This is Eric. He’s dead.

Ok, not really, but he looks dead, doesn’t he? Eric has always been fascinated with death. He thinks about it constantly, talks about it to anyone who’ll listen. When he has a spare moment, like in this picture, he pretends he’s dead, tries to not breathe, ignores the beating of his own heart. He imagines the cells that make up his body popping and spewing their guts forth in putrefaction.

Eric is a very fucked up dude. Seriously. He’s deeply weird, but somehow has managed to get a girl to agree to marry him. In a graveyard. By me.

Oh, me? Yeah.

One time, about 10 years ago, I sent five bucks to the American Fellowship Church and they ordained me as a minister. I did it for a gag, but now Eric wants me to marry him and his woman under a full moon in a graveyard.

I gotta get, like, a somber robe or something.

Another thing about Eric you probably don’t know: he collects skulls. Human skulls. He’s got eleven of them at this point, only one of which he stole from a grave. These skulls will be present at the wedding. They will be the witnesses, in addition to the two live people required legally.

Eric and his bride will be, according to Eric, “Shrooming hardcore, dude,” so I plan to be sober as a judge and well armed. I gotta get, like, a handgun or something. All I have are these shotguns—not exactly subtle.

I can see it now: “Here comes Preacher Mike in his somber robe with his trusty Mossberg over his shoulder.” It just won’t do. We will have a hard enough time coming up with two legal witnesses as it is: “Shrooms? A graveyard? Human skulls? A shotgun-wielding preacher? Um, yeah, I think I’m busy that night.”

Sorry, Eric.

I haven’t met the wife-to-be, but she must be some special lady. He says she’s really smart and “came around to my way of thinking pretty quick.” That’s why, according to Eric, she didn’t have to stay down in the basement “as long as the others.”

It’s great when two people find each other in love, don’t you think? Be right back—playing some Barry White.

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