Hello, I am the obituary writer of this lovely town of Crestfall, Idaho, and this is death by dying.

Wyatt Hudson, 47, died late Sunday evening as the stars began to fill the black abyss that is the sky.

Wyatt, as everyone most certainly knows, was the local farmer of blue stem grass in the farmlands of Crestfall.

Wyatt was basically everyone's favorite person on the planet.

I'm not kidding.

I never joke, except when I do.

But in this instance, I do not.

In the month of April alone, Wyatt revived 35 kittens from the precipice of death.

He skydived with dolphins.

He bowled overhand.

He saved a boy from perishing in a recent mudstorm. He baked everyone

cookies in town every time someone died, which gradually made the townsfolk wish more people

would start dying off. Mrs. Shambles' dog caught on fire again, and Wyatt extinguished

the flames valiantly by swinging the dog around over his head. The dog later developed telekinetic powers.

Wyatt Recycles.

Yes.

Wyatt Hudson was freaking awesome.

The coroner is missing, so there was no official autopsy of the charming farmer,

but we're all pretty sure we know what a gunshot looks like.

It looks like a giant hole in his stomach from which blood and other viscous things have egressed.

According to Wyatt's wife, Bernard, the story goes something like this.

They had been driving up the nameless dirt road that leads to their ramshackled home.

...