Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Cemetery Work Is For Suckers

Episode Date: November 19, 2025

A simple grave-digging job turns into a blood-drenched nightmare when two hired guns accidentally resurrect an old vampire friend—and realize they’ve stumbled into a setup that was never meant to let them walk away alive. NoSleep Coffee: Get 20% off your first order with code NOSLEEP20 at checkout. Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One: ⁠https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The scorpion scurried along the sandy ground. Its pinchers held high. Its stingered tail held even higher. Mo had no problem stomping the thing to death, even though it showed no interest in him whatsoever. Gotcha. Moe says. Then flashes his gold cap to grin at me.

Set against his red beard and bald white head, the gold caps are more than jarring. They're downright repugnant. But that's Mo. You didn't need to do that, I say. and shift in the passenger seat. The car door is open, and I'm sitting sideways with my boots on the highway's shoulder. So if things turn sour, I can hop in, scoot over, start this car right up, and get the

a fuck out of Dodge. Not that I'd leave, Moe, I'd never do that. But it's good to be prepared when you're out of the city. Only one kill around here, Pod, Mo says, and hawks a wad of tobacco spit onto the scorpion's crushed carcass. If you say so, I reply and glance up at the noonday sun. There's a soft halo around the glowing orb, kind of fuzzy, like my head right now. Things tend to be a little fuzzy out in the wilds, and the longer you're gone from the city,

the fuzzier things can get. The sun beats down on me and I try to shake my unease away. It was supposed to get close to a hundred a day, but the cloud cover has kept everything at a nice, calm 93 or so. I'm barely breaking a sweat. Moe, on the other hand, is going to need a saline drip if he doesn't move into the shade soon. His shirt is soaked all the way through, and I can see sweat stains starting to form around his crotch. Not that I'm staring at his junk. It just happens that I'm sitting and he's standing, so certain areas are at eye level. When's this guy going to show? I ask. Pretty much ready to call it a day.

and go find a spot where there's cold beer, warm food, and hot ass. He'll show, he'll show, Mo says. He's scanning the ground, looking for more scorpions to stomp on, or anything smaller than him, really. If Mo can crush it, he will. I mean that literally and metaphorically. I didn't ask if he'll show. I asked when he's going to show. How the fuck do you expect me to answer that? I ain't his mama. He'll show when he shows, and not a fucking minute sooner.

Bad sign, man. Being late to a first meetup is a bad fucking sign. Well, you best tell him that when he gets here. I'm sure he'll dig the constructive criticism. Just saying that if you tell someone you'll be at a certain place, at a certain time, then you should arrive at that certain place, at that certain time like promised.

It's not hard to figure out. This guy doesn't have to figure out anything. He hires guys like us to figure it all out for him. Great. What's he hiring us for? A fucking job! That's all I know. We are meeting him for a possible job. He'll fill us in on the details when he gets here.

So you don't know anything about it. Like whether it's a snatch and grab, or a hit or a safe job or a... No, Jesus Christ, Scovie! How many times do I have to tell you that we'll find out when the guy gets here? If the guy gets here, he'll show I know it. Two hours later, and the guy hasn't shown. How long are we going to sit here for? I ask.

Mo glares at me. What? You said he'd show, and so far, he hasn't. I gotta get paid, Mo. If this guy is gonna stiff us, then I need to get back to the city and find a new gig. Oh? And what gig is your ass gonna find?

No one will hire you, Scovie. You burned too many bridges in the city. I ain't burned shit, man. Have I ruffled some feathers? Sure. But sometimes feathers need ruffling. No, Scovie, they don't. You see it your way, I see it mine.

And how's that working out for you, Scovie? Did you know that the Regal Syndicate almost put a contract out on you because you turned down that jewel heist? Without asking me, by the way. What? Regal? Bullshit. Who told you that? Esther Regal herself?

No way. That lady loves me. No, she loves me. She tolerates you. Man. What's with the character assassination? All I asked was whether or not this guy was going to show. You said he was.

