In the quaint town of Lesnoy, there occurred a most curious skirmish between the living and the instruments of the departed. A certain establishment of funeral services, with a fortitude that could only be described as misplaced, saw fit to settle itself within the basement of a residential dwelling on Engels Street. To add a touch of morbid irony, the premises sat directly opposite the morgue—a vista that would surely dampen the spirits of the most optimistic soul.

Now, one might imagine that the inhabitants of such a house would be accustomed to the proximity of the Great Beyond. Alas, the local residents—those delicate souls who find the mere suggestion of mortality an affront to their digestion—were quite overcome. They discovered that gazing upon wreaths and coffins whilst venturing for their morning promenade was a trial too great to bear. Indeed, the sight of such 'attributes' served as a relentless reminder that life, much like a fashionable hat, eventually loses its bloom.

These distressed gentlemen and ladies, perhaps fearing that the mere aroma of mourning might seep through the floorboards, sought the intervention of the Prosecutor. They argued, with a passion usually reserved for the most scandalous gossip of the season, that such a neighborhood is an intolerable violation of one's right to a 'normal environment.' One cannot truly enjoy one's tea and confectionery when the specter of the grave is beckoning from the cellar!

The learned gentlemen of the prosecution, moved by this display of fragility, concluded that the presence of the undertaker posed a threat to the psychological well-being of the citizenry. They decreed that the constitutional right to a peaceful abode is an inalienable privilege, far outweighing the commercial ambitions of a few enterprising gentlemen of the shroud.

Thus, the court has delivered its verdict: the funeral agency is to be evicted. The undertakers must pack their velvet linings and polished mahogany and seek a sanctuary where their trade does not clash with the fragile sensibilities of the neighborhood. A victory for the living, though one wonders where the modest funeral director might go to find a crowd less terrified of the inevitable.