Philosophy, and Torching a Corpse

Part One: Jeff

 "Its messy...always so....messy"

The shovel scraped and clinked as it hit rock. By then, he had only dug a few feet down.

"Shit, already?"

It was late, or early, depending on how one was to look at it. In the background could be heard the sounds of animals flapping, crawling, scampering, and calling out. The road, rough and unpaved, lay a little more than four miles away. Even so, it was infrequently traveled, existing as little more than an offshoot of an even further out main highway.

Again, the shovel was pulled out, plunged down, shaken, and kicked, finally slipping in deeper through the thin, hardened layer that had at first stopped its slow progress.

"This part, it sucks, why does it always have to suck so much?"

The hole had taken two hours to dig. The one who had made it was by then covered in a film of dirt and sweat, in addition to the dried blood that had been present beforehand. Nothing was particularly outstanding about the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties at first glance, with black dress shoes and bottoms, as well as a rumpled white button-up. The exception was his face, being abnormally white, with a faded but still noticeable pair of scars on each side of his mouth. His expression was muted, combined with otherwise short, combed back black hair, and brown eyes surrounded by dark circles, that gave off the look of a numbed exhaustion.

Once the hole was done, it being about five feet deep, the man rolled in a body that had been carefully wrapped in plastic sheeting, duct tape, and a plain, thick rug. It fell in with a thud.

He sat down on the ground and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He opened the box, and grabbed one of the thin cylinders with his lips, closed the box, and replaced it, before patting about further.

"Ah, there it is," he said, removing a black Bic. He ignited the cigarette and took a relaxing drag, savoring it, before letting out a gray plume of smoke. He looked at the hole, the shovel standing on end, its tip stuck in the dirt where he had left it. There was the sound of rustling nearby, a small animal, he thought. In the corner of his eye, he saw movement and turned his head leisurely. A squirrel scurried out, staring at him wearily. The man took another drag, released it, and waved to the curious creature. At this the squirrel turned away and ran, vanishing into the bushes.

With a shrug, he laid back flat, watching the canopy above as leaves wafted about. The man remained like this for a while, temporarily content.

Suddenly, a song began to blare from his pocket, it being Toxic, by System of a Down. He pulled out a phone, fumbling and almost dropping it before reading the screen. On it read only "X".

The man pushed the button to receive the call, put it on speaker then placed it on his stomach as his gaze returned upward.

"Hey, Jeff!" The voice was deep but excited.

"What is it, I'm busy," Jeff replied.

"Busy, when are you ever busy?"

"I'm always busy."

Doing the third shift at a gas station and killing off a bunch of nobodies isn't exactly what I'd call busy."

"That's your interpretation of it."

"We've had this conversation, haven't we?" The voice on the phone sounded exasperated now.

"Get on with it will you, what is it you want?" Jeff said with a yawn.

"I finished the new cell line I've been developing!"

"And I care, why?"

"Don't be like that," the voice said, sounding injured.