Two hours later, I'm not so sure. What part of that warrants you shitting on my reputation? No one needs to shit on your reps, Scovey, because you have all that covered already. Shall we talk about the hermitage? Always bringing up the hermitage. You shot a guard and ran over a groundskeeper when the job specifically called for no killing. No one died, so I followed. of the rules. No one died, because an ambulance was already on the way after you started firing

your damn pistol all over the place. So, if they didn't want any violence at all, then that should have been in the job description. It was! We were specifically told to keep a low profile and slip in and out undetected. That implies no violence, because violence never goes undetected. Oh, excuse me for not reading between the lines. Mo doesn't answer, and I'm about to tear into him when I see the small plume of dust way down at the start of the gravel road. Is this the guy? Shut up, Scovie. We wait in silence for the car to pull up.

After stopping a few feet away from us, the driver's side door opens, and a gruesomely tall gentleman steps out from behind the wheel. I say gruesomely tall, because he has to be well over seven feet and does not look healthy. He's made mostly of long limbs and a loose fitting suit. His skin is like white paste mixed with a little sand. His eyes are lost behind a pair of tinted driving goggles, which makes no sense since the car has a windshield. What's he need goggles for?

Just wear sunglasses, man. The tall driver opens the rear door, and a man in his mid-50s gets out, already smiling at us. It's an infectious smile, and I'm sure it works on others, but Mo and I don't smile back, although we do glance at each other. The guy looks familiar, but I know we haven't met him before.

Dressed impeccably in a tan linen suit, the man runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, then walks our way, his hand extended. Mr.'s burger and Scovie, yes? Yeah, I'm Moe, and this is, well, Scovie. No first name, Mr. Scovey? The man asks me, as Mo shakes his hand. I can tell by Mo's body language that the handshake isn't normal.

So when I shake it, I'm not surprised to find his skin unusually warm, smooth, and slightly oily. Van, I say, answering his question. But I prefer Scovy. Any particular reason? Never like the name Van, I guess. Ah, well, we all get to reinvent ourselves as we see fit, don't we? Sure. I shrug, and I'm about to ask him where I recognize him,

from when Mo grips my shoulder and squeezes hard. Just like I could tell he didn't enjoy the handshake, Mo knows when I'm going to open my big, fat mouth. It's not like I was going to say anything bad, but Mo has a sense for these things, just like I have a sense for other things. We make a good team. You know our names, only fair to learn yours, Mo says. Oh, of course, of course!

The man laughs, but it doesn't meet his eyes. Nothing seems to. Now that I've gotten a look up close, I have to adjust my first impression. While his grin is infectious, his glances are like being touched by the void. Warm smile, cold eyes. I am so sorry. I thought perhaps you already knew who I was. Let me introduce myself.

I'm Darlington Wendell Courtfield, Esquire. But you may call me Dar or Mr. Cortfield, depending on your preference. Good to meet you, Mr. Cortfield, Moe says. Now, how about you tell us why we are meeting this far outside the city? Certainly. The job is one that... No, sorry, I mean, why are we meeting out here or not in the city? You can tell us about the job in a moment. Right now, I want to know who you are hiding from.

Because if you are hiding from them, the odds are, Scovey and I will need to do some hiding ourselves if things don't turn out exactly as kosher as we'd like. Cortfield laughs, and I try not to shudder. Every extra second with the man reveals a new warning sign. His laugh now sounds like a hyena swallowed another hyena, and they both think it's hysterical. It's more of an explosion of happy-ish sounds than a laugh.

Or maybe people laugh like that, and I just run in circles where hyena DNA isn't present. Always C-Y-A, my father used to say, Cortfield says. That means, cover your... Your ass. We've heard the term, Mo says. I am sure you have. He thinks for a second. All right. To be perfectly candid, I may have overstepped with one of my clients and gotten myself into hot water.

