OULU, the northern parts. Police is looking for a convenience store robber. He was a man in a black shirt, blue longjohns, and a mask made of a pair of briefs.
LEPPÄVIRTA, the central parts. Three men, two of them drunk, were involved in a fracas yesterday. The drunken two, apparently because of some earlier disagreement, tried to invade the third’s home during the night, and broke the glass on the front door. Upon them getting to the entryway, the house owner met them, hit one on the head with a hammer, and slashed the other in the face with an icepick. Then he went to the neighbor and called for help. All three are under police investigation.
ELSEWHERE, all over the place. A popular model of cremation caskets seems to be dangerous, possibly even… deadly. The model is covered with a synthetic fiber fabric, which can come undone and snap at the cremation attendant as the casket’s rolling into the hot oven. Or then the fabric can catch fire too early, which is not nice, or it can melt and jam the rails, blocking the oven door from closing and causing a fire. (This has actually happened. I hope the relatives were not watching.) Guidelines for casket materials are being looked over. Apparently elsewhere in the world only wooden caskets are acceptable.
* * *
A personal note: it would be nice to be mummified, then hidden inside a stuffed bear. You could arrange for the bear to be donated to a museum or a relative a few decades later, without any word of the mummy inside. That would become a nice surprise, eventually.
Or you could cremate me, but save the skull. Then save the ashes in the skull.
Then, decades later:
“I’ll take the sofa; you take granduncle’s skull.”
“I don’t want his poxy skull! I want the sofa!”
“Well someone has to take the skull.”
“Nuh uh; put it into the yard sale.”
“The yard sale?”
“Throw this picture of him in, too; five bucks for the set.”
“Five bucks? It’s antique!”
“Listen, if you like the skull so much you take it.”
“No I won’t. Look, at five bucks it’ll just go to decorate some goth’s bookshelf, organizing some shelf-ful of late period pro-Satanist Anne Rice novels. Ask for more, and some dignified and sensitive person will—”
“You mean some collector will buy it?”
“Yes! I mean, no; what do you mean, ‘collector’? Collector of human skulls?”
“Some collector of curiosities. You could get granduncle on TV, and you know he hated that. Or if you ask too much, some poor housewife will think this’ll be the perfect premium bespoke gift for the hubby, he listened to Doom Unit Zappa when he was a wee lad; and then granduncle’s dust will be in the dumpster because the honey-wife wants to pack the skullgift with candy!”
“You know, that would make a nice story.”