From the southern part of the small cemetery, situated on the outskirts of a provincial town, the sounds of work still echoed, even though the sun was setting and the area was deserting. Old grave digger Mietek stood waist-deep in the hole, deftly shoveling earth with a spade. In front of him was a roughly made wooden cross, and behind him stood two tall trees with thick trunks. Behind one of them, the Joker hid. He waited patiently. Of course, Mietek had no idea there was anyone else in the cemetery, so he hummed to himself and talked to himself.
After about an hour, he began cursing in a nautical style, reproaching himself for postponing his duty until the last minute. Well, the hole should have been ready by the next morning, and Mietek—though he had plenty of time—had only just begun work. The fact was, the grave digger was a slob and a lazy person at his worst. Perpetually unshaven, he gave the barber a wide berth, wore tattered clothes, and almost always acted on the principle: "Whatever you have to do tomorrow, do it the day after tomorrow, and you'll have two days off." He also had many loves in his life: Żołądkowa Street, Zawisza Street, Prezydenta Street, Ludowa Street, Suwalska Street, and a few others. He also enjoyed chatting with Pan Tadeusz and Fryderyk Chopin, which, of course, took him out of life for a good few hours.
Dusk fell, and the stars appeared in the sky. Mietek looked up and wondered for a moment how people could see those twinkling dots as "small and large wagons, or something like that." It must be admitted that the grave digger was almost completely devoid of imagination, a fact that was evident at every turn. He probably never even considered that the average person was afraid to walk alone through a cemetery at night (!).
"Oh, fuck," he said to himself. "I can't finish this today."
He dropped his spade, climbed out of the hole, and dusted himself off. He approached the nearest monument and pulled out a bottle of Zawisza. Clearly delighted in the company of his best friend, he spoke into the bottle:
"Time for my beloved medicine. Nothing helps a sore throat like a big gulp of good vodka..."
After the first time he tipped the bottle, he drained it halfway. He was probably the only man in the area capable of such a feat. Well, he had years of practice behind him...
He sat down on the edge of the hole, facing the cross. Within minutes, the entire contents of the bottle were in his stomach. The grave digger, greatly saddened by this, raised it to head height and said loudly:
"You'll be the one to drive me to my grave someday, little one..."
Without turning around, he threw the bottle behind him. However, he didn't hear it shatter, or even hit the ground, because at the same time, the Joker quickly ran from his hiding place, grabbed the bottle, smashed it against the tree trunk with a bang—making a so-called tulip—and stabbed it deep into Mietek's throat. Blood began to gush from the wound in all directions. The grave digger grabbed his neck and stared at his attacker with terrified eyes, unable to move even a step from fear. He received a few more blows, and his body slumped to the ground. The murderer grabbed the corpse and threw him headfirst into a shallow grave. He grabbed a spade and eagerly began burying the body.
When he was finished, he pulled out a large knife. With it, he carved the following inscription into the surface of the wooden cross:
"Here lies a drunkard whom I helped to kick the habit."
He looked at his work, then laughed and ran away. I wonder if drug addicts know how to tell a joke.
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