But there's a slim chance I'm fine. If anyone from my client's outfit were to see me meeting with a couple of known operators, well, my overstepping could be misconstrued as an all-out declaration of war. I scratch my head and look at Mo. He gives me a side-eye I know well. Are you declaring war? Mo asks. Me? Declare war against one of the largest crime families in the city? That would be madness.

That's not an answer. Mo isn't pulling any punches now. This Courtfield guy may give off that great first impression, but his vibe now is sketchy as fuck and Mo knows it. Well, okay, maybe it's not, Courtfield says. But to a sense, I assume I'll just blabber my professional plans to a couple of guns for hire.

Is a little presumptuous, Mr. Berger. I just need to know what we're getting into as all. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button.

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The briefcase, please. The unfortunate giant nods and reaches his long body into the car. When he slinks back out, he's holding a good-sized briefcase, which he quickly hands to Courtfield. The sound of the latches popping open echoes across the dry and dirty spot where we're meeting. Without pause, Courtfield opens the briefcase, turning it around so we can see the contents. I assume that 100,000 is a sufficient fee for your services, yes? And here's the problem with Moe.

While he has a lot of great qualities, and is a million times more cautious than I will will ever be. He's also greedy as fuck. So the sight of 100,000 smackers pretty much obliterates any hesitation he may have had. Sketch or no sketch, Mo's taking the cash. I, on the other hand, react the opposite way. You must be in a lot of trouble if you're going to pay us 100 grand. Don't you believe you are worth this amount of money, Mr. Scovie? Just Scovie. And yeah, we're worth it. It's just that kind of money tends to have. have some nasty strings. I'd love to know what those strings are.

He's not saying no, Mr. Courtfield. Moe says quickly. Scovie gets cautious when things look a little too good to be true. Cautious? That is not a word I've heard used in conjunction with Mr. Scovey's reputation. It's just Scovie. I say. No, Mr. Just Scovie.

Bennett sinks in about what he just said. And screw you in my reputation. I get jobs done. That's all that matters. We agree 100% on that point, Mr. Scovey. Couldn't the job done is most certainly all that matters to me. I am hoping that this 100,000 will be motivation and reward for a job well done. What's the job?

Sh, Mo hisses at me, but I don't care. He's already mentally adding up everything he's going to buy with his half of the cash. Well, the job must be shown, not described. We are far away from the money. the city, but you never know what ears may be listening. Out here, I look about at the mostly barren landscape. They're either really small or really powerful ears. Possibly both, Courtfield says, and laughs his double hyena laugh again. When he's done, I clap Moe on the shoulder, look at the briefcase full of cash and say, no thanks, not feeling it right now.

What the fuck, Scovie? Mo growls under his breath. Why would you say that? Because none of this feels right, Mo. Smells like cemetery work. Mo glances at me. Really? You've got that feeling? Are you messing with me? I have that feeling. Cemetery work for sure.

Might I ask what you mean by cemetery work? Courtfield asks me. It's a job where in the end, all you've done is dig your own grave. Cemetery work, I see. He laughs again, and I curl my lip. You must have the sight, Mr. Scovie, but this time it may feel that way to you because the job is in an actual cemetery.

Grave-robbing. Great. I say in grab Mo's arm. Come on, let's get the fuck out of here. Hold on, Mr. Scovey. It is not grave-robbing. It's more like grave liberation. Call it what you want, but I don't rob graves. And you wouldn't be robbing this one. I simply need two talented men such as yourselves to do a little digging and confirm that what is supposed to be inside the casket is actually what is inside the casket. For a hundred grand, you can hire a pair of ditch diggers for one percent of that. Ah, talented men, basic labor will not suffice. And why not?

I can only tell if you take the job. Otherwise... He slaps the briefcase closed. I will bid you good day. Hold on! No snaps. He glars at me. All we have to do is dig up a grave, so you can confirm the contents of the coffin?

That is the job description, yes. And once we're done digging, we get the cash? Of course. We'll take the job. What? Come on, Mo. Cemetery work, literally. I can assure you that I want neither of you harmed in any way,

Courtfield says. If you believe this to be a setup, you are mistaken. This offer is completely legitimate. You dig up the grave. You get paid the cash. I said we'll take the job, Mo says. Now, how about we get to it? Splendid. Courtfield, with the briefcase, walks back to his car.

