Bring out your dead?
A tall, pale man -- pale as death, one might say -- strides in, twirling a shovel and whistling a jaunty tune. His whistling dies off when he realizes that this is very definitely not the cemetery.
"Son of a bitch, I sat on the gun again, didn't I?" he mutters, kicking a muddy boot against one of the couches in the lobby. "Ah well. New market."
He twirls the shovel and slings it over his shoulder, holding it behind his neck with his arms draped over the shaft on either side of his head. "So!" he calls out, grinning. "Where d'you keep your dead?"
Typist: GraveRobber, from Repo! The Genetic Opera. Necromerchant and drug dealer extraordinaire. He's a nice guy, really. I swear.
"Son of a bitch, I sat on the gun again, didn't I?" he mutters, kicking a muddy boot against one of the couches in the lobby. "Ah well. New market."
He twirls the shovel and slings it over his shoulder, holding it behind his neck with his arms draped over the shaft on either side of his head. "So!" he calls out, grinning. "Where d'you keep your dead?"
Typist: GraveRobber, from Repo! The Genetic Opera. Necromerchant and drug dealer extraordinaire. He's a nice guy, really. I swear.