Ingredients: One disfunctional family. One unhappy childhood. One all-boys Catholic boarding school. One term of military service. One Congressional Medal of Honor. One year of solitude. One divorce. One knife in the back. One life left.

An old woman died in a cheap, run-down housing complex north of Main Street. She had no surviving relatives that anyone knew of, so the police filled out the paperwork when we came to make the pick up. She had been dead for over a week. Her body was only discovered when neighbors called the superintendent, complaining about the smell. This old woman had passed away peacefully, wrapped up in an electric blanket. For over a week that blanket, turned up as high as it would go, kept the old woman's corpse nice and toasty warm. For over a week, that blanket served as a catalyst for the decomposition process. By the time we got there, all there was to find were some bones and a puddle of goo.

A week later a man called in his mother. He was a little embarrassed when we came for the pick up. "She was a good person," he said. We found her with clamps on her nipples and a vibrator between her legs. She was smiling - a serene, beautiful smile - so at least we knew she had died happy. One of my coworkers cleared his throat. "Are we going to include...those...in with her personal effects?" I glanced at him and arched an eyebrow. "Why, do you want to keep them for yourself?"

He's been around since 2001.
He has always looked like Johnny Depp.
He buries dead people.
He's at home in the Fabulous Las Vegas SL.