Follow my car, and Loki will lead the way. He's in the backseat with the door closed, before either of us can say a word. Cemetery job, Mo. Shut up, Scovie. You better be right about this. One hundred grand, Scovey. You can't spend a hundred grand if you're dead. Why does this seem familiar? I ask as we follow Courtfield's car down the dusty road.

I look about the landscape, stare at the shriveled bushes and dried out trees. You recognize any of this? I don't know. Mo's eyes are locked onto the road. He hasn't said more than a couple of words to me since we left the meeting spot. You can be as pissed as you want, Mo, but I'm right. This guy is lying. He doesn't give two shits about us. He wants whatever is in that casket.

And if we have to die in order for him to get it, then we have to die. You think I don't know that? Mo roars at me. You think I don't know when I'm being fucked? Do you? Because your eyes nearly bugged out of your head when that briefcase was turned around. Yeah, man. That's a lot of fucking cash.

He glars at me. And don't give me that not being able to spend it if we're dead bullshit. We could fucking die any day, Scovey. That's how our line of work. Works. I ain't wrong on this, Mo. Cemetery work. We are going to dig all night long, then get a bullet in the backs of each of our heads as the actual payment.

Why? Why go to all this trouble just to kill us in the end? There have to be a dozen opportunities a day to take us each out back in the city. Why drive us all the way out here? Why do any of these crazy fuckers do anything? That's not a good enough answer, Scovey. Definitely not good enough to override a hundred grand payday. Cemetery work, Moe. Cemetery work.

I let the issue drop. We're already on our way, so there's no slowing this train wreck down. Courtfield's car kicks up so much dust that we almost miss them turning onto the dirt track that can barely be called a road. Damn, this feels familiar, I say. Mo doesn't respond. He just leans forward over the steering wheel and ignores me. I shake my head.

Cemetery work. Courtfield's car takes another turn, and we find ourselves following a dry ravine for a couple of miles before we finally reach our destination. Come on, Mo, doesn't this place look familiar to you? I don't know, Scovie. You know how it is out in the wilds. Things get mixed up. I've only left the city a handful of times, and always at night.

The sun is setting, so maybe we'll recognize it after dark. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Why? Maybe we were here at night. I bet when we... There's a loud knock at my window and I jumped. Courtfield's giant driver is standing there, peering in at us. Jesus, how do he sneak up on us like that?

Let's not find out. Moe opens his door and gets out. I waved the giant away and open my door, careful to keep a little space between myself and the driver once I'm out of the car. I'm still within his reach, though, considering the length of his spindly arms. Gentlemen!

Courtfield calls from just outside a broken and collapsing picket fence. Welcome to Morgan Creek Cemetery. The place where you earn your hundred grand. Morgan Creek? To myself. You got shovels? We didn't bring shovels. Loki?

The giant walks away from me and I relax a little. Loki returns to Courtfield's car and opens the trunk, where he plucks out two heavy-duty shovels, two pickaxes, and a pair of bolt cutters. Bolt cutters? Mo gives me a sharp look. What? I'm not being an asshole. It's strange to see bolt cutters.

Yes, well, I need to make sure you can open the coffin. You expect it to be locked? I don't expect it to be anything, except for under six feet of dirt. But no one stays alive for very long without preparing for the worst. If the worst requires bolt cutters, then we will use bolt cutters. Grab the tools. Me? Yeah, you?

I'm going to scope the gravesite with court feet. I look past him at the neglected cemetery. There's like two dozen graves in there at the most. You don't need to scope shit. Grab your own damn tools. I glare at Loki until he takes a few steps back. Then I duck in and snag a shovel and a pickaxe. Lead us to it, I say to Cortfield.

