A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE MORGUE
A One-Act Absurdist Dark Comedy
by
G. Edwin VanWright
© 2025 G. Edwin VanWright
MEMBER: Authors Guild
Poetry Society of New York
CONTENT ADVISORY
Suitable for use in programs, websites, and submission materials.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Morgue is an absurdist dark comedy intended for general adult audiences.
Death and Grief: Death is the play’s central subject, treated with both humor and genuine tenderness. The play includes a funeral wake, scenes of active mourning, and sustained philosophical reflection on mortality and memory. Audience members who have recently experienced bereavement may find certain scenes emotionally resonant.
Language: The play contains infrequent strong language, including three instances of profanity used in moments of comic panic or private frustration.
Organized Crime: The play references loan sharks and implied physical consequences of financial debt, handled throughout as dark comedy. Two organized crime figures appear briefly; no violence is depicted on stage.
Supernatural Content: A ghost — the Identity Thief — appears throughout the play, visible only to the protagonist. His costume includes theatrical depictions of a gunshot wound. The tone is absurdist rather than horror.
This production contains no sexual content, no racial content, and no graphic violence.
Recommended for audiences 16 and older. Parental discretion advised for younger theatergoers.
PLAYWRIGHT’S NOTE
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Morgue is an absurdist dark comedy about identity, consequence, and the strange freedom of being mistaken for dead. The play should move quickly and fluidly, with the Identity Thief present throughout as both comic companion and philosophical mirror to Tony. Though the situations are comedic, the emotional core of the play lies in Tony’s realization that escaping life may cost him the very things that made it meaningful.
PRODUCTION NOTE
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Morgue is designed for flexibility. It can be staged with minimal set — a steel table, a coffin, a streetlight, a deli counter — or with fuller design, but it requires neither. The play moves quickly and the scene transitions should be fluid, preferably achieved through lighting rather than set changes.
The Identity Thief is visible to the audience throughout but invisible to every character except Tony. Directors should establish this convention clearly in early staging
— the Thief moves freely through scenes, occupies space other characters pass through without acknowledgment, and is never acknowledged by anyone but Tony. His costume should suggest rather than illustrate: a visible bullet wound and blood-stained shirt that read as theatrical rather than graphic. The tone is absurdist, not horror.
The coffin must have a practical lid that Tony can open approximately one inch in the final scene. This is the play’s central final image and requires an operable prop.
Tony’s direct address to the audience is not aside or commentary — it is his primary mode of communication and should be played as genuine confidence in the audience as his confidants. He is not performing for them. He is talking to them. This distinction drives the play’s intimacy.
Running time: approximately 45–55 minutes. No intermission.
CHARACTERS
TONY CARBONE
Mid to late 30s. Italian-American from New Jersey. A man with a gift for stand-up philosophy and a talent for trouble — usually in that order. He borrowed money from people who don’t accept late payments, dreamed of food trucks, and wound up at his own funeral. Speaks directly to the audience as though they’re the only ones who will understand him, which they are. His sarcasm is both armor and survival mechanism, and the play is largely the story of what happens when neither is enough.
THE IDENTITY THIEF
The dead man who made the mistake of becoming Tony Carbone. Appears with a bullet hole in his head and a blood-stained shirt — calm, unhurried, and strangely unbothered by his own condition. Philosophical without being pretentious. Funny without trying to be. Only Tony can see or hear him, which suits them both. He functions as comic companion, Greek chorus, and philosophical mirror — the man who lost everything Tony is trying to escape, and the only honest voice in the room.
CORONER
A meticulous professional who finds genuine aesthetic pleasure in his work and has long since stopped noticing that others don’t share it. Not morbid — enthusiastic.
There is a difference, though he couldn’t explain it. One speech about cranial trauma and a parting observation about entry wounds tells you everything about him.
FRANKIE
Tony’s brother. Appears at the wake standing near the Mother, one hand on her shoulder, head down — a man deep in genuine grief for someone who is hiding in the shadows twenty feet away. He has one line. It is sincere. It is also, without his knowing it, the funniest thing anyone says at the funeral.
MARIA
Tony’s girlfriend. Or she was, until Tony Carbone ran out of time to become the man she was waiting for. She arrives at the wake not to fall apart but to close an account — and she does it with the quiet precision of someone who has already done the grief work alone. Her scene is the emotional center of the play. She is the one debt Tony didn’t want forgiven.
