to Parliament, wrote to the Queen and anything else they could think to do.

The protests brought great publicity and put Croxley on the map once and for all -- to which the Property Developer was not averse.

Throughout the next year or so, the once idyllic village became one huge construction site, and when building was complete, a bombastic advertising campaign saw to it that the Senior Citizens came flooding in.

-

"The more old people the better!" cried Horace Hobson, overjoyed.

The joy was short lived ...

There were others who recognised Croxley's potential, too, and they did not call themselves Undertakers.

They called themselves Funeral Directors.

And they had more than a little shop at the end of a cul-de-sac with a dusty, sun-bleached coffin in the window.

They operated from stylish Funeral Homes at 'The Mall'.

Horace did the best he could. He referred to himself as a Funeral Director. He called his shop a Funeral Home.

It didn't help.

Dire financial problems led to a heart attack, and Horace was forced into retirement.

-

Swapping black suits and ties for colourful Hawaiian shirts, Horace resigned himself to indulge in the delights Croxley now had to offer.

He was particularly keen to render his services at the dance classes. There was a shortage of male partners.

Taking along his wife, Thelma, would be pointless. She had two left feet. Besides, the thought of her prancing about on the dance floor in her kaftan was not a pretty one.

But she just might have something against him going on his own ...

Until now, Horace's conception of old women had been of little old ladies with walking frames, hearing aids and compression stockings, complaining about arthritis, varicose veins and the long NHS waiting list for hip-replacements.

This conception soon changed when the new old women of Croxley moved in. He discovered that women like Joan Collins, Sophia Loren, Tina Turner and Mamie Van Doren did actually exist in real life.

At first, he considered going to the new gym where they kept their firm and voluptuous bodies in shape, but there he could only admire them from a relative distance.

Horace needed more.

At the dance classes he could be closer to them. There he could unreservedly touch them, hold them, and feel them.

Just thinking about it made him drool.

Yes, Thelma would certainly have something against him going alone.

She was always trying to get in the way of his plans.

But not for much longer. Dr. G. had said something on television a few nights ago that Horace found rather comforting.

Dr. G. had told viewers that a fat, old person had never landed on her autopsy table, because fat people never lived to be old.

Horace thought about this, and realised he had never buried a fat, old person either.

It seemed that Dr. G. was right.

And with Thelma being fat ... and nearly old ...

-

Clearing out the old shop, Horace salvaged the dusty, sun-bleached coffin he had displayed in his window since 1962 -- it would be ideal for Thelma later.

In the meantime, he placed it decoratively at the foot of the marital bed where it could be used to store things in.

Thelma objected strongly to this and moved to the spare room.

Why hadn't he thought of that before?

Sharing a bed with Thelma was a nightmare. It was like sleeping with a restless whale -- a wonder he ever managed to get any sleep at all. But now, at long last, that was over.

-

A couple of days later, while watching 'Six Feet Under', Thelma told Horace she had been thinking. “Why don't we sell the hearse?” she said, popping a chocolate into her mouth. “I mean, we could sell it to one of those Goth people. We only need my car now you're retired.”

“I'm not driving around in a piffling Fiesta,” said Horace testily.

“Well I can do the driving –” Thelma started.

“Over my dead body!” cried Horace. “We can sell the Fiesta -- but not the hearse.” He clicked his tongue and went back to the television. A Goth -- whatever next?

Not that it had ever crossed his mind to sell either vehicle up to now, and they could do with the extra cash. But the thought of being cooped up with Thelma in a Fiesta, or some Goth at the wheel of his hearse -- he shuddered.

The couple were quiet for a while, Horace staring at the TV set, Thelma munching her chocolates, a glimmer of despair in her eye.

Deciding to give it another go, she said, "But you know I can't manoeuvre the hearse, and besides --"

“The hearse is more practical," said Horace, cutting her off. "More room in the back.”

“You know I won't be seen dead in that old thing,” said Thelma , tears brimming.

“There'll be an ad in the paper tomorrow for the Fiesta, like it or lump it.”

"If you do that," Thelma said angrily, "I won't go anywhere anymore and you'll have to do everything yourself -- including the shopping!"

Well, well, well, thought Horace. He would be going to the dance classes without her after all.

-

Horace was having the time of his life cruising round town in the hearse. It was a real eye-catcher. And he was making quite a name for himself at the dance classes, too.

Just having those delectable creatures in his arms sufficed to fuel his imagination -- although he would have liked more.

But he could dull the ache later at home -- now Thelma was in the spare room.

One day at 'The Mall', where he had been stocking up on fatty foods and chocolate for Thelma, he saw Dolores sashay across the car-park towards her metallic-grey Porsche.

He knew her from one of the dance classes. She must have been somewhere in her mid-fifties -- a silver-blonde; hair piled high on her head, long slender legs, slinky walk. God -- that walk! Horace had to admire her ...

Dolores spotted him from the corner of her eye. Smiling her dazzling smile, she turned to wave, stumbled, and fell to the ground. One of her stiletto heels had snapped off.

Without a second thought, Horace dropped his bags-for-life and ran to the rescue.

“I think I've twisted my ankle,” Dolores whimpered, clutching Horace's sleeves as he gently eased her up.

“You can't possibly drive like this,” said Horace, his brow furrowed with concern.

"You're right," said Dolores, extracting a mobile phone from her Louis Vuitton bag. “I'll call a taxi.”

Horace was having none of that. “I can give you a lift,” he said, trying not to sound all too hopeful.

Dolores' face lit up. "In the hearse?”

-

The hearse glided swiftly through the English countryside, Dolores in the passenger seat.

They were nowhere near her beach-side house, but she didn't seem at all bothered.

When they reached a wooded area, she said, "I've aways wanted to ride in a hearse"

Applying what he considered his most becoming smile, Horace shot her a glance.

Hauling his eyes back to the road, he wondered if she had really meant that as he thought she had.

Her perfectly manicured hand made its way to his knee.

Horace gaped at it in disbelief.

It slid along his thigh.

Horace looked up.

Their eyes locked.

The hearse swerved towards a ditch and Horace slammed on the brakes.

-

Parked in a secluded clearing in the woods, curtains drawn in the back, Dolores was like a young foal.

"It gets better all the time!" she squealed.

It was the umpteenth time, and veins were beginning to pop out all over Horace's face.

"Harder, harder," Dolores moaned.

Horace was beginning to turn very red ...

"Oh yes, you brute, give it to me!".

... and then maroon.

"Don't slack -- not now," she panted.

With a giant heave, he made one final effort ...

“Oh, Horace!”

... and his body slumped down on top of hers and all at once he was exceedingly heavy.

“Horace?”

There was no response.

"Horace!"

-

Although not happy about it, the Funeral Director did eventually agree to drive Horace to the church in the hearse he had mysteriously died in. And to bury him in the dusty, sun-bleached coffin that had once adorned the foot of the bed.

Horace would have wanted it that way, Thelma told the Funeral Director.

The hearse was picked up by the Goth to whom Thelma had sold it, who gave the Funeral Director a lift back to the Funeral Home.

The ceremony was a quiet affair; just Thelma and the Vicar.

How sad, thought Thelma, doing her utmost not to smile.

Thank you for reading!