With pleasure. Mo moves quickly and is right next to me before we get to the fence. Courtfield leads the way and walks between the first few rows of graves, then stops on the second to the last row. I look about with an almost overwhelming sense of deja vu clouding my perception. As you can see, the sun is setting quickly, gentlemen, Courtfield says, as we stand in front of a grave with no headstone. I advise that you dig out the shape of the grave first,

then concentrate on going deep once you know the space you are working with. Not our first time digging up a grave, Mo says. If we'd known this was the job, we would have brought our own tools. Yes, well, discretion was needed. Understood. Mo finally looks at me and nods. Ready? To dig?

I don't really need much prep for that. Asshole. Mo jams the shovel blade into the dry dirt, and a cloud of dust kicks up surrounding us. Yeah, if we'd gotten a heads up, we for sure would have brought our own tools, maybe a bandana or towel to wipe the sweat away, and definitely some water.

I'm already thirsty. and I haven't moved one shovel full of dirt yet. That changes quickly as Mo and I each take an end, then aside as we outline the grave. Satisfied with the dimensions, we move opposite of each other and start digging. One hour and we're two feet down. Two hours and we're three feet down. Loki lights a bunch of lanterns and sets them around the grave as we continue to excavate.

Mo, you got to listen to me. We've been here before. I don't know what you're talking about. Yeah, you do. Either it's the wilds or it's some other influence. But we're being stopped from remembering this place. Mo eyes me, but doesn't argue. Three, four, then five hours in, and Mo's shovel hit something hard.

Got it! Mo calls up out of the grave we dug for ourselves. And I believe that. I can smell death, and it isn't coming from the casket that Mo and I are now uncovering with our hands. shoving fistfuls of dirt to the side so we can get the casket lid clear. No, the death I feel is a vibe that hovers around us. Excellent! Courtfield says, as he stands at the edge of the grave and looms over us.

Will you need the bolt cutters? Mo? I ask as we keep clearing the casket. Mo doesn't say anything. He has that look on his face that he gets when a waitress throws him for a loop by telling him that they are out of the day's special. Mo loves a good special. and almost takes it as a personal affront when he misses out.

Who's in this? I am right here, Mr. Berger. No need to yell, Courtfield says. Let's show respect for the dead and not raise our voices, okay? Who's in this? Someone that someone else has been looking for for a long while, if my hunch is correct?

Hunch? For the record, we do not work on hunches. If we open this casket and you are disappointed, That's tough shit. We're still getting paid no matter what. Of course, I whisper to Mo. He nods imperceptibly, but I see a smile playing at his lips. What?

He shakes his head and stands up. Hand me that pickaxe. I look about, find one of the pickaxes, and hand it to him. Mo lifts the pickaxe high above his head, then brings it down in the middle of the casket, sending the pick straight through the dried out wood. The scent of lavender and garlic wafts up. up out of the newly formed hole.

A memory explodes in my head, and I know it had been suppressed by something way stronger than the effects of the wilds, possibly a hex, maybe two. Mo, this isn't... It is, he replies. I swear it is. Shit. Yeah. We promised.

I know. This could be very bad. Oh, it will definitely be bad. No, probably about it. You think we can still call this off? Not a chance. Can we make a break for it? We weren't supposed to remember this.

So, you make a break for it, then what? Let Courtfield have his way? No, we can't do that. We don't know what his end goal is. I think we have a pretty good idea. It's what we tried to avoid in the first place. Well, so much for that. I look up past the edge of the grave and the lanterns

to the just visible starry night sky. Now that it's dark, and I have what has been missing from my memory back in time. place. I recognize exactly where we are. I've even stood in this exact same spot before. What's the holdup, gentlemen? Courtfield asks. Please, get that casket open as soon as possible. Mo strikes the lid with the pickaxe six more times before the hole is big enough for us to wrench it wider with our hands. Hands that are blistered and caked with dirt and blood. Yeah, gloves would have been nice. One of my blisters bursts and the

The fluid drips down into the casket. Damn it, Scovey, that's going to be a problem. Not if we move fast. Neither of us are that fast. We can only do what we can do. Mo nods, and we managed to get the last of the lid ripped away, revealing the upper half of a long dead body, although you wouldn't know that from looking at it.

