The romance writers, dressed appropriately in delicious little black dresses, showed up for the graveside service in force, each one with a small notebook or digital recorder in hand because the details of Betsy Bigmouth's interment would come in handy if they ever needed to write about a burial.
Besides, they wanted to be sure that Betsy was, once and for all, totally and completely, dead.
The medical examiner said it had been a brain hemorrhage this time around. Betsy had blown her stack when someone had passed her a copy of the short story Fiorella Plum had written about Betsy' antics. Indeed, Betsy's brain had exploded all over the floor, wall, and ceiling of Chuck E. Cheese, the romance writers latest venue. Eyes had rolled, elbows had nudged, snickers had been suppressed, and a nearby table of children yelled for more.
But Betsy's showboat antics were finally at an end. The ladies closed their notebooks and turned off their recorders, then walked to their cars, their hushed voices rechecking details of the burial with each other along the way.
As darkness fell on the cemetery, a hand reached up through the loosely-packed dirt of the new grave and everyone for miles around heard the trademark bellow--
"And furthermore........"
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