The Roadside Undertaker
The meaning of life is that it stops.* Then it's marketed.
Next to a highway ribboning to eternity, a spirit is moving on.
The sound of a tiny squeal ascends through the midday heat into clear blue skies. A little soul is heaven-bound. That of a four-legged creature that neglected to attend the School of Road Rule 101.
A few minutes earlier, a traveler had come across a furry bloody mass at the roadside. The indiscernible pile that drivers see from afar then as they approach, they realize it's not a flapping McDonald's bag or a discarded toupet then look away — a tangle of teeth, bone, guts, and stiff paws explaining a tragic ending.
The traveler kneels and digs a roadside grave amongst the litter in which he places the mangy critter's remains, and covers it with dirt. He plants a makeshift cross at its head, says a prayer, and continues on foot mumbling to himself —
If only it were replicated in their DNA to look left then right, before crossing the road.
Drowned in thought about how to reverse-engineer squirrels from pulverized limbs and design raptor-friendly ariel highways, the traveler crosses the road into the path of an oncoming truck transporting dairy cattle destined for slaughter and is instantly killed. His body is catapulted to the side like a rag ending up next to recent roadkill awaiting burial.
Kafkaesque.
The traveler shall never be tempted to market Premium Grade AAA Carrion Burgers™ with Jalapeno, 6ft-Squirt-Distance Lavender Bush Highway Repellant™, and No-itch Musk-scented Luxury Toupets with Easy-glue™ Applicator. Just in case he was considering it.
Three days later a voice can still be heard at the roadside.
Right, then left— it groans into the Outback wind.
The dingos are cracking jokes about what the ‘roo said to the wallaby.
