Funeral ribbons with barcodes and urns lined up next to the chips: the grand blowout of the very last stop has turned the neighborhood hypermarket into an afterlife showroom, right there on the endcap.
Between nervous laughs and glances already counting posthumous loyalty points, the neighborhood has slid into existential markdowns.
At opening time, the chain rolled out its funeral shroud: “Leave for less, never come back,” promised the posters, while the loudspeakers invited “customers nearing the end of life… of the aisle” to proceed to checkout 6. There’s a scrum in front of the “oak, eternity-imitating” boxes; people squeeze the final memory foam, debate interest rates and airtight seals. A security guard in a raven-black tie reprimands a couple testing the stiffness of a “long weekend” model.
Among the locals, the mood swings between indignation and shopping list. Some swear they’re buying “just the urn for the keys,” others compare satin handles the way you’d sample tomatoes. An “after-sales” advisor — anthracite pantsuit, punchy funeral smile — explains the guarantee: “satisfied or refunded within 30 days, upon proof of death,” before adding that a store credit “can please the whole family, depending on the dynamics.”
“I went for the foldable model; it fits under the bed and it reassures me: worst case, it gathers dust, best case, I don’t,” confides Gérard Lemoine, 52, as he scans a wreath reading “Rest on a budget.” A retiree weighs the shades “ossuary ivory” and “tranquil black” while a mic-toting host promises, for two coffins purchased, free delivery “to the threshold.” At the exit, between tote bags and shrink-wrapped fatalism, the chain is already teasing its next event: “Black Fun Day — three mourners for the price of one, tissues included.”
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