MOTHER
She arrives like weather. Loud, physical, operatic in her grief, and completely unstoppable — except by medical procedure, which is the only thing standing between Tony and total exposure. She pounds the coffin. She demands to see her son. She is, in every way, exactly what Tony deserves.
THE MOBSTERS
Two men who have attended many funerals, some of which they arranged. They arrive at the wake bearing flowers, offer condolences with practiced sincerity, and say several things that mean more than one thing. They are not without feeling. They are also not without an interest in the proceedings that extends beyond grief. Tony, watching from the shadows, finds their presence clarifying in ways he would prefer it weren’t.
CLERK
Works the counter at a coffee shop. Delivers the news that dead men can’t buy coffee with the mild certainty of someone who has consulted the policy and found it clear.
MOURNERS
They knew Tony. Mostly. They are certain he was a sweet boy. Tony has notes.
FUNERAL DIRECTOR (V.O.)
Morbid, eerie, rehearsed, and commercial.
“Men are never really willing to die except for the sake of freedom: therefore they do not believe in dying completely.”
— Albert Camus
SCENE 1: FRANKIE’S APARTMENT
A modest apartment. Dim lighting. A couch, small table, and chair. TONY CARBONE paces nervously. He stops. Looks at the audience. Studies them. Then —
TONY. You ever borrow money from organized crime? Don’t. (He nods seriously.) Their interest rates are competitive…but the late fees are murder! (paces) I had a dream. Food trucks.
Tony Carbone’s Rolling Kitchen. Italian sandwiches rolling through the streets like the American Dream. Mozzarella sticks on wheels.
You smell that? That’s opportunity. (He inhales dramatically) Dreams cost money. Banks ask questions. The guys I borrowed from? (leans closer) They don’t. (He resumes pacing.) All they ask is one simple thing…”Tony…when do we get our money?”
Now here’s the thing about trouble. You think if you run far enough…(shrugs) you can leave it behind. (small pause) But trouble’s like family. Sooner or later… (points to the floor) it shows up at your funeral.
Then — because life is a comedy written by a psychopath — some genius steals my identity. Credit cards. Loans. Bank accounts. Boom. My finances collapse like a folding chair at a heavyweight boxing match. Now the lenders think I’m dodging them. Which technically…
(shrugs) I am.
(phone rings)
(TONY freezes. Slowly looks at it. Then at the audience.)
That phone has never rung with good news. (answers cautiously) Hello? (pause) Yes… this is…Mr. Carbone (thinking quickly) Yes, Tony is my brother (pause). The morgue? (pause) You want me to identify…Tony Carbone?
(slowly lowers the phone.)
(smiling to audience.) Well. That’s interesting.
Blackout
SCENE 2: THE MORGUE
Fluorescent lighting. A steel table. A covered body. The CORONER stands beside Tony.
CORONER. Take your time, Mr. Carbone. Identification can be difficult.
(He pulls the sheet back.)
(Tony sees the face and explodes into melodrama.)
TONY. OH NOOO! Mama’s baby boy! My poor brother! (fake sobbing)
CORONER. I’ll give you a moment.
(He exits. Silence. TONY looks around. Then suddenly bursts into laughter.)
TONY. Oh my God. You fuckin’ idiot (circling the body). You steal my identity…ruin my life…get me hunted by men who treat kneecaps like collectibles… (leans down) …and now you’re dead.
You wanted to be Tony Carbone? Congratulations. You got the deluxe package. Debt. Enemies. Early death.
(Suddenly the corpse sits up.)
IDENTITY THIEF. You’re welcome.
(Tony screams.)
TONY. WHAT THE HELL?!
IDENTITY THIEF. Relax. You were yelling at me. Felt rude not to respond.
TONY. You’re dead!
IDENTITY THIEF. So are you. Technically.
(He casually swings his legs off the table and stands.)
IDENTITY THIEF. Walking around dead gets complicated.
TONY. Yeah? Try walking around alive with people trying to kill you.
(Door opens. The THIEF casually lies back down instantly.)
(The CORONER enters.)
CORONER. Mr. Carbone… about the autopsy. We’ll need your authorization to proceed.
TONY. Yeah, chop him up! (catches himself) I mean yes. Yes doctor. Please proceed.
CORONER (produces a form). Standard procedure. We’ll have results within forty-eight hours.
(small pause — almost brightening) It’s a thorough case. Cranial trauma. Close range. (nodding to himself with quiet professional satisfaction) We don’t get many of these.
