Compiled by the Times-Observer Obituary Desk
It is with no particular sadness whatsoever that the Office of Public Records confirms the passing of Rodger Bianchovi, aged 57, late of Lower Dunmere, who expired last Seventhday via execution, has been widely hailed as overdue. Bianchovi, whose reputation for pestilence of both character and hygiene preceded him into every tavern, alley, and regrettably, public hearing, departs this life leaving behind a legacy of unpaid debts, unresolved complaints, and deeply soiled carpets.
Former acquaintances recall him chiefly for his passionate advocacy of self-interest, his loathing of soap, and his ability to turn any gathering into an argument about “energy frequencies.” He was, for a brief and bewildering time, employed as a part-time poetry instructor at the Inverness Community Annex, from which he was dismissed after insisting students “write only in the key of Aquarius.”
At his cottage—since condemned—he maintained the company of eleven cats, all of whom are now being treated for various emotional conditions, and twelve exceptionally dirty (and smelly) gerbils, whose collective stench reportedly shortened the life expectancy of several rescue volunteers. Rumour has it that even the flies refused to stay long.
His passing has elicited a remarkable silence across the realm. The neighbours, previously prone to nightly laments over his midnight bongos and daylong incense fires, have spoken only through the broad smiles now observed in their windows. The constabulary, long wearied by his inventive excuses for unpaid fines, have issued a single, elegant statement: “We trust he rests in peace, provided it’s elsewhere.”
There will be no memorial service, no procession, and certainly no readings of his poetry. His worldly effects will be burned in accordance with the wishes of the health inspector. Should anyone wish to pay respects, they are encouraged instead to donate a bar of soap to the Royal Almshouse in his memory.
May his soul, if located, find what comfort it can.