Barty Blackwood and the Perpetual Post-Mortem

Bartholomew Blackwood wasn't a particularly remarkable man, save for one minor detail: he simply couldn't stay dead. It wasn't glorious, heroic resurrection; it was more of an exasperated 'Oh, *this* again?' awakening. His first death involved a rogue banana peel and a poorly placed lamppost. He woke up on a cold slab, much to the chagrin of Dr. Evelyn Thorne, who was mid-incision. 'Honestly, Mr. Blackwood,' she'd sighed, wiping her brow, 'you're going to give me an ulcer.'

His subsequent demises were equally ignominious: a particularly aggressive pigeon dive-bombing his crumpet, a tragic entanglement with a runaway tumble dryer, and once, famously, choking on a single, defiant brussels sprout. Each time, he'd resurface in the morgue, usually just as someone was reaching for the bone saw.

'Look, I'm terribly sorry,' Barty muttered last Tuesday, peeling himself off the slab for the seventh time that month. He was still wearing the 'World's Best Dad' apron he'd had on when he'd tripped over a particularly enthusiastic garden gnome. 'Could we just skip the toe tag this time? It tickles, and frankly, it's becoming redundant.'

Dr. Thorne merely pinched the bridge of her nose. 'Mr. Blackwood, we've had to implement a new 'No Autopsies Before Noon' policy just for you. My team is on the verge of a collective nervous breakdown. And the paperwork! Do you have any idea how complicated it is to declare someone deceased, only for them to wander out for a coffee?'

Barty shrugged, adjusting his apron. 'It's a nuisance for me too, you know. My Netflix queue is a disaster, and I keep missing the good parking spots at the cemetery when I wake up. Plus, the funeral home charged me a late fee last time for not being dead long enough. They called it a 'premature resurrection penalty'. Can you believe the audacity?'

Dr. Thorne just stared at him, a single tear tracing a path through the faint sweat on her cheek. Barty sighed, then peered around. 'Right, well, if you'll excuse me, I think I left my reusable shopping bag in the reception area. Don't want to waste a good death.'