Every spring, just as the dandelions began to blossom, the townsfolk of Gristlethatch performed The Planting.

It was tradition, ancient and grim. No one quite remembered how it started—some said it was in the town charter, others blamed the bees—but the rules were clear: come April, the oldest living citizen must be buried alive beneath the Maypole. For fertility reasons, obviously.

This year, it was Old Man Thistleberry’s turn.

Thistleberry had survived two wars, four divorces, and that one year the squirrels unionized. He was spry for 97, smelled like nutmeg and ammonia, and still led bingo night with an iron fist.

When the town elders (a council of suspiciously youthful yoga moms) informed him of his sacred honor, he nodded gravely and asked for three things: a flask of gin, a kazoo, and a copy of The Farmer’s Almanac.

“I want to go down classy,” he said.

On the Day of Digging, the whole town gathered in the square wearing their ceremonial pastels. Children waved papier-mâché tulips. The local marching band played a somber rendition of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on recorders.

Mayor Picklenose read from The Book of Bloom, her voice quivering with forced enthusiasm. “To feed the soil, we must give it our most seasoned soul. May your nutrients enrich our azaleas. May your bones keep the moles away.”

Thistleberry climbed into the hole with dignity, took a swig of gin, gave everyone the middle finger, and shouted, “Tell your begonias I said hi!” before pulling the kazoo from his pocket and launching into a surprisingly moving rendition of “My Way” as the dirt began to fall.

By the third chorus, only his hat remained visible.

“He will mulch well,” the priest said, sprinkling Miracle-Gro instead of holy water.

And lo, by summer, the begonias were radiant, the tomatoes grew in perfect rows, and Mrs. Dindle’s hydrangeas whispered terrible secrets to passing strangers.

When the mayor’s 93rd birthday rolled around, she nervously adjusted her yoga mat and muttered something about term limits.

The ground trembled slightly, and in the distance, a kazoo played backward.

The End