The Inconvenience of the Deceased

Arthur tripped. Not over a root, or a particularly aggressive pebble, but over a man. A rather impeccably dressed man, considering his current predicament in the drainage ditch. "Honestly," Arthur muttered, picking himself up and dusting off his tweed jacket. "Some people." He prodded the man with his umbrella. No response. Definitely deceased. "And on a Tuesday, too. My recycling day. Now I'll have to deal with this *and* separate my plastics."

He knelt, peering closer. The man sported a magnificent handlebar mustache, still stiffly defiant in death. "Such a waste," Arthur sighed, not for the man's life, but for the untapped potential for a spectacular villain in a forgotten silent film. He considered calling the authorities, then remembered the inevitable paperwork, the intrusive questions, the sheer *disruption* to his carefully curated afternoon. "No, no, far too much bother."

He rummaged cautiously in the man's pockets. A wallet. Empty, naturally. A gleaming pocket watch, quite ornate. "Well, at least someone will appreciate this," he mused, tucking it into his own waistcoat. He noted the deceased’s shoes – pristine, Italian leather, remarkably mud-free for someone in a ditch. "A shame to let them go to waste," he thought, already calculating if they'd fit his slightly wider foot. "Though, getting them off might be a bit... unseemly."

He looked at the peaceful, if rather stiff, face. "You know," Arthur confided to the unmoving gentleman, "if you'd just had the common courtesy to expire closer to a main road, this would be so much simpler for everyone involved. Honestly, it's just basic etiquette." He sighed again, contemplating the monumental effort required to either drag the body or walk all the way back to his phone. "People these days. Absolutely no consideration for the living."