Alastor, ever-grinning, crouched down and marveled at his comedically squashed king.

"Alas, poor Yorrick! I'm certain your funeral will be beautiful. A roasted duck for every mourner. All of the mourners in blinding, ghostly white in your honor, huddled under their acid-proof umbrellas as even the skies weep for your loss. Shall I bury your ducks with you, dear Lucifer? Adorn them in tiny caskets, nail tiny sickles over their necks to assure they don't rise from the dead in vengeance?"