(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

Morte whistled at a passing prostitute. I sighed. Perhaps a real
metaphysician could help me instead.
The Mortuary was definitely less repulsive on the outside. It was a dome of
stone and metal, low and menacing, walls windowless. Surely the Dustmen
couldn’t let any light in, even with a noontime glow as cheerless and sickly
as it was. Black spiky buttresses radiated from the center in a thorny crown,
and the cobbled stone all about its surface gave the Mortuary a scaly,
reptilian feel.
“Well, Morte. I guess this is where we part ways.”
He chuckled, “Ha! Without me, a berk like you would get himself stabbed
and strung up in the Mortuary again ten times over before he knew to stay
on the other end of the knife. And who’d help you then?” He was right, as
much as it annoyed me.
“Are you sure you want to be traveling with me?” I asked hesitantly, “You
heard what Dhall said.”
“What, that old laryngitic sack of wrinkles? Come on, if he isn’t totally barmy
or senile he’s half of both,” he didn’t face me; much of his attention was on
the streetwalkers of the city. Still, he chirped out bits of information here
and there as we walked down the street. “This here’s the Hive. It’s a den of
scum and villany and you don’t want to associate with any of ‘em- oh hey,
babycakes! Care to jump my bones?” The lack of lips didn’t stop Morte from
whistling.
At the outer gate, a figure in a ragged cloak and cowl stood hunched over,
eyeing the passerby. His clothes were filthy, but somehow I knew he was
neither vagrant nor pickpocket.
A Collector.
“Hey there."
“We really gotta talk about your standards, chief.”
The cowled figure stood hunched just outside the Mortuary gate. His face
was obscured by the shadows of his hood... what little I could see was his
chin, covered with stubble and what appeared to be a foul green and purple
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