As I have mentioned elsewhere, I used to set tombstones for a living. Well, the tombstones were for dead folks, but I was living and I got paid for it and, oh, hell, you know what I mean. Anyway, we would sometimes get an order for one for "Cheechee, my beloved Rheseus" or "Flower Howler, husband of Bowerbush" (these are the only two I remember). The boss took care of these himself, even taking the truck out alone to set them. He never talked about them, but a sizable check came in after each order, along with a stalk of bananas. I checked the truck's odometer before and after one such trip, and found that he'd driven 187.3 miles. Of course, the cemetery could have been a lot closer and he'd driven around a bit to throw me off.

Anyway, somewhere around the bulging bellybutton of Illinois there is a mysterious graveyard. I'd ask the boss about it, but he died in 1969.