[ WP ] You have been given an invitation to your own funeral , being curious you decide to go .

& nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; My day started off normal enough. Woke up, snarled at my alarm clock, hit snooze long enough that I was almost late, got up, took a quick shower ( more of a rinse, really ), brushed my teeth, forgot to shave, then put on deoderant and clothes. I rushed out the door and off to work, barely making it to the office in time. Honestly it was a slow day, though. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; Once I was done for the day, I stopped in at a diner I had n't tried before. After finishing my meal, I decided I would n't be returning. No use complaining about their food being terrible. Just because I did n't like it was n't any reason to make *them* miserable. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I made my way home, stopping to collect my mail. Electric bill, internet and cell phone bill, advertisement for new shopping center opening next month, invitation to a funeral, a `` pre-approved'' loan application ( which I knew was bullshit. I actually tried to claim one once, on the grounds that the interest fees were lower than my credit's APR, but it got declined ), yet another'Final notice' for some guy I'd never heard of for some service I did n't use. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I kept trying to call them and tell them they had the wrong address, and that whoever they were trying to reach was n't there, but since I was n't the person named on the bill, they refused to discuss it with me. No matter how many times I told them they had the wrong address. Morons. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I went back to the funeral invitation and opened it up curiously. It was tasteful, mostly. Flowers, wishes for condolences. The weird part was it was for me. Not the invitation, the funeral itself. According to the invitation in my hand, I was dead, and to be interred at Saint Joseph's, which I found a bit odd because I'm not Catholic. Not even close. The time was set for 3PM on next Saturday. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I had the day off, so I decided I would go. I even planned to arrive at 3:20PM, because really, when would I ever have the opportunity to show up late to my own funeral, literally rather than figuratively? 
 
 *** 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; So the big day came. I put on my best suit, headed out, and showed up, appropriately enough, at 3:15PM. I walked in through the front doors of the funeral home, only to find everyone inside, standing unnaturally still, not even looking at a casket, but at me coming in. I stood there shocked for a moment, but something hit the back of my head, and the next thing I remembered was sitting tied to a chair, with a splitting headache. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp;'' What the fuck?'' I asked, my voice slurring. Apparently I was n't fully conscious yet. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; A tall man, at least from where I was sitting, stood between me and a bright light. All I could see was a blurry silhouette. `` Now now, mind your language. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; Despite my splitting headache, my wits had n't entirely deserted me. `` I've been clubbed unconscious, tied to a chair and I have a splitting headache. I think I'm entitled to a little fucking profanity.'' 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; He backhanded me. Hard. `` Language.'' 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp;'' Fuck you!'' I spat. `` What the fuck do you want and why the fuck are you doing this to me?!'' 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; This time he reared back and punched me in the face so hard my entire chair flew backwards. My head collided with the concrete floor, and mercifully blacked out again. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; The next time I woke up I was sitting up again, still tied to the chair. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp;'' Are we going to continue having problems with your language?'' asked the tall silhouette. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; At that moment, I had an idea. My brain was still rather befuddled, but somehow, an idea managed to percolate. I murmured something quietly. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp;'' I beg your pardon?'' 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I murmured again. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; He leaned in a bit closer, `` Speak up!'' 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I murmured just as quietly as before, as if I was unable to speak any louder. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; He leaned in even closer, I could make out his eyes, now. They were a cold, icy blue. And his breath smelled strongly of something suspiciously like formaldehyde.. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I jumped up as best I could, tied to the chair. It was n't much but I was able to give him a good blow to the face. He toppled backwards, and I fell forwards, landing on his shoes. He did not get up. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I worked frantically to free myself from the chair, breaking most of the chair itself in the process. Once I was no longer tied to the chair, getting out of my bindings was relatively simple. They were tight around me and the chair, but without the chair there, they were much looser. I looked at the man who had previously had me under his power, and turned away and immediately had a repeat viewing of my lunch. I had gotten a much luckier blow than I suspected. His nose had been crunched in, and upwards. I'd read about that being a fatal blow, driving the cartilage and bone into the victim's brain, but I never excepted to see it, let alone perform such a strike. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I searched through his pockets, trying to ignore the bloody, mangled face of my former oppressor, and the fact that he was a cadaver now, and found my phone. I called the police, talking as quietly as I could. I remembered there being others there when I entered the funeral home, and did n't want to alert them. I found my way out of the storage area I had been housed in and into the parlor itself, ducking down to avoid being seen by whoever was there. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; The people that were there when I arrived were still there. Except they were still facing the door, without moving. I took a closer look at the nearest one, trying not to be seen. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp;'' What the fuck?'' I muttered to myself, no longer afraid of being overheard, but distinctly unnerved. Where the hell did this guy get 30 mannequins? Particularly ones that looked so realistic that they fooled me at first glance? I poked the hand of the nearest one. Definitely plastic. 
 
 *** 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I went outside, and found a section of the building two walls met, forming a corner where I could back into and no one could sneak up on me, to wait for the arrival of the police. I heard the sirens first, then saw the flashing lights. I stood up to approach them, hands in the air, as they pulled into the parking lot. One of them took a double-take at me. I must have been quite a site. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; The officer who saw me first, Anderson, his name was, stayed with me while the rest of the police officers went inside to clear the building, and locate my assailant, and any potential accomplices. I saw them enter the parlor, leaving the front door open, and from my vantage point, I could see them knock every one of the mannequins down, and my blood ran cold as police handcuffed one of them. My assailant *did* have an accomplice. I was just thankful he had n't tried anything when I got out. I guess the fact that I was on the phone deterred him. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; The police found no one else, other than my deceased assailant. I soon learned the duo were a pair of serial killers. Their MO was to find an abandoned building, dress it up like a funeral parlor, then as a sick joke, invite their victims to their own funeral. The only reason the police even knew about them was because they'd found previous invitations sent out by the duo. It had even been in the news. I made a vow to myself to keep closer track of the news from that day forward. I really did n't want to ever go through anything like this again. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; The police called paramedics in, and I was brought to the hospital for observation. Being knocked out twice with blunt-force trauma was generally not good for health. I was also treated for several injuries inflicted by my assailant, that I just had n't noticed due to other pain drowning it out, and adrenaline. 
 & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; & nbsp; I'm just glad the cops are keeping the press out of the hospital. Some might call me a hero, but right now, despite the fact that I keep repeating that it was him or me, I feel like a murderer. 
 
 *** 
 
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 I hope you enjoy the story and I welcome constructive feedback. 
 
 I wonder how many people responding to this prompt will have the same idea I did..