TONY (staring)…Great.
CORONER. One thing to be aware of. Given the nature of the examination… (delicately)… the viewing will need to be closed casket. I hope the family understands.
TONY (immediately). Completely. Totally fine. Closed casket. One hundred percent. In fact — insist on it.
CORONER (slightly puzzled by the enthusiasm) …Yes. Well. It’s standard in these cases.
(He makes a note. Turns to leave. Pauses.)
Remarkable entry wound, by the way. (almost to himself) Very clean.
(He exits. Tony stares after him with bewilderment and stares at audience.)
Blackout
SCENE 3: OUTSIDE THE MORGUE
A streetlight. Tony walking quickly. Behind him strolls the Identity Thief, casually examining the world.
TONY. Freedom. You smell that? That’s the scent of a man with no problems. No debts. No collectors. No guys named Vinnie politely asking where the money is. According to the government… (grinning) …I’m dead. Which means the banks can’t find me. The mob can’t find me. The IRS can’t find me. Honestly? This might be the greatest loophole in American history.
Hey. Can I ask you something?
IDENTITY THIEF. You’re going to anyway.
TONY. Right before it happened. What were you thinking? Last thought. What was it?
(The Thief considers. Genuinely trying to remember.)
IDENTITY THIEF. Hard to say. I was shot in the head. What was left of my brain was scooped out by a very thorough coroner. That kind of thing creates memory lapses.
TONY. So you just… nothing?
IDENTITY THIEF. There might have been something. But if there was, it’s gone now. (small pause) Memory lives in the parts they remove first.
(Tony stares. Something about this lands.)
TONY. (quietly) My father. Last thing he said to me. I remember the room, the light, the beeping. I remember knowing it was ending. I don’t remember the words. I was looking at the machine. The numbers. Like if I watched close enough, I could keep them steady. (beat)
He said something. I know he did. I watched the numbers instead.
(Tony looks away. Resumes walking. A little faster now.)
Blackout
SCENE 4: COFFEE SHOP
A small deli counter. Tony enters confidently. The IDENTITY THIEF follows.
TONY. Step one of my new life plan. Coffee. You can’t solve a major existential identity crisis without coffee.
CLERK. What can I get you?
TONY. Large coffee. Black. And a jelly donut. Actually, make it two. It’s been a morning.
(He pays with a credit card. Machine beeps. DECLINED.)
Impossible. Try again.
(DECLINED.)
CLERK. Sir…This card says the account holder is deceased.
(Tony freezes.)
IDENTITY THIEF. That’s new.
TONY. Deceased? I’m standing right here!
CLERK. The computer says you’re dead. Computers are usually right.
(Tony tries another card. DECLINED.)
CLERK. You’re still dead.
TONY. Look — I understand what the computer says. But I am standing in front of you. Breathing. Asking for coffee. Does that not factor in at all?
CLERK. The computer doesn’t have a field for “breathing.”
TONY. Then your computer has a design flaw (leaning on the counter). Let me ask you something. What is alive, really? Biologically speaking. Is it the heartbeat? Because my heart is beating. You want to check? (gestures to his chest.) Go ahead. I’ll wait.
CLERK. Sir —
TONY. One of those philosophers said I think, therefore I am. I am thinking right now. I am thinking about coffee. I am thinking about a jelly donut. Cogito ergo — I should be able to purchase a beverage.
CLERK (unmoved). That philosopher didn’t have a rewards card.
TONY (digs in his pockets). Cash. Old fashioned. No computers involved. Just a dead man and a dollar. Actually — (checks it) — eleven dollars.
(The Clerk looks at the bill. Looks at Tony. Looks at the bill again.)
CLERK. Where did a dead man get eleven dollars?
TONY (pauses) …A dead man’s wallet (Long pause).
CLERK. I’m going to need to call my manager.
TONY (to audience). Of course you are.
(He leaves without the coffee.)
(The Identity Thief casually eats the donut.)
IDENTITY THIEF. Pretty good. You should’ve gone with Descartes sooner.
(Tony sits on the curb. The Thief beside him. Long silence.)
TONY. Maria used to make coffee at home. Pour-over. Took ten minutes. I complained. Who waits ten minutes for coffee?
(beat)
She said the waiting was the point. That I never understood that. The thing you’re waiting for isn’t the thing you want. It’s the proof you’re willing to wait.
