Acemetery. A bunch of well-off mourners all in black bunched around an open grave. Through a windshield we see a grayfaced old man with his eyes closed propped up behind the steering wheel of his car. He is a corpse, and his shiny black automobile with its dead owner in the front seat is solemnly, religiously, descending on the hydraulic lift into its grave. The widow wails hysterically, her plump face twisted in grief and tears; at the last terrible second, turning her eyes away, she extends her hand over the pit—and drops in the car keys. One mourner turns to the other and says,...
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