Inside is a man of about 32 years of age, dressed in a fine silk suit. His arms are crossed over his chest and wrapped about his entire body as one long, thick, silver chain. Dark hair, thin face, white as snow's skin. That is him! Cortfield exclaims. And when I look away from the body and up at him, he's actually dancing a little jig. Great, now get us up out of here. Most says with a little more panic in his voice than I would have revealed. You hear me

Cortfield? Get us up out of here. Not yet I'm afraid. He responds after stopping his celebratory jig. One last task if you please. Yeah, what's that? Loki throws the bolt cutters down, and Mo catches them before they can level me. If you would be so kind as to remove the chains, that would be wonderful. Then you'll let us up, and you'll hand over that briefcase so we can get the fuck out of here? Of course. Bullshit! I know, Mo whispers.

Fingers crossed, this doesn't go sideways. Mo places the bolt cutters to the first row of chain and snips the link. The jaws, sliced through the chain, like it's made of butter. Six more snips and the entire chain falls to the side of the body. Get us out. Drop us a ladder or rope or something. Now! I need the chains fully removed, Mr. Berger. Son of a bitch. I got it, I say, and lean into the casket so I can pull the sliced chain free from the body. Once I've gotten the remnants off the torso, I pull hard and thread the rest of the chain out from around the legs.

Done, I say, and let the chain drop outside of the casket. I clap my hands together and another of my blisters breaks. Almost like it's in slow motion, I see a bloody glob of fluid pop from my blister and soar through the air to land on the body's lips. Shit, I say just as the corpse's eyes shoot open. A corpse I know and eyes I recognize. I don't even have time to scream or shout before the corpse is lunging upward, long-nailed fingers gripping me by the shoulders, bringing my neck straight to its mouth. Yes, perfect.

Feed, you undead, piece of shit! Feed! Teeth sink into my flesh, and I can feel the blood pulsing out of my body and end to the corpse's mouth. But he's not really a corpse, is he? No, he's definitely not. Max!

My life flashes before my eyes. My life flashes before my eyes. I can see the first time I got nicked by the cops for stealing gum from the corner store. I was six. I see the first time I met Moe as he stood on the school playground, standing over the punk ass

who'd made fun of his mother. The kid had a shattered nose and was missing three teeth. Mo got a weak suspension. I see Juvie, and when Mo and I made our pact to stay together forever, no matter what, you have to have someone watching your back in our business. And yeah, even at 11, we knew what business we were going into. I see that girl, Maddie, and the tears streaming down her face when I was sent to prison for a year. I don't have a memory of Maddie when I got out,

because she was shacking up with some bookie who worked for the regal syndicate. I see all the scores Moen I made. I see all the cops who chased me, caught me, beat me, stole money from me. All the cops who hate me, fear me, loathe me, and look the other way if the price is right. My heart beats steadily that begins to slow. Mosquito! The sucking stops, and with a wet splurch, the fanged mouth moves away from my neck as delicate hands push me to the side. What did?

There's some coughing and clearing of his throat before he can continue. What the fuck did you just call me? You did not just call me a mosquito. It's the only way I could get you to stop. His voice is like a loud echo hovering around my head. I may be a little loopy from blood loss. The corpse, the body, the man who isn't a man, the vampire smacks his lips.

I know that taste. He sniffs loudly. I know that smell. Hands grab me and give me a shake that a pat on the cheek. Scovie? What is happening down there? Courtfield shouts. Vampire! I orchestrated your freedom and claim your fealty. By the laws of the city and the covenants of creation. I command you to obey me and do my bidding as I see fit. Crab, Scovie, you all right, man? The vampire, whose name is Maxwell Verner, the sion of the

Verner Syndicate, and longtime adversaries to the regal syndicate, asks me as he slaps my cheek a few times. Come on, man, pull it together. Hey, Max, sorry we woke you up. Wasn't our idea. My eyes focus a little better, and I see our old friend glance up toward the edge of the grave. Who's this douchebag? He squints. Oh, shit. Is that Cortfield? Let me guess. You dug me up to use his leverage against my father, so you can start a war and take over his business. That sound about right. Courtfield glares down into the grave. As your liberator, I now commend you. vampire, rise from your grave and prepare to be the tip of my spear. Yeah, that's Courtfield, Max says, and bats my cheek again.