(beat)
I bought a Keurig. Three seconds.
(beat)
She kept the pour-over. Even after.
Blackout
SCENE 5: THE WAKE
A closed casket center stage. Tony’s framed photo rests on top. Tony sneaks in.
TONY. Oh come on. That’s the picture they picked? That was my cousin’s wedding. I had food poisoning. I look like I’m losing negotiations with a shrimp cocktail. (taps coffin) Closed casket. Good. Nobody needs their last memory of me looking like a medical science project.
IDENTITY THIEF. That box is you. Just the version everyone believes.
(Mourners enter.)
MOURNER. Tony was such a sweet boy.
TONY. Sweet? I stole my brother’s dirt bike.
(Doors burst open.)
MOTHER. MY BABY! MY BEAUTIFUL BABY BOY!
(Tony hides instantly.)
TONY. That’s my mother. When I broke my arm in eighth grade she cried less than this.
(Mother pounds the coffin.)
MOTHER. WHO DID THIS TO YOU?!
IDENTITY THIEF. Hmmm, I can’t remember. My brains were scooped…
TONY. She can’t hear you, idiot!
MOTHER (grabs coffin lid). I WANT TO SEE MY SON!
TONY (panics). OH SHIT!
(Mourners restrain her.)
MOURNER. Mrs. Carbone! The coroner said the casket must remain closed!
(FRANKIE stands near the Mother, one hand on her shoulder. He hasn’t looked up. Tony presses further into the shadows.)
MOTHER. WHY?!
(Tony exhales with relief.)
(MOTHER turns back to the coffin, voice breaking into something between rage and grief)
He was always hiding from something! Even now — closed casket! He can’t even face us in death!
TONY. Thank God for medical procedure.
(MOTHER cries over the coffin.) (Tony watches quietly.)
IDENTITY THIEF. You escaped your debts. But you didn’t escape your life. Walking around dead gets complicated.
(Doors burst open. Two MOBSTERS enter. One carries flowers.)
(Tony sees them. Freezes.)
TONY. You’ve gotta be kidding!
(The IDENTITY THIEF opens his mouth.)
IDENTITY THIEF. Walking around dead —
(Tony silences him with a look of pure fury. The IDENTITY THIEF closes his mouth. Unbothered.)
(The first MOBSTER places flowers on the coffin. The second approaches the Mother.)
MOBSTER 2. Our condolences, Mrs. Carbone.
(Tony, pressed into the shadows, stares.)
TONY (to audience, barely a whisper). Damn, they really do bring flowers to funerals!
MOBSTER 1 (to the MOTHER). Tony really enjoyed life.
MOBSTER 2. Yeah, one of our clients mentioned Tony recently purchased two jet skis from him.
(Tony turns slowly to the Thief. The look could strip paint.)
(The Thief points quietly to his own head. Shrugs.)
FRANKIE (quietly, to no one in particular). No one saw this coming.
MOBSTER 1. Least of all, Tony.
(MOBSTER 2 elbows him.)
MOBSTER 1. Sorry for your loss. We all lost something in his passing.
(The two Mobsters scan the room unaware of Mother’s impending emotional outburst, she trembles then lets out a blood curdling scream.)
MOTHER. AHHHHHH! TONY! TONY! MY BABY!
MOBSTER 2 (alarmed, he reaches into his coat pocket). SON OF A BITCH!
(MOBSTER 1 grabs his arm. MOTHER collapses on the coffin.)
(A couple near the door, notices the developments and flees immediately alerting no one.)
(Mobster 1 and 2 continue to scan the room. Methodically. One face at a time.)
(The MOTHER lays on the coffin speaks low—just to him.)
MOTHER. You think I don’t know? (beat) You think I never looked in your eyes and saw you counting? What you owed. What you needed. What you were running from.
(She laughs, once, ugly.)
I counted too. Every time you didn’t call. Every time you borrowed and I pretended not to notice the men who dropped you off.
(She presses her forehead to the coffin.)
I knew. I knew and I waited. For you to tell me. For you to ask. For you to stop running long enough to see me standing right here.
(She pounds once—soft, exhausted—not the earlier theater.)
Closed casket. Of course. Even now.
MOBSTER 1. (to the room, quietly) Lot of grief here.
MOBSTER 2. Hard to think straight. (beat) Hard to notice things.
(Their eyes pass over Tony’s hiding place. Pause. Continue.)
MOBSTER 1. (to Mother, gentle) Mrs. Carbone. You need air.
