Graverobber tells themself intention is important, that the only separation between firework and missile is the spot designated for detonation, that desecrating someone’s final resting place is fine so long as there’s a legitimate reason behind the crime – 

act, they self-censor, replacing the final word of the thought.

Shovel smacks frozen ground. A quick look around ensures the sound didn’t attract the night shift’s attention. It’s gonna take more force to get through.

Maybe a better angle too. Now in front of the plot, foot sends shovel down, the earth gives; Graverobber is immersed in a sudden light. “I hope you’re having a good night.” Well-wishes from the Departed, as insufferable now as they were in life; Graverobber’s arm does a poor job of shielding eyes from the brightness projected from the tomb phone.

Its a motion-activated memorial, invented by Departed in the last, mostly isolated years of that life. The idea behind the device is for the dead to be preserved through their opinions of the living, instead of the other way around. Anyone that walks by has access to a lifetime supply of –

lies. Graverobber cannot help but resume control of the tangential thought. The existence of its subject matter is infuriatingly unjust. The Departed doesn’t have any right to permanence, no right to expose who they thought people were, to say the things they didn’t have to courage to say before death throughout the life of others – cowardly long-con to dodge consequence – Graverobber’s scoops reach vindictive velocity.

“I’ve been called greedy more than once.” Faster. Merely having the same last name as Departed was enough for that. When money runs in the family some perceptions are in place from birth. “So I wanted to spend the last of my fortune, eheh, of course there’s many richer than me, the money I have I want to spend on a way to share. Eternally.”

Graverobber does not want to be seen and so stops self from smashing screen. If Departed was so worried about sharing their death didn’t have to be spent achieving such a selfish end. They could’ve – should’ve, by Departed’s own admission (Graverobber reasons) died and dispersed the wealth throughout the family. Even the meager portion would be life-changing, enough to make the life-long association worthwhile, not exactly an equal payoff for the cost of being so close to so much for so long but it’d be something at least, anything other than this –

“- menu here shows all of my family. Select one and I’ll tell you some stories, or maybe just what I think -” Deep enough now for the tomb phone to tower, Graverobber’s name is a downtown billboard, a fantasy within arm’s reach. Uncertain why they couldn’t help themself, Graverobber rushes to resume digging after the touch. “This one…this one is tough. In another life, for someone else I guess, they wouldn’t have been too much.

Exactly the type of person that needs to be in charge of stuff if it’s gonna be good enough to last. That’s good, but…what type of person is that? Who wants their family to be the incarnation of greed – savagery?” 

Graverobber, shrinking under the assault, knows they’re encroaching on six-feet under, almost all the way through to the only place left to find that rightful inheritance, “The problem, as I see it, is that this person reminds me of me. And I know, in their position, having watched a wealthy relative die without being left a cent – it wouldn’t just incense them, if I’m right about this person – and I know I am – what I’ve done is a call-to-action. It’s what happened to me, how I made my money. But the world isn’t the same; if I was them now, I’d rob my grave.”

Graverobber doesn’t hear the premonition, their attention wrapped around casket – it creaks as it opens – “So, as a precaution, I hid my actual resting place and filled this one with -”

Tomb phones. A million dollars worth of devices only good for spreading the truth Departed had known.

End

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