Not Much of a People Person
The Murphy’s are the picture-perfect family. They remain seated at my dinner table at all hours of the day and night, long after the entrées have gone cold, without complaint or whinge. When I am preparing the next day’s supper I know they will wait patiently for me, and listen with full courtesy to my narratives and accounts. Even when I have cleared all the dishes and I am ready to go to bed I know the Murphy’s will remain there, waiting for the next night’s meal, and the spirited if rather one-sided conversation.
Such a level of perfection would be expected, since as you might have guessed each Murphy has been deceased for quite some time. After their nuclear family died when from a gas leak, I stole their pristine bodies away from the morgue. From there it was a very simple matter of treating the flesh with formaldehyde to retard the process of decay, and then arranging them around my dinner table.
Whenever I am having a rough day I know that I can merely return home and sit in with the Murphy’s on their unending post-dinner conversation. They will never judge me or talk back to me, as it was when I experimented in using living family units for this purpose. Beyond doubt, the stone-cold, dead-as-a-doornail Murphy’s are the picture-perfect family.
