Lola, she was a dancer... something about flowers in her hair or was it her underwear? He couldn't actually remember the lyrics to the song or who sang it, but the melody pounded in his brain like a ballpeen hammer. What the hell was he going to do? Lola was a crappy name anyway. What the hell did it stand for? Lolita? Margola? Or some sort of anagram, or whatever the hell it was when you smushed the first letters of a bunch of words together for the sake of brevity. All he knew was that Lola, whatever it stood for, meant trouble.

He gripped the shovel's handle tightly in his gloved hands, staring in horror at the metal canister with LOLA painted in stark, black letters across its top. Shivering from something other than the cold, he swallowed, then slowly and carefully began shovelling dirt back into the hole. Hopefully, this time, LOLA would stay buried.