You'll be fine, Scovie. Drink some strong tea and eat lots of salty snacks when you get home. I nod. Okay, Mo, what's going on? Why'd you help my dad's former legal counsel wake me? The whole point of burying me was so that I wouldn't be a liability to my father, remember? I sleep for a while, conserve my strength. Make everyone think I'm actually dead, dead,

then take over the business in a few decades without anyone knowing what hit them. His eyes go wide. You don't work for Regal now, do you? We work for whoever pays us. Mo admits. Once you were gone, Max, your dad stopped giving us jobs. It's like he couldn't look at us without seeing you.

Stop talking to it! Cordfield shouts. Vampire! Rise and do my bidding! I always hated Cordfield. Max says as he extracts himself fully from the casket and stretches his arms up above his head. Ah, that feels good. He pats his belly. So did the little snack.

Thanks, Scovie. No problem, Max. I say, my voice a bit weaker than I'd like it to be. We owe you so anytime, man. Loki, subdue the damn vamp. Courtfield begins to shout, but stops as Max is suddenly up out of the grave and floating directly in front of the man. You wore the wrong color suit, Courtney, Max says.

It's about to be ruined by some very hard to get out stains. Max reaches for Courtfield, but stops as long, spindly arms grab him out of the air and throw him to the side out of our sight. As we stand down in the grave, all we hear is scuffling, then punches landing, then the tearing of limbs off of a body. It's kind of sad that I know what all that sounds like. Cortfield takes off running and we watch a flash of Max fly over the grave. Courtfield screams, and the screams become sobs, and the sobs become gurgles.

Then the gurgles stop. Max's face appears at the edge of the grave. What are you guys waiting for? Get up out of there. Kind of need a rope or something. Oh, right. Before I can blink, Max has us up out of the grave. What's left of Loki is spread everywhere.

Courtfield lays with his limbs akimbo, his eyes staring up at the sea of stars. What do we do with him? I pointed Cortfield's corpse. Should we bury him? Nah, Max says. He's not dead. Well, he is, but like me dead, not forever dead. We'll leave him here, and if he comes to, before the sun rises, maybe he'll bury himself.

If not, then. He makes an explosion gesture with his hands and fingers. Hoof, no more Cordy. Works for me, Moe says. Then walk straight to Cortfield's car where he reaches inside and grabs the briefcase. Who's up for a drinker, ten? Me. Max says and raises his hand.

Scovie? Yeah, I need all the drinks. I say as I rubbed my neck. Hey, Max, I'm not going to become a vampire, am I? I don't think so. You don't think so? Shit, man. I was only a van for like a year before my dad.

Matt came up with that plan to bury me. I don't know all the rules. I'm sure you'll be fine. Yes, Scovie, you'll be fine. Mo echoes. Worst case, as you become Max's mind slave. Funny, nice joke. I say as we all walk to our car.

I mean, that is a joke, right, guys? We'll see, Max says. You'll be fine. Mo reiterates and slaps me on the shoulder. I guess it wasn't cemetery work after all. What? It was totally cemetery work. I exclaim as we climb in, and Mo starts the car up.

The only reason it wasn't is because Courtfield didn't know who we were. That's a technicality, right, Max? Don't put me in the middle of U2's dysfunctional bullshit. All I care about is pounding some beers and maybe draining a waitress dry. Let's go. Mo punches it, and the tires kick up gravel and dirt as we speed away from the old graveyard. To hear more stories like this, be sure to hit some. Subscribe and turn notifications on.

I'll see you in the next one.