Original subtitles

Narrator: Hello there, O thrill-seekers.

Are you looking for a horror-packed tale,

chock-full of blood-soaked gore

and spine-tingling terror?

Well, tough rocks for you.

This one's a slow burn, but the flame's pretty bright.

It is a story of

a young undertaker named Adrian.

In 1830, he opened a funeral home

smack dab in the middle of

Moscow's colourful artisan district.

And colourful was precisely

what Adrian and his twin daughters were not.

Which, of course, simply delighted

his higher-class neighbours.

He named his own establishment

Funeral Home Dosvidanja,

which roughly translated, means "See you later."

Ha-ha-ha.

But you know what?

Hold on one Moscow minute.

Let me tell this story from the very beginning.

Adrian started as a gravedigger.

Together with his buddy Yurko,

they were shovelling fresh dirt for the freshly dead.

Yurko liked simple things.

A tiny whiff of fresh baked bread

would get him high as a cloud.

Adrian, on the other hand,

was a philosophical thinker.

A goddamn poet.

And one day, there she was.

His inspiration.

That was exactly when,

as the kids say, "Shit got real."

The beguiling beauty that bewitched

our bashful bachelor

was Ludmila,

who, conveniently, was the unwed daughter

of the local undertaker, Adrian's employer.

Looking to impress,

Adrian asked for more work.

This was fine by the undertaker.

The old fart just wanted to retire

from all this morbid shite anyway.

In addition to the whole carpentry shtick

of building caskets, there was

the caring-for-stiffs stuff.

Ah, Ludmila.

She was a special soul.

Adrian felt lucky.

So, happily-ever-after, right?

Wrong. Reality set in quick

when the old undertaker

became Adrian's first actual client.

Was it throat cancer, tuberculosis, cholera,

or some other unpronounceable disease?

Who knows? Who cares?

People dropped like dung flies back then.

So, no biggie. Just a sad moment.

Soon came kids, and finally,

the good life.

Right?

Wrong again.

Ludmila died right after giving birth.

That was a bit of a boiling point

for our dear Adrian.

Imagine being teased with a pretty, shiny image

of a perfect future.

A family, a fulfilling career,

a beautiful, vivacious wife,

two lovely kids, and then, bam.

It all goes to hell.

Love of his life, dead.

His mentor, dead.

Left alone with two babies.

Yep, this was when life kicked Adrian

in his soul's crotch.

He preserved Ludmila's gorgeous visage

in a death mask.

He vowed to give the girls a good life,

to take them from the village

and save them from poverty

and tongue-twisting diseases.

Adrian went full morbid.

The other villagers would whisper about

the stink of death that wafted after him.

Yurko didn't care about any of the drama.

Too busy sniffing bread. But Adrian had no time

for goofing off with a gluten fetishist.

He had work to do, children to raise,

and a brutally shattered life to get on with.

The twins and the funeral business

were the only things left that reminded him of Ludmila.

So, he held on to them as hard as he could.

The twins sprouted up into creepy characters

just like their pop.

He taught them everything about the business of the dead.

The embalming,

the fashionable makeup, everything.

They ran a full-service funeral home

with a reputation for unmatched quality.

Which, as one can imagine, brought in the cash.

Adrian, empty shell though he was,

still had his pride.

Pride in his girls, in the business,

even in himself.

Let's give some credit where it's due.

The sweat from his hard work

washed away the stink of poverty.

And here we are, right where we started.

Moscow's fancy artisan district.

Somehow, Yurko had made it

to the same street as well,

and without any tragic shit to fuel his motivation.

Yurko shared his love for pastries

with any who would have them,

selling them out of his fancy little bakery

directly in front of the dark, spooky house

Adrian had bought with all that corpse money.

One day, Yurko dropped in on his old friend.

He brought with him an invitation to a fancy party

hosted by the local fancy-ass shoemaker, Gottlieb.

Adrian couldn't stomach his vacuous neighbours,

but you never know when one of them will need a funeral.

So, our weirdo decided to come out and play, just this once.

At first, the party was actually not that bad.

Fresh food, decent booze, tolerable music.

But nothing good ever lasts long for Adrian.

They delighted in learning about his morbid business,

tragic life and strange appearance.

After everyone took their turn bragging about their success

and toasting to the health of their wealthy customers,

all eyes turned to the creepy guest

with corpses for clients.

Just then, the fancy wise-ass shoemaker Gottlieb

suggested Adrian drink to the health

and return of his clients.

After all, without repeat customers,

your business is dead.

And my favourite weirdo was offended,

to say the least.

Adrian decided to tell these people

what they needed to hear.

He cursed the hell out of the whole party,

pointing out exactly what he thought of the living

and how he preferred the company of the deceased.

Biting their tongues, the other guests shut right up.

Yurko was still clueless,

but Adrian simply stood up and left.

His long, spindly legs took him

where he was most comfortable,

the graveyard.

And there, he spoke directly to the dead.

He spoke and they listened.

Back at the homestead,

a guest wearing

an old-fashioned tricorne hat

greeted him.

The dude looks familiar, don't you think?

They both went inside,

and then, there was a real

"Night of the Living Dead" thing happening.

All the familiar faces,

all the stiffs and corpses were walking about.

The twins decided to sit this one out.

Naturally, Adrian was a little shaken.

But then he saw her. Ludmila.

Rotten but not forgotten.

To Adrian, she was as beautiful as ever.

The twins were old enough to go at it alone.

It was time.

So, Adrian left with his old friends.

As it happens, the girls continued Adrian's legacy.

They took over the business,

found themselves husbands to do the heavy lifting

and smelly corpse-work, and just like that,

Funeral Home Dosvidanja prevailed for generations.

As for Adrian and the zombies,

they decided to hold an annual parade.

Now, every autumn season the dead rise,

with Adrian as their king

and Ludmila as his queen.

Together, they remind the snobs and ass-hats alike

that everyone is mortal.

I was there

and saw it with my own eyes.

Once I even told this same anecdote

to a local writer, and he managed to publish it.

Or his version of it, at least.

The poor fellow died in a duel a few years later.

Hence,

the moral of my story stands.

Everybody dies. The end.