(MOBSTER 1 helps FRANKIE with MOTHER)
(They help her up. As they pass Tony’s shadow—)
MOBSTER 2. (stopping. Not turning. Just stopping) Flowers are from all of us. The guys he owed.
(Beat. He moves on.)
MOBSTER 1. Mrs. Carbone, I… sorry, we must leave now. Unfortunately, we have another to attend later this evening. It’s been that kind of week.
(They exit. Tony exhales slowly.)
IDENTITY THIEF. Thoughtful of them. The flowers were a nice touch.
(TONY just stares at the Thief.)
Lights dim.
SCENE 6: MARIA
MARIA approaches the coffin slowly. TONY freezes.
MARIA. Tony Carbone, finally off the hook. (small, rueful laugh) I figured you’d come around eventually. That’s what I told myself. Eventually. (touching the coffin.) I kept waiting for you to figure out what you owed me. Us. What you owed us.
(Tony is very still.)
TONY (barely a whisper). Maria…
MARIA. And now look. I guess we’re even.
(She almost laughs — but it catches in her throat.)
Debt cleared. Tony Carbone. Finally off the hook.
(She starts to leave. Stops.)
I hope wherever you are… you finally stopped running.
(Tony doesn’t move for a long moment.)
IDENTITY THIEF (quietly). She forgave the debt.
TONY. I didn’t want her to. I didn’t want her to.
(Silence.)
TONY. You know what? You might’ve been right. Walking around dead…(pause)…it’s complicated.
(MARIA exits. A long silence lingers. TONY stands near the coffin, shaken. The IDENTITY THIEF watches him.)
(Soft organ music begins—slightly too bright, almost cheerful for the room.)
(A warm, overly pleasant VOICEOVER fills the space.)
FUNERAL DIRECTOR (V.O.). Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
(A gentle pause. The tone is polished, rehearsed.)
On behalf of everyone here at Happily Ever Afterlife, we’d like to thank you for joining us this evening to celebrate the life of Tony Carbone.
(Mourners begin to rise. Quiet murmurs. Chairs shift. Coats gathered.)
We understand how difficult these moments can be, and we are honored to help guide you through them with care, compassion… and lasting peace.
(People begin filing out. A few glance at the coffin. None acknowledge Tony.)
Please take time to connect with one another, share memories, and travel home safely.
(The room continues to empty. Tony watches his entire life leave the space.)
And remember…
(A slightly longer pause than expected. Just enough to feel off.)
…we’re always here for you.
(The organ music swells—just a touch too bright—then cuts abruptly.)
(Silence.)
(The last mourner exits.)
(Lights shift colder.)
(Only TONY… the IDENTITY THIEF… and the coffin remain.)
Lights fade.
FINAL SCENE: AFTER THE WAKE
Empty room. Tony and the Identity Thief stand beside the coffin. Long silence. Tony doesn’t speak to the audience.
He opens his wallet. Removes items one by one, placing them on the coffin lid. Each action is deliberate, ceremonial—like clearing a dead man’s pockets.
(Removes license. Holds it to the light, angled, so the holographic seal catches and flashes.)
TONY. Tony Carbone.
THIEF. Expires soon.
(Beat. Tony doesn’t react. Removes a photo, folded small. He unfolds it carefully, doesn’t look at the image, just places it down.)
TONY. Maria.
THIEF. She doesn’t know you’re holding that.
(Tony’s hand stills for half a second. Then moves on. Removes a larger paper, creased from many foldings. He smooths it flat against the coffin wood with his palm—the gesture of someone who has done this many times, never finished.)
TONY. Food truck.
THIEF. You never told her.
(Tony stares at the paper. His finger finds the bottom line. Blank.)
TONY. Emergency contact.
(Long silence. The Thief doesn’t speak. Tony looks at the three objects arranged on the coffin—license, photo, lease. His life, inventoried.)
TONY (quietly, not to the Thief, not to the audience—to himself). Blank.
(The IDENTITY THIEF slowly looks at Tony. Not mocking. Not amused. Just curious. Then he asks quietly—)
IDENTITY THIEF. So?
(Tony looks down at the coffin lid again. The room is completely silent. Then Tony very slightly lifts the lid. Just an inch. Not enough for the audience to see inside. Just enough to signal a decision beginning. The IDENTITY THIEF watches. Lights fade immediately.)
Blackout